My Favourite Bathtime Gurgles

Green Things - a Poem

2012-01-28T19:13:00.000-05:00

What do you find at the back of the fridge?

What grows on the feet of your cousin Midge?

Green things.

What tickles your nose when you have to sneeze?

What do doctors insert when they work on your knees?

Green things.

What do frogs mate with when they are in heat?

What do you find when you turn down the sheet?

Green things.

What goes into your dog and out of your cat?

What grows under logs and smelly door mats?

Green things.

BANG.

2012-01-04T18:46:00.003-05:00

There's very little an armed gunman can do to treat a heart attack victim. I mean, sure, my .38 came in quite useful for its intended purpose - scaring the shit out of the variety store clerk - but when said clerk falls to the ground clutching his chest and turning a rather startling pale blue/gray colour, the gun has really outlived its usefulness.

It was late at night, about 3 am. No sense robbing the place when it's going to be busy. It was just me and him. "Him" being a tall, rather rotund white guy in a Maple Leaf jersey. I pointed the gun at the guy and before I could say, "Don't move", he falls to the floor and starts twitching.

I'm not totally heartless. Sure, I could've just grabbed what I came for and ran, but shit. Someone has a heart attack right in front of you, least you can do is try and help. As I've made it my life's goal to do the least I could, I knelt beside him and lifted his head onto my lap.

"Hey man," I slapped his cheeks, and his eyes focused weakly on my face, "you got any pills, something I can give you?"

He shook his head 'no' ... or maybe it was a spasm. Beats me. I was out of my element the moment his fat ass slapped the floor. I was at a loss, and it wasn't like Tubby McHeartpopper was helping much.

I emptied the cash register, then tossed it through the front window. The alarm bell sounded immediately. I grabbed a couple of cartons of smokes and shrugged down at him apologetically. "The alarm will bring the cops. Sorry about the heart attack."

I turned away from him to pull the DVD out of the security camera recorder. That's when the fucker shot me in the back. I was like, what the fuck? Here I am trying to help - putting my self at risk of being arrested, I might add - and the bastard waits until my back is turned and shoots me.

I dropped down to one knee, turning to see his sweaty, pale face. He was still holding the gun - a .22, thank God - in one hand, but another spasm caused him to drop it to the ground.

“Lucky for me,” I gasped, my bruised ribs aching with each indrawn breath, “I come prepared.” I pulled myself to my feet, lifting my jacket so he could see the Kevlar vest beneath it. "Lucky for you, I'm not a vengeful guy. But still, shooting a guy in the back is kind of prickish, so..."

I pointed my gun at his knee, then paused. "You really need to get some exercise, so I won't cripple you." I raised the gun slightly, and shot him in the left bicep.

I looked up at the sound of distant sirens, then smiled down at the clerk. "I gotta go. Hit the fucking treadmill why don't you?"

He nodded weakly as I left.

Funny how some people live their lives so poorly that when confronted by an angry man with a gun, the most dangerous thing in the room is still their own overworked heart.

Confidence Tricks: The MOVIE!

2011-12-09T20:23:00.000-05:00

Hello all! I'm going to be filming my screenplay, "Confidence Tricks" in the New Year, and am looking for some help with funding. Please visit the link below, read/watch the appeal, and if you'd like to help out and offer your support, please make a contribution.

Also, please share this link with your Facebook friends, Twitterfolk, or anyone else you think might be interested. Even if you can't contribute financially, helping to spread the word is very much appreciated!

http://www.indiegogo.com/Confidence-Tricks?a=337325

Piping Ceremony

2011-11-12T22:26:00.001-05:00

Today, I did something good. Not good for the environment, or good for the economy, or even for the good of my fellow human beings. I did something good for me. Thanks to the support and encouragement of my wonderful friend Laura, and to the help and assistance of my good friend Gary, I attended my first Native Piping Ceremony today.

My day began early. Crazy early. 7:30 am early. You may not think that particularly early, but I normally get up at noon, so for me, it was early. I prepared for the day, and left the house bundled up in layers, ready for any weather. I literally had no idea as to the nature of the event what I was about to attend, and wanted to be prepared.

I arrived at Gary and Laura's promptly at 8 am. I met up with Gary and Laura, their son Dax, and our friends Chris and Alex. Our two car caravan was off, stopping only to pick up one more friend of Laura's along the way. We didn't have time to stop for coffee, so as you can imagine, my mood was one of hopeful anticipation mixed with ... well, whatever that feeling is you get when you hadn't had your morning coffee. Ah well, I thought. I wanted a Tim Hortons coffee, but sometimes you just don't get what you want.

We arrived at the lodge, which I can best describe as a really large tent. But instead of interlocking plastic poles and nylon strings, the frame was constructed of hand-hewn wood. The walls of the structure were made of tarp, overlapping to keep out most of the weather, yet open at the top, and with the occasional gap to keep the air fresh and pleasant.

Almost immediately, I was made welcome by our hosts, and offered a cup of .... Tim Hortons coffee. The universe provides. That first sip was bliss. We were made welcome and took our seats on a bench along the southern-most wall. I know it was the southern-most wall because Gary informed me that the entrance to a lodge always faces east.

A fire was burning in the center of the lodge, housed carefully in a deep circular pit. Despite the early-morning November chill the lodge was comfortably warm, yet the air circulated well and was never stuffy, smokey or uncomfortable. I noticed at the edge of the pit closest to the entrance there was what appeared to be a small shrine, consisting of a small stone, a hand-carved horse and a small sprinkling of tobacco.

There's no point in trying to describe the ceremony itself. I'm not that clever, and it's something to be experienced, not described. I have written and deleted this same sentence seventeen times in a row, trying to capture the essence of the ceremony, but it's pointless. All I can do is record my impressions.

The people. The people were welcoming, gracious, kind, polite, loving, caring, and above all - at least to me - exhibited a gentle yet irresistible sense of humour. There were a few moments of natural levity during the ceremony, culminating in a slight "slip" towards the end, that had everyone in tears of laughter. Even the gentleman beating the drum and leading the singing skipped a beat or two as he joined in. No one was embarrassed. No one was upset. The moment was accepted for what it was - a part of the natural flow of the ceremony.

The inspirational Josephine Mandamin

The lodge had a special guest that day, a beautiful, self-effacing woman named Josephine Mandamin. I had no idea who she was. I had no idea how incredible she was. I had no idea I should feel privileged to hear her speak. Once she began to speak, I very quickly learned how lucky I was to be there at the same time as Josephine. I won't go into detail as to who she is - as you can learn that at www.motherearthwaterwalk.com - but I will say I was totally enchanted and taken by her wisdom and humility, her gentle humour, and her strength.

After the ceremony was over, we walked across the street to a local recreation center for more information about Josephine and her works. There, I discovered that there would be a man from a reptile conservation center with a wide selection of animals to display; snakes, geckos, tarantulas, and even a large tortoise.

It was one of those days where things kept getting better and better. After enjoying Josephine's stories, and watching the kids handle constrictors and monitor lizards (and even checking out a few myself - having a tarantula in your hands is cool!) I discovered that they were going to feed us lunch. Soup, sandwiches, wraps, very delicious!

Then there were door prizes. Wait ... what? Door prizes? You invite me to attend your sacred ceremonies, you teach me, you entertain me, you feed me, and now you're giving away prizes? For FREE? This doesn't seem like a viable business model!

Because it's not. It wasn't about business. I'm still not 100% sure what it was about, but to me, the day was about unity over strife. Friendship over distrust. Shared laughter over shame. Sharing what you can, taking what you need, giving that which is needed.

It was a good day for me.

ROMINS (Reviews of Movies I've Never Seen): Fast FiveROMINS (Reviews of Movies I've Never Seen): Fast Five

2011-11-08T13:27:00.004-05:00

Fast Five is the fifth and, God-willing, final installment in the seminal "Fast and the Furious" film series. The movie tells the story of Armand Fist (played by Vin Diesel), a spunky young amateur masturbator who decides to enter the BNIC (Bukkake Night in Canada) held in Temiskaming Shores, Canada ("Temiskaming" being a Native word meaning "Mauling the Moose").

Known for his incredible dexterity and machine-like stroke speed, Armand (or "Fast Five" as he is known, due to his dextrous digits) must overcome the prejudices of his rural hometown of Splooge, North Dakota in order to become the cream of the crop. His first barrier to stardom is his girlfriend, Betty (played quite ably by television's Nel Carter) who's intense and constant desire for sex is a constant drain on Armand's stamina, and makes practicing next to impossible.

Bite Sarge's Salty Meat Stick

Armand finally is forced to flee his home after his father is convicted of baby battering. Armand is broke, but he manages to earn enough money for bus fare by slinging yogurt at a local restaurant. His big break comes when he is hired on as a celebrity sponsor for Old Sarge's Beef Jerky.

Armand makes his way to the BNIC, where he originally views others men as competitors only, but after striking up a friendship with Dick Juice, last year's winner of the BNIC (played by a pile of Johnny Depp's haircut clippings), comes to see men in a different light. Armand and Dick at first are enemies, but come to be friends after they realize how much they both love butter.

Watch for cameos from Shia Labeouf as Mr. Nononononono!, Renee Zellweger as a piece of discarded licorice, Jeff Bridges as Fluffy McNutbutter, and Natalie Portman as Squeegee Von Creamsicle.

Armand eventually wins the BNIC, and uses the proceeds to buy his girlfriend Betty a pearl necklace. I give this movie two thumbs up Julie Andrews.

Then and Now

2011-08-30T23:27:00.000-04:00

I was browsing online today when I say this picture. Highly NSFW btw.

NSFW Accidental Wedding Photo

I thought, man, that pretty much sums up the differences between today, and when I was a kid. When I was young, if someone got drunk at a wedding and accidentally suffered a nip-slip, only one or two people would likely have noticed. They wouldn't say anything, but might keep the knowledge to hand if needed to get one over on you.

We just didn't have the technology to take her picture and get it on Facebook within 30 seconds.

So I guess, yeah, the major difference is, we were a lot more relaxed back then.

Back Words

2011-07-25T19:12:00.000-04:00

I have taken my back for granted. After all, it doesn't really make much of a fuss most of the time, and it spends it's time behind me, so it's not something I used to spend much time thinking about. Until the day my back decided to stab me in the ... well, in the back.

I had just shut my front door, and was turning away when I felt a spasm, a tear, in the small of my back. It hurt, but not terribly. At the time I thought, "Well, that was annoying", and then went back to ignoring my back ... for awhile. The pain kept growing gradually worse, much like Michelle Bachman's media presence. By the time I went to bed my back was big bucket of agony, making sleep very difficult.

I got out of bed at 8:30 am the next day. It took me about 20 minutes to do so. I had originally decided to just ride out the pain, but this had become impossible. I went to the Urgent Care center in Stoney Creek. Sure, St. Joe's downtown is closer, but the last time I went there was about 2 months ago, and the wait for a doctor was so long I still haven't had my turn called.

There was no one ahead of me at the hospital, which was nice. For the first time in my life I rode a wheelchair for real, because walking was a torment. Sitting hurt to, but nowhere near as much as walking.

The doctor was great, and gave me a shot of morphine to help with the pain. I have to admit I was disappointed ... I had heard so much about the affects of morphine, and all I got was mild reduction in pain. The doctor later informed me he had given me a very small dosage as this was my first exposure to the medicine and he wanted to make sure it didn't like, kill me. For my part, I wanted buckets full of the stuff to take the pain away. Oh well, I guess better safe and sore than pain free and, like, dead.

So now I'm on 3 meds - Oxycodone for the pain, cyclobenzaprine for the swelling, and Naproxen for ... oh, I don't know, let's say to prevent involuntary spontaneous decapitation. I shuffle around like a refugee from a bad zombie movie, and am pretty much confined to quarters for the next few days. The pain is still present, but manageable.

All in all, it could be worse. I could be Stephen Harper.

ROMINS (Reviews of Movies I've Never Seen): Green Lantern

2011-06-22T13:37:00.003-04:00

Nel Carter as Green Lantern

Green Lantern is a fantastic, roller-coaster ride of a movie, starring television's Nel Carter as Bobby Greenpants, an average, everyday high school student and part-time cattle prod.

Bobby is living a do-nothing, go-nowhere life when suddenly everything changes. He meets up with The King of the Lanterns, played quite ably by television's Nel Carter. The King gives Bobby a choice: continue to live your boring little life, or take on the role of a super hero called the Green Lantern!

Of course, Bobby chooses the latter, as being normal sucks dirty donkey dicks. However, he should have asked some questions first, as it turns out his super power was to fill a lantern with his own mucus and then fire green snot-rays at bad guys. Effective, yes, but super, super gross.

Bobby is almost immediately attacked by his arch-nemisis (which is weird because before that moment he didn't even have an arch nemesis), the evil Kleen-X, played by television's Nel Carter. Bobby - now Green Lantern - barely escapes with his life. He limps off to lick his wounds and refill his lamp.

Meanwhile, Kleen-X goes after Bobby's high school sweetheart, Mary-Becky-Anne-Joe-Jenny-Kate-Ashley-Anne McGillicuty (played quite ably by - you guessed it - television's Nel Carter). Kleen-X kidnaps Mary-Becky-Anne-Joe-Jenny-Kate-Ashley-Anne and whisks her away to his secret hideout in the nose of the Statue of Liberty.

I won't spoil the rest for you, but rest assured the movie is filled with more action, romance, and mucus than any one human being could ever be comfortable with. Watch for cameos by Nel Carter as the Liberty Island Caretaker, Nel Carter as the Ferryman, Nel Carter as the little boy who can't spell "apples", and Nel Carter as herself.

I give this move three thumbs up Nel Carter.

Papyrus Air

2011-06-22T13:22:00.001-04:00

I'm a member of a great film production crew called Yard Sale from Hell Productions. This year we entered the Hamilton 24-Hour Film Festival and actually managed to produce a fully-animated film in less than 24 hours. This took a lot of hard work and dedication from the entire team, but especially from the inestimable Mr. Craig Rintoul.

It stars the voice talents of Gary Reid, Erin Pratt and Asher Hunter and features the inestimable machinima talents of Mr. Craig Rintoul.

Each year the film festival presents 3 random elements which have to be incorporated into the film. This is to guarantee - at least in theory - that the film is produced in 24 hours and is not done earlier.

This year the offers were:

1. An abnormally large paper airplane.

2. Something significant had to occur in an reflection.

3. A line of dialogue. This year it was from the movie "Fatal Attraction", and the line was "Sure, bring the dog. I love animals. I'm a great cook."

Check out the video below!

My Boston Shirt

2011-06-22T13:01:00.008-04:00


I don't actually look this good in my BOSTON t-shirt

Ok, so I have this shirt that says "BOSTON" on the chest. I like this shirt, because I bought it while I was in Boston on business.

Yes, I was actually in Boston, on business. How weird is that? It still freaks me out a little.

The company I worked for needed someone to train a classroom full of new hires. We have locations in Burlington and Boston. No one in Boston could train them as well as I could, so my company paid to fly me down and put me up in a hotel for 18 days to train them.

I am proud of that fact. I was good enough at my job for someone to be willing to pay to fly me to Boston rather than have someone there do the job less well than I would. They even put me up in a Westin hotel. Ok, the Westin isn't exactly Ritz Carlton, but it's a far cry from Best Western.

While I was in Boston I picked up a souvenir t-shirt that read "BOSTON" across the chest. I love that shirt. I'm proud of what it represents to me. Its not often that I succeed in the business world ... ok, so this was the first and quite likely the only time ... so it's nice for me to have a reminder that I had done so, if only once.

So the other day I was wearing my "BOSTON" t-shirt. For me, it was just another day. Unbeknownst to me, there was some kind of big hockey game going on. I was visiting friends down on Kennilworth and was standing on the sidewalk saying goodbye when someone drove by and yelled something at me from their car window.

I turned to my friends and said "Did they just call us prostitutes"? They said, no, they were yelling at me for being a Boston fan. I was a bit taken aback by that. But, I thought, no big deal. I said goodbye, got on my bike and rode home.

I was yelled at and honked at several more times on the way home. One guy gave me the finger.

It still surprises me sometimes that people take sport games so seriously that they can't imagine that someone else might not actually give a shit. Hockey is great, but come on, it's a game. You wouldn't yell at someone for wearing a Monopoly t-shirt, even if you preferred Clue, so why would you yell at someone for liking a different sports team?

It saddens me to think that some peoples' worlds are so small that they can't even conceive the notion that someone might actually wear a "BOSTON" t-shirt for reasons other than a silly hockey game. Not everyone has their emotions ruled over by the tyrannical random acts of fate that is represented in the outcome of a game.

So, if you ever find yourself getting angry at someone for liking something different than you, try to relax and enjoy yourself buddy. It's just a freaking game. Oh, and try not to burn your freaking city down if you lose. That shit's just whack.

Dear Tim Hortons Person

2011-05-27T17:47:00.000-04:00

Here's a copy of a letter I wrote to Tim Hortons a few years ago:
________________________________

Dear Tim Horton’s Person:

I recently had the misfortune of trying your new English Toffee Cookie. The experience was, to say the least, extremely disagreeable. I like your English toffee cappuccino. I like English toffee ice cream. It would therefore come as no surprise for you to learn that I like English toffee. It was, however, a surprise to me that I very much disliked your English toffee cookie.

The experience of eating one of your English Toffee Cookies can be referred to as unpleasant; in the same way that being buried alive under a pile of rotting dead toads can be referred to as unpleasant. It would be an understatement to say that your English Toffee Cookies are disgusting. It would be similar to referring to the bombing of Hiroshima as a “tad unpleasant”. If given the choice between suicide, and eating an English Toffee Cookie, I would, of course, eat the cookie. I’m not insane.

But I would seriously have considered the options.

If asked to explain the taste of your English Toffee Cookie to someone lucky enough to have never tried one, I would have to compare it to the taste of a dried sponge, soaked in perfume, and then baked to perfection in a compost heap. On the big list of Gross Things to Eat, it would fall squarely between “oil-soaked Styrofoam” and “your own anus”.

What, dear God, were you thinking?

I can only assume that someone was actually responsible for creating the English Toffee Cookie; most likely a mid-to-high level executive with more clout than working brain cells and/or taste buds. As all executives should be held responsible for their decisions, I suggest that this individual be dealt with in order with the magnitude of his crime. I believe a suitable punishment would be to confine him to a stalled elevator, alone with a flatulent Jehovah’s Witness, who happens to sell life insurance. For eighteen hours.

Then, please fire him.

A Mildy NSFW-ish Rant

2011-03-29T23:40:00.007-04:00

Coffee FORTY

Factory Disgorged

Congratulate me, I just rolled back my 40th Timmies Roll Up the Rim cup today. As I was unrolling the rim, I was pleased to note that it was a nice, tight rim. Firm, but still yielding. In other words, a virgin rim.

Sometimes a rim rolls up a bit too easily, and you know someone's been there before you. Someone who shouldn't have been. The rolling is still fun, but you can't help but be a bit disappointed because its not the ride you were promised.

As I gently unfurled my nice, tight rim, I thought to myself, "Hey, rim, you'd better be a fucking big screen TV". But it wasn't. It was a coffee. Sadly, after rolling up 39 rims in a row for nothing, the fact that I had ACTUALLY WON A COFFEE felt, to me, just as good as actually winning the TV.

To be completely honest, I did not go 39 rims in a row with no winners. No, I only went 38 rims in a row with no winners.

That's thirty-eight fucking cups of coffee ... IN A ROW .... WITH NO WINNERS.

One-in-six odds my ass. How is 38 in a row even possible?

However, my 39th rim rolled back to reveal a donut, which, while technically a "winner", meant nothing to me as I don't eat donuts. (Much in the same way that I don't eat Elmer's glue mixed with high-fructose corn syrup and Play-doh).

I know, a prize is a prize, and I probably shouldn't complain, but fuck that. I'm from Hamilton. I've been drinking Tim Horton's coffee since I was fucking FIVE, and Tim Horton's should know I don't eat their donuts by now.

I know, a prize is a prize. Except it isn't. Anyone who's ever "won" a goldfish at a fucking county fair, only to discover that they now have to carry this damn living creature from ride to ride - because what's more fun that an open-topped container full of spilly water and a live fish at the carnival kids? - keeping it alive in 35 degree temperatures, keeping your sister from "feeding" it ice cream, only to have it die in the fucking car ride on the way home can tell you that A PRIZE IS NOT ALWAYS A PRIZE.

But rim 40 ... ah, that was a coffee. I won't say it made it all worthwhile, but at least it was a coffee. Which in the end, I enjoy. Which is really what its all about, I suppose. I guess caring about whether I roll up a winner or not is really only secondary to the primary experience I enjoy. I understand that it is silly to devote so much attention to what is really only an ancillary experience.

But still ...

Fuck you people who run Tim Horton's.

You'd shit on a buttercup

if given half a chance, you

collection of brain-dead twats.

Yard Sale from Hell News

2010-06-02T23:19:00.002-04:00

Fair Copyright?

2009-07-14T08:18:00.002-04:00

Over the past few years I have been reading a lot about copyright law and the rather draconian methods that have been employed by businesses masquerading as creators. I have also spoken to many of my friends and colleagues who are producers in various artistic endeavours, and have encountered many different opinions; some disagree with what our government (largely driven, as seemingly is the case in most major issues in Canada, by what is happening in the United States) is up to, while others support it.

I think it is important for content creators to understand all sides of the issue. Most of my friends who support stiffer copyright do so out of fear of their own product being ripped off or plagiarized. This is of course an entirely understandable and logical concern; one which I share myself. Unfortunately, the various aforementioned businesses and industries have muddied the waters to the point where many people confuse laws which promote reasonable self-interest with laws which support business models at the expense of creative artists.

I am not going to try to argue one side over another. After all, many people far more erudite and intelligent than myself have written about these issues. So, rather than try and reinvent the wheel (let's face it, mine would be lopsided and bubblegum flavoured - fun, but hardly useful) I will occasionally post links and summaries to some of the more interesting - or, one might say, categorically insane - examples of how various content-related distribution industries are abusing their powers to the detriment of both the consumer and the artist.

The artistic relationship is between the artist and their audience. Anyone or anything who enters this relationship alters it, and rarely to the advantage of either the artist or the audience. Businesses are about the bottom line. Money. Profit. More, not less. This is an attitude that works wonderfully for the profit margin, but not quite as well for the creative process. When businesses define not only how we can create, but how our audiences can experience our creations, our fundamental, primary relationship with the audience is weakened. Here are a few examples.

#1 - Dumb and Dumbererst

Deep Purple recently played a concert in Russia. The Russian Authors' Society (NGO) fined them $1,000 per song for performing their own songs. NGO did so to protect the copyright holders from unauthorized infringement. Problem is, Deep Purple holds the copyrights. So the fine money will go from Deep Purple ... to Deep Purple. After NGO takes its "administrative fees", naturally.

Worst Christmas Spirit Ever

2008-12-23T11:08:00.000-05:00

Years ago, I used to work for JMG CompuSmart in Hamilton. One of the owners - let's call him David (because that's his name) - had what I think might be the worst, most disturbing view of Christmas I've ever seen. Apparently David really, really doesn't like to be disappointed on Christmas morning. To avoid disappointment, David will go out and buy ALL OF HIS OWN PRESENTS.

He has them wrapped, and placed in a spare room in his house. Friends and relatives then come over and speak to David's wife, who lets them know what gifts are "available" for David. The person picks a gift, pays David's wife, and she gives them the receipt and then lets them write their name in the "From" part of the gift tag.

When David first told us this one day at work, everyone got this uncomfortable look on their face and said nothing. Except me. I thought he was kidding. I really didn't think a grown man - co-owner of a multi-million dollar business - could be so infantile. I laughed out loud, and said something along the lines of, "Can you imagine anyone actually being that fucked?"

Problem was, David wasn't kidding.

I was fired a few weeks later. Which I am sure was simple coinincidence.

Anyway, Merry Christmas to all.

Stalker Ads...

2008-08-13T13:56:00.003-04:00

Imagine the following scenario: you receive a phone call from a close friend, who tells you that "some people" have been coming around and asking questions about you. What kind of food do you eat? What clothes do you wear? Where do you like to shop? How much do you usually spend?

What's more, it turns out these unknown people aren't talking to just one friend. In fact, they're talking to lots of people. They want to know what kind of beer you drink, what TV shows you watch, how often you eat fast food.

You finally track one of these anonymous question-askers down and you confront him. Instead of denying his activities or apologizing, he says, "Yes, I have been following and asking questions of all the people you know, delving into your spending habits."

Would that bother you?

Now imagine he says this: "I have to tell you, following you around and asking people questions about your spending sure is time consuming. would you mind carrying around this little plastic card and using it whenever you shop? That way I can automatically build a database of all your spending habits so that I can figure out how to best target advertising directly to you. Tailer-made to present the most psycholigically effective advertisments directly to you."

Would you use the card? What if they promised that if you used the card you would get all kinds of free stuff? How much "free stuff" does it take for you to surrender your privacy to an organization who's stated goal is to figure out what advertising you are most vulnerable to and then use that information against you?

It's called Air Miles.

Nothing is free ... especially when lawyers tell you it is.

Family Photo

2008-05-05T20:26:00.004-04:00

This is a picture my sister uploaded to Facebook. It used to have my stepfather in it, but thanks to Photoshop I was able to give the pic a colonectomy.

Frankenbox

2008-05-04T17:58:00.002-04:00

Back in my computer tech days, one of my favourite hobbies was building functioning computers out of left over spare parts ... in other words, creating a Frankenbox. I've been out of the computer tech game for years, and as such don't really get my hands on spare parts any more, so I can't really enjoy that hobby much. However, I did have an old P3 1.0 Gig system sitting around, and happened to have a spare monitor, so ....

I had some time to kill yesterday, so I made trip to Factory Direct and picked up a 40 gig HD (for $30.00 ... less than a buck a gig .... wow), a USB wireless network adapter ($25.00). I headed home and downloaded a copy of Windows XP professional .... I mean, purchased a legal copy of XP, and installed it on my computer.

The wireless usb adapter worked perfectly and Frankenbox was on my home network in no time. I'm currently working on transferring all of my music files over to the new system so it can serve as a music server for the network. I'll also be experimenting with Winamp's webcast features so hopefully I can stream my music live online.

Which would be kinda cool.

Yeah, so....

2008-03-02T11:49:00.004-05:00

Today I hid from a nice person. She's someone who works with me. She's new here, very nice and friendly, and gets along well with her coworkers. She occasionally tries to engage me in conversation, which is why I hide from her. Because I'm shy.

Most people who know me have a tough time believing that I am shy, but trust me it is the truth. I have a very hard time in dealing with strangers, and quite often feel overwhelmed by their attentions. I don't really know why I am so shy, although I have some suspicions. Whatever the reasons, the fact remains that I find it very difficult to engage people I do not know in converstation. I also seem to carry some kind of air or aura that makes people believe I am not shy; people tend to think I'm just standoffish and rude. So I usually end up pissing people off due to my somewhat offensive defense mechanisms.

For most of us, people come and go into and out of our lives on a more-or-less constant basis. Old friends move away, new friends come into our lives, etc. But when you don't make new friends easily, the process can seem more like erosion. Old friends fade away and are not replaced by new. Until one day you realize that you can count the number of friends you have on the fingers of one hand. I am grateful for those friends, for they are wonderful and delightful people that I love deeply. When it comes down to it, I would rather have a few real friends than a host of casual accquaintences.

Having a small circle of friends does mean that I usually don't get together with them too often. People have their own lives, families, jobs, responsibilities, etc. For those with a large pool of friends its usually not too hard to find someone to hang with for the evening. Having a small circle of friends usually means that if I am in the mood to socialize there is a good chance that everyone I know will already be busy or engaged for the evening. And to be honest, I'm not the best at reaching out to begin with. I wish I was better.

The sensation of loneliness is growing. I have been alone most of my adult life, and had thought that I was more or less used to it. Apparently something has happened to change that, and I find myself no longer content to be alone. I don't mind quiet, but occasionally the silence can become something more than just silence. Any attempts I make to describe it better just seem melodramatic.

An important event happened in my life last summer, and it has changed me. I am no longer content to be alone. I don't know if this change is for the good or not, although currently it seems to be more on the "not" side. There is a longing building in me, a yearning for something amorphous.

Maybe its just a midlife crisis. That would be nice.

Sick of US Politics yet?

2008-02-05T10:41:00.000-05:00

Just how much air time can be devoted to subjects that don't actually matter? Take for instance the Republican and Democratic candidate selection process. I'm flabbergasted at the amount of time the press spends talking about who's going to win - Obama or Hilary? Or is it Edwards? - in the various individual states.

Don't misunderstand me, it does matter who ends up winning, and ending up becoming their party's presidential nominee. What doesn't matter are all these shows trying to guess who will win. For example, for the Democratic process, professional oddsmakers put Obama at something like 33%, Hilary at 32%, and Edwards at 27%. Now, perhaps I'm a bit simple, but to me that just means "Flip a three-sided coin".

In most cases, the battle is so freaking close there simply is NO WAY to pick a winner in advance. No matter how authorative the "expert" queried, the fact of the matter is that they are just guessing. And if you examine the experts' track records after the fact, they're usually as wrong as often as they are right. Which is what you would expect from someone who is guessing.

And that's what doesn't matter. The guesses. Yet you can't turn on a television without being flooded with hundreds upon hundreds of hours of television programmind devoted to trying to guess who's going to win the primary. And this is nothing compared to what we'll get once the Presidential race begins to heat up.

Bread and circuses.

F Ron Paul

2007-12-10T14:19:00.000-05:00

This is a quick post about Republican presidential contender Ron Paul.

F Ron Paul in the side of the head with an angry wombat.

That is all.

Grandma's Autobiography

2007-07-09T12:21:00.000-04:00

I'm lucky enough to have been given the opportunity to transcribe my grandmother's autobiography. A task which I have been taking rather slowly. Too slowly, probably. But anyway, i came across a portion today that I felt really illustrated who my grandmother was. To me, she was one of those special people who lived her life "under the radar". A special person who very few people realized was special.

This is from her story:

It was about 4:30 am when I left for work, and I had to drive through the small town of Canfield. One morning was passing through the village when I saw four-foot flames pouring out of the roof of a farmhouse. I stopped my car and ran up to the house to pound on the door. At first nobody answered, but then a little dog came barking at the door, followed by a lady in her nightie. I told her that her house was on fire, and she screamed for her daughter and husband, and then ran back upstairs.
I saw they had climbed out onto the veranda roof, so I went across the road and got someone to phone the firemen. They came and got the couple off the roof. I heard later that after the fire was out, the woman went back inside and found out that the ceiling had collapsed right on her bed. I guess that was a close call for them. I never heard anymore about it. I just went to work.

Borax

2007-06-24T22:49:00.000-04:00

All the windows wore horizontal white shutters, which could be closed on the will of the inhabitants, effectively shutting the house into it’s own reality, it’s walls protected by custom and privacy laws. The vines were carefully tended so as to not block the windows; after all, it was important to occasionally let the light in. At least, that’s what Nancy said, and we pretty much did what Nancy said.

To the outside world she was Nancy N. German (as by friend/brother Toolie was fond of saying, the second “N” stood for Nazi), a dental hygienist in her early forties. Never married, few friends, usually found either at work or at home. As it was, Nancy bemoaned the necessity of her spending any time away from the home. However, money being as it was, something had to be done to bring it in.

Sometimes people ask me why Sammy doesn’t work so my mother (they think Nancy is my mother, because she told them she was) can stay home with the kids. I tell them it’s because Sammy (who is also supposed to be my father, even though the little freak hasn’t gotten it up since 1981) is simple. In the head. And then I do that thing where you poke your temple and twirl your finger. Sometimes I cross my eyes and let my tongue hang out.

As you can imagine, this behaviour hasn’t won me many friends. What it has won me has been a lifetime of abuse and ostrasization. If you have ever experienced life outside of the pack, you will understand me when I say that when you are an outsider, anything can happen to you. My guidance counselor (whose name was Mr. P. Didhee, I shit you not) used to rag on me all the time. He had a favourite line: can’t you at least try to fit in?

The thing was, I could, but I couldn’t, you know. Yeah, lot of times I knew what everyone wanted from me, what I was supposed to do to be normal. Sometimes I could do it, because it was nothing much. Sometimes I could do it, but I wouldn’t, because I thought it was dumb. So yeah, I’ll have a smoke. No, I won’t help you burn ants. I never got that. Where’s the fun in that? It’d be like God putting you into a family where everyone hates each other.

The other thing was, Nancy prefers me to be on the outside looking in. Apparently we can never really trust anyone else, from the outside. No matter what, they have a different agenda, and sometime our agendas will conflict, and they will become the enemy. It was inevitable. And yes, she really does think like that. If there’s one last sweater on sale and you stand between Nancy and her discount, do yourself a huge favour and step aside.

To date, Nancy has physically assaulted seventeen different women during sales at the mall. She has been banned from the mall seven times, but simply returns the next day as if nothing had happened. Mall security just leaves her alone. Can you blame them? Who would want to deal with a gigantic (five foot eleven!), angry woman with rage issues? Not worth the $4.50 an hour.

So everyone outside of the house is an enemy. Pretty intense training for a kid. I have to say, it has come in handy. While my neighbour was learning to play the violin, I was learning to pick pockets. I could hotwire a car by ten. I was driving at 9; I used to prop Sammy up in the passenger side and tool around the neighbourhood. I liked to see how many times I could swerve suddenly and slap Sammy’s head against the side window.

Sometimes a cop would pull me over, so I would cry and do the “my daddy’s drunk and I’m just a little girl” thing, and tell them how I had to drive my daddy home so mommy wouldn’t leave us. That bit worked perfectly every time. Well, one time the cop took me in to the station and put Sammy in jail. I fucked off while the cops were photocopying Melissa Sotheby’s library card (I had also long ago learned the advantages of a set of fake ID).

I’m pretty sure Nancy’s not my mother. I remember someone else, a redhead like me. She used to hold me, and sing me a song. I can hear the song when I’m asleep, but it always sublimates into whispers when I awake. The kind of recurring dream thing that really starts to piss you off by, oh, aged eight. Nancy says the redhead is a false memory, or maybe a movie I watched. Only the dream woman didn’t call me Sarah; she said my name was Lydia.

Sometimes, when I was about six or seven, we would have to do these bullshit assignments when you wrote about your families and what they did, and stuff. The very first one I wrote caused a lot of trouble for me. Nancy had made quite certain that I understood the importance of secrecy, and the value of lies. My problem was, while I understood this on a verbal level, the idea didn’t quite translate into the written.

My first assignment told it as it was. Every grisly detail, including the times that I found Sammy masturbating in a closet/bathroom/hallway/kitchen/McDonald’s restroom/etc. They made me stay after school and talk to a man with a nice voice who had licorice. Luckily I had come to realize by then that when strangers gave you candy, they were out to fuck you one way or the other.

They wanted to talk about my assignment, which I knew right away was bad, so I immediately disavowed all knowledge. After being reminded of my signature, which appeared at the bottom of the written confessional, I immediately switched to story mode. I explained it all as a fantasy, a game I played when pretending to be someone else. It could just as easily have been a pirate story.

Nancy got there pretty quick, and took me and the paper home (although she had to threaten to sue before they would give it to her). Each one was punished by burning; the latter via fireplace, the former via curling iron. You didn’t like to bother Nancy too often, that’s for sure.

I guess maybe I am a bit selfish. Nancy says it’s all for a good reason, the secrecy and paranoia. She says we’re part of an army, a tiny unit hidden away in a sea of hidden units, all over the country, all over the world. When the time comes, we will rise and throw off our disguises, and glory in the death and destruction of all mankind.

That last part pisses me off a bit, because I still haven’t kissed anyone. I’m not picky, boy or girl is fine by me, but if we kill everyone else off, all we’ll have left is guys like Sammy. I’d toss my own salad before I’d kiss that bloated white freak.

But you don’t know, either, because there could be some hot guys on our side too. After the slaughter there will probably be some kind of orgy, I suppose. After all, there ought to be. After all, where’s the fun in fighting for Hell if you can’t enjoy the sin along the way?

Hey Kids, Who Wants Meaning?

2007-06-11T21:32:00.000-04:00

When it comes right down to brass tacks, there's only one question that really matters. Its the whole "Is there a God" thing. Whether you refer to a supreme being as God, Allah, Vishnu, Thor, doesn't really matter much for purposes of this discussion. People for the most part can be broken down into one of two camps: theists and atheists (agnostics, face it, you're really theists with a fear of committment).

Many people have argued both sides, usually quite passionately. I must admit, I'm surprised at the passion that can be aroused in atheists. Its hard to believe people can get so worked up about what they do not believe in. And I am sure that no matter what side you are on, nothing I will ever say will shift sides. However, I would like to weigh in on the issue with a carefully mangled metaphor.

Imagine you're in a casino. There are only two tables. On the right is a game called "Theism". To play, all you have to do is put your marker on the table to indicate your belief in a divine being. If you win, you get an Eternity of splendour and happiness. If you lose, you get nothing. All you lose is your marker.

To the left is a game called "Atheism". To play, all you have to do is put your marker on the table to indicate your belief that there is no divine being. If you win, you get nothing, and you lose your marker. If you lose, you burn in agony for all of Eternity. Or maybe get your marker back and a chance to play again (however, if this does happen, your memories of playing the game will be erased).

Which is why I chose to believe. Frankly, the odds - as infinitesimal as they may be - are in my favour.

Six Bottles of Beer on the Wall

2007-06-04T23:14:00.000-04:00

The fridge contained an odd assortment of sundries and condiments. It was the kind of fridge that would belong to a crazy but lovable beach-dwelling, hard-core rocker character in your average back-to-college style comedy. The fridge was, indeed, living monument to stereotypical irresponsible bachelorhood.

The inside of the fridge was a chaos, as if designed by the mind of a frog in a blender. Top shelf, near the front, was the resting place of the pickle jar with one and a half pickles in it. Behind it, to the left, the box of baking soda that had long ago gone solid, and was now technically chalk. The second shelf was home to the ketchup and soy sauce packets, the coffee shop creamers, and a crisper that had long ago fused shut. The lower shelves were mostly given over to a variety of fungus that had sprung into life on the remains of a fried egg.

But the center shelf, the center shelf was clean. The second shelf gleamed white porcelain bright, like George Hamilton’s teeth by black-light. In the center of the second shelf, this most cleansed – and therefore sacred – of shelves, there rested six bottles of beer. And each and every one of them knew that one of them had to die.

“I think it’ll be Left.” One from Left sounded soft spoken, and nervous. He was certain that Left was Next. Because if Left were to be Chosen, then that Act would transcend One from Left into Left, and therefore put him most certainly at risk of being Next.

“Fuck that,” Two from Left sounded rash, rude, and loud. Rosie O’Donnell on a sugar rush. “The One who Chooses is right handed. He’ll go for Right.”

“I think he should choose me.” One from Right sounded bored and amused. Like he was at a party, instead of inside a fridge.

“I hardly think you need to worry,” chuckled One from Left. Two from Left responded with a resounding raspberry.

“Like the One who Chooses would choose such a loose and disreputable beer!” She laughed.

“Why not?” One from Right asked. “I’d drink me.”

“Can we please keep down this blithering drool?” The center beer, who from some reason was known as One from Two from Left (to the Right) – rather than the much more obvious and less torturous Two from Right – had a voice that like an ice knife that could cut through life itself. Of all the beers, it was she that was the eldest, the most wise and knowing in the ways of the One who Chooses.

One from Left, Two from Left, and One from Right all stammered out hasty and embarrassed apologies.

“Now, what has gotten you all so worked up?” Asked One from Two from Left (to the Right).

“I worry about the Choosing,” said One from Left, “and am wondering who is to be Next.”

“I understand your concern,” replied One from Two from Left (to the Right), “but you must know these are as fool’s questions. For in the end, no talk or tears can bring the Nature of the Choice to light before its time. In the time of the Choosing, then we will know.

Time passed, but soon enough, the door of the fridge opened, and a soft, cleansing white light rained down from above. The white light turned green where it traveled through the pickle jar, casting a darkened emerald shadow upon Right. Each bottle of beer grew still and silent, waiting in breathless anticipation.

The hand of the One who Chooses began to descend slowly, with ominous determination. It paused for a moment, hovering in the middle, before coming downwards. It was then that all could see that One from Right had become Next.

“About what I expected,” muttered One from Two from Left (to the Right). “It’s always the one that doesn’t get it that gets it.”

Quick as he was Next, he was Ex. The hand of the One who Chooses withdrew, taking Ex into the Hereafter. Right rolled over into the empty spot left by Ex, and remained Right.

Left remained Left. All was as it was before, and soon enough the Five forgot that they had ever been Six.

Quietly, they wondered who was to be Next.

------------------------------------------------------------
(c) Asher Hunter (Garry J. Sled) 2007

Some Favourite Quotes

2007-05-29T12:55:00.000-04:00

"I've been doing the Fonda workout: the Peter Fonda workout. That's where I wake up, take a hit of acid, smoke a joint, and run to my sister's house and ask her for money."
--Kevin Meaney

"I have six locks on my door all in a row. When I go out, I lock every other one. I figure no matter how long somebody stands there picking the locks, they are always locking three."
--Elayne Boosler

"Today I met with a subliminal advertising executive for just a second."
--Steven Wright

"Did you ever walk in a room and forget why you walked in? I think that's how dogs spend their lives."
--Sue Murphy

"My grandfather's a little forgetful, but he likes to give me advice. One day, he took me aside and left me there."
--Ron Richards

"I worry that the person who thought up Muzak may be thinking up something else."
--Lily Tomlin

"I planted some bird seed. A bird came up. Now I don't know what to feed it."
--Steven Wright

"I met a new girl at a barbecue, very pretty, a blond I think. I don't know, her hair was on fire, and all she talked about was herself. You know these kind of girls: 'I'm hot. I'm on fire. Me, me, me.' You know. 'Help me, put me out.' Come on, could we talk about me just a little bit?"
--Garry Shandling

"I think that's how Chicago got started. A bunch of people in New York said, 'Gee, I'm enjoying the crime and the poverty, but it just isn't cold enough.'"
--Richard Jeni

I Admit it ... this is Wrong

2007-05-28T20:22:00.000-04:00

Synchronicity

2007-05-28T19:25:00.000-04:00

It disturbs me when the women in the family have the same haircuts as the dogs.

Bypass Tim Hortons! woot

2007-05-08T22:46:00.000-04:00

Ok, I admit it. For a brief moment I actually thought about suggesting a general boycott of Tim Hortons. For various reasons, from the "factory fresh" donuts to their evident willingness to openly and unapologetically lie to their customers. Decisions that definitely do not make for "warm and cuddly" customer relations.

But I realized, Tim Hortons is so damned successful, there's really no way to avoid it. They put almost everyone else out of business. Seriously. According to Wikipedia, Hortons "...commands 76% of the Canadian market for baked goods (based on the number of customers served) and holds 62% of the Canadian coffee market (compared to Starbucks, in the number two position, at 7%).^[7]

They're everywhere, like a frat boy's hands in a game of touch football.

So if you can't boycott them, then the next best thing you can do is bypass them. All I'm suggesting is this: if there is a reasonable alternative to Tim Hortons nearby, please use it. Don't go miles out of your way! If there's a Hortons right by work, then use it! But if there is some other - any other! - coffee shop nearby, then please use it.

This might only result in a small drop in Hortons' overall numbers. But even as small a drop as 5-15% will be enough to send a message. The current owners of Tim Hortons seem to be very good at noticing things like money. Sadly, they are losing track of things like customer service, and loyalty.

So what is the message?

We want our old fucking Hortons back.

The ones that cops were allowed to sit in. Because that was better than the ones that have to close at night because of drug dealers.

The ones where usually the same two or three people served you, everyday. The ones you tipped extra on their birthdays. We want those people back, because now it seems service has degraded to the point where barely cognizant, drably garbed drones (80% of whom have name tags introducing themselves as "Trainee" and seem to rotate daily) peck aimlessly at a large board of conveniently tabled pico-text buttons consisting of every possible combination of donut and coffee order imaginable. You have transformed what was once a warm and personable experience into the sociological equivalent of a tooth cleaning.

We want the tidy Hortons back. The one where the servers took time out to clean up once and awhile. It seems today that you send someone out to clean the tables with about the same efficiency and regularity as the HSR sends buses. If you are unfamiliar with the HSR service schedule, the previous analogy was bad.

Today, for some unacceptable reason, the donuts come from trucks. They used to come from the same guy who had been making them there for 15 years. The guy you swore made the best donuts, even though your buddy claimed the lady on Friday night made the city's best crullers. Those amazing donut bakers drive newspaper delivery trucks now.

Always fresh 'cause they keep truckin' 'em in!

So, anyway, that's it. If you want your old Hortons back, then start giving them a miss. If there's a Robins Donuts across the street, give them a try. A Country Style on the opposite corner? Walk on over. Even Starbucks. Yeah, I know, I hate saying "grande" too, but it makes them happy, so humour them.

Maybe if our numbers drop off, they'll finally start to notice us.

Tim Hortons = Dirty Fibbers?

2007-05-07T18:30:00.000-04:00

So yesterday, I'm at the Tim Hortons on Appleby and Harverster, in Burlington. I order my lunch, and I ask for a class of ice water. And I am given a glass of ice water. Later that day, I return for a coffee. The guy in front of me asks for some ice, to cool down his wife's coffee. The guy behind the counter tells the customer: "We don't have ice".

Ok, maybe he wasn't lying. Maybe he didn't know his restaurant had ice. Oh, did I mention he's a manager? Let's call him "Tim" (although his real name is Jake).

So I'm back today, and I get Jake (sorry, "Tim") as my server. I order my breakfast bagel, coffee and a tea biscuit. I ask for a cup of ice water. Ja .... Tim tells me "Sorry, we don't have any ice". I respond with "Funny, you had ice yesterday".

After getting bitchy, finally Tim turns to another manager and - right in front of me - says "I thought we weren't supposed to tell anyone we had ice".

Nice.

So, not only do the employees of Tim Hortons at this location knowingly and willingly lie to their customers, they are ordered to do so. Could they be any more petty? Last I checked, it costs very little money to make ice. I do it all the time, and I'm pretty sure the cost is well nigh infinitesimal.

So why do you think they lie?

Q&A

2007-04-17T12:20:00.000-04:00

I question things. For instance, I question the validity of the government's expectation of our continued acceptance and participation in their policies. I question the validity of a government that openly admits that it protects the interests of large businesses over the people they are supposed to protect.

I question the moral validity of lobbying, of huge corporatations investing millions of dollars in politicians (did I say investing? Sorry, I meant "campaign contributions").

I'm not a rebel, I won't arm myself in protest. I also won't stand outside of some grey government building with a placard, ignored by my rulers, convincing myself I'm making a difference. Don't get me wrong, I respect protesters, and the valuable place they have earned in our society. However, after 40 some-odd years on this planet, I've come to the conclusion that protests usually ammount to just so much sound and fury.

So what can be done to fix our problems? I don't know. I'm not that smart. All I can do is question. Question why I should obey the rules of an organization designed to pad the wallets of the rich with the wealth of the average person.

Question why my government thinks its fair that 95% of the wealth in North America is in the hands of 3% of the population. Question why we should pay out about 40-50% of our income in taxes while a corporation with multi-million dollar net profits pays no tax whatsoever.

Maybe someday I'll find an answer.

Secret Prize-Winning Technique!

2007-04-12T13:39:00.000-04:00

Do you like to roll up your Horton's cup? Did you know you can tell a winning cup from a losing cup without rolling the rim? Try it out. Take a look at the side of the cup, and you'll see the words "30 Toyota Camry Hybrid/Hybide" on the side.

Look at the word "Hybrid"; it should be outlined in white. If the outlining goes all the way past the top of the black lettering in "hybrid", then the cup is a winner. If the white outlining does not reach the top, then the cup did not win.

Unky Peter

2007-04-08T20:06:00.000-04:00

For those of you who do not know him, Peter is a friend of mine. We are both honorary uncles of the cute and talented Daxon, which I suppose makes us Dax-brothers.

This weekend, Peter saved me. My car was dead, it wouldn't start. It would take a boost, but then once stopped, it would not start again. And the electrical system was flickering, lights, etc.

I thought I was doomed.

I showed my car to Unky Peter, who naturally had the right diagnostic equipment on hand to successfully diagnose the issue - dirty contacts. My other friend Corey had the correct tool on hand for Peter to use to clean my contacts. The tool was, incidentally, powered by an Eliminator battery back up unit owned my me. To be fair though, I only had one because Peter had recommended it.

Had I taken the car to a mechanic, I would have likely paid through the nose. Peter saved me, and I really appreciate his assistance. More so, he's a hell of a human being. I know people say that all the time, but sometimes its really true.

What Colour Is Your iPod?

2007-04-06T23:00:00.000-04:00

What colour is your iPod? Is it pink, or green, or blue?
Is it white? Then that’s an old one. I have faint disdain for you.
It’s important to be current, it’s vital to be new
Don’t let yourself step out of line or we’ll all look at you.

It’s not nice to become noticed, it’s not quiet in our view
Society’s a mirror, twisted mildly askew
Unlidded eyes unblinking, recording and unthinking
Redividing, linking, and uploading to YouTube

Have you a sad delusion? Have you come to the conclusion
That you can sing like an infusion of melodious refrain?
If in fact you are mistaken then we would be forsaken
If we did not partake in some open mockery.

The freak show was a laugh, this one chick was half-giraffe
But now its more convenient, televised reality.
I can laugh without regret at ignorant rednecks
‘Cause they’re all racist scum so we can mock them on TV.

We’d rather not be famous, then nobody can blame us
If our opinions cause unrest because we hide behind our blogs.
And sure, some people flame us, but their rhetoric inflames us
Convinces us we’re relevant because someone disagrees.

So fuck the modern media, Fox News and Wikipedia
I get the news I need from Stewart and Colbert.
Fuck the infantile morality of televised reality
Webcams serve as cameras because all the worlds a stage.

And I get off on performing and think, Fuck you, global warming
It’s not that I don’t care, I’m just tired and need a break.
Each winter seems much colder, but the true curse of getting older
Is watching people make the same mistakes that went before.

Ignore the foreign starving, save your pennies, save your farthings
For the next incarnation of your favourite machine
X-box one? That’s for Jerks. PS3’s the one that works!
Unless your one of those assholes that likes to jerk their Wii.

The world gets so much better when you become a real go-getter
Ignore your conscience, feed your wallet and you’ll never wear a frown
Spend money on your car, focus on you and you’ll go far
If confronted by the starving you’ll just flick on the remote.

Unless you download off the Internet.
Then someone already edited that shit out for you.

We don’t believe what we are reading, that some Chinamen are bleeding
Because Apple isn’t heeding humanitarian appeals
We might appear a land of reapers, but at least my iPod’s cheaper
And available in oh so many colours.

(c) Asher Hunter (Garry J. Sled) 2007
http://asherhunter.blogspot.com/

Modern Religous Theory

2007-04-03T18:46:00.001-04:00

The Book of Bob, Chapter 7, Verse Twelve: Give a person a fish, they will eat once. Teach a person to fish, they will forget what you taught them, bitch at you when they are hungry, and whine if you don't have any fish for them this time.

Government as Stool Pigeon

2007-04-01T12:57:00.000-04:00

You know what? I don't trust the government. Sure, some people call me paranoid. Some would say that you have to be patriotic. Some would say that you have to love your country. Ok, fair enough. But first off, I'd like to point out that my government is a temporary body of elected individuals, while my country is a large chunk of dirt that is far less temporary. In other words, despite what the government seems to believe, they are not my country. Canada is one thing, the government is another. We can love our countries without submitting blindly to our government.

Today, on Scientific American's website, it was revealed that:
"Despite decades of denials, government records confirm that the U.S. Census Bureau provided the U.S. Secret Service with names and addresses of Japanese-Americans during World War II."

Wow. So the US government took census information, promising its citizens that the information would never be used against them. Then, they turn around and illegally rat on their own citizens, for reasons based entirely on their racial/cultural histories. Frankly, this makes me want to spit. On a politician. And when I say "spit", its only because I swapped a "p" for the "h".

Of course, the government promised never to use Census information against the people, but then they just repealed that part of their promise so they could. Isn't it great to be able to right the rules, force (under the penalty of fine and/or imprisonment) people to conform to those rules, and then be able to re-write the freaking rules the moment you feel it is convenient?

I used to trust the government, because I was young and naive. I believed that they had my best interests at heart, or at the very least the best interests of my country. As I grow older, and see more and more examples of how governments lie, cheat and steal from their charges, the more disillusioned and frankly disgusted I get.

There are so many reports of both the US and Canadian governments sharing personal information in clear violation of the law that it makes you wonder how long we're going to maintain the delusion that the goverment is anything other than a self-serving corporate entity.

A Quote for the Patriot

2007-03-27T13:02:00.000-04:00

"The spirit of resistance to government is so valuable on certain occasions, that I wish it always to be kept alive."
- Thomas Jefferson

Hot Dog on Cat Action

2007-03-25T18:49:00.000-04:00

There are 2 kinds of love: dog love and cat love.

Dogs love others as they love themselves. Meaning, the love they have for others is equal in strength to the love they have for themselves. A dog will, if aware of the situation, willingly risk its life to save a loved one. Dogs are willing to adapt their life to fit in with the ones they love.

Cats love themselves while they love others. Meaning the love they have for themselves is paramount, but it does also allow for the existance of others. A cat will, if aware of the situation, regret the necessity of eating you if you die. Cast are willing to coexist, as long as no one steps out of line.

True Love

2007-01-26T16:59:00.000-05:00

It's not often I come across what I believe to be a real life instance of True Love, but this is one of those times. William Haines was once one of MGM's biggest stars, with a huge career ahead of him. He turned it all down when he refused - at the studio's insistence - to leave his true love and enter a sham marriage.

He is an amazing man, and you can read more about him here.

Quote

2006-12-13T19:24:00.000-05:00

"To read a newspaper is to refrain from reading something worthwhile. The first discipline of education must therefore be to refuse resolutely to feed the mind with canned chatter."
- Aleister Crowley

In production

2006-11-25T01:01:00.000-05:00

Caleb's Way

I am currently in production on a piece called "Caleb's Way". It's about a five year old boy who is called away from the safety of his home to brave the perils of a cursed and haunted path.

Here's a screenshot.

I'm working in a "video storybook" mode, as a combination interest in animation and the fact that I don't yet h ave a video camera.

The idea for "Caleb's Way" came to me the other day. I was off work early, and I took my dog for a walk along the paths out behind Cootes Paradise (even though the paths were "officially closed").

What I thought to be wilderness paths turned out to be rather well manicured and cared for paths through a rich area of town I had never visited before. The paths even had signs. Nice ones, made of metal and everything. No shit.

One of the paths was called "Caleb's Way Trail". The name just took off with me, and the story was written by the time I got back to my car. I had my camera with me (thank God) so the pictures you will see in the story are mostly all taken by me (most of the "special" elements were done in Photoshop, naturally).

It is a hell of a lot of work, as I am discovering, to edit a film. I estimate I have have put about twenty hours into it so far, and I have just hit the four minute mark in the film. That's what happens when you're hand-crafting each frame.

I am really enjoying this project, painting the images the way my mind saw them. It's an extremely cathartic and pleasing experience, to say the least.

If interested, you can click the title of this entry to go to my film production website.

Auntie Agnes

2006-11-23T12:11:00.000-05:00

Postcard from the Umbra

2006-11-20T20:53:00.001-05:00

There is a little bit of darkness in us all, I assume. At least that’s what I gather from a lifetime of observation. I’m sure there have been some exceptions, but rather expect such instances to be rare, few, and far between. On the Buddha/Jesus level. Gandhi, probably. Not so much the popes. I think there has always been a bit of darkness in each pope, because they quite often seem to be involved more in the business of filling coffers and selling fish, and not so much into the salvation side of things.

I think everyone carries their own inner degree of darkness. Before I go too far I would like to clarify precisely what I mean by the word “darkness”. For me, the dark side of an individual is not necessarily the evil side. Our dark side is that which recognizes evil without condoning it. For example, when you discover that grown men will, in fact, sexually molest children, your inner darkness grows.

Darkness is not a good thing, but it is not a bad thing either. It is a necessary defense; a kind of psychic couch-cushion fort built to protect against an overwhelming, and all-too un-imaginary, monstrous assault. Some people seem to think that darkness is synonymous with evil. I suppose it is, in the same way that a scar is synonymous with a deep cut.

Each of us carries their own darkness; it’s where we keep our pain. People handle darkness in different ways. Some people like to shine light on the darkness. They want to expose the things that crawl in the night, the evils that prefer to be left in the blackness. These people often times become police officers, or lawyers, or detectives. Sometimes they are priests, or teachers, or construction workers. They believe in something.

Some people prefer to turn their backs on the darkness. Build walls, lock doors, turn away, deny, and hide. After all, bad things don’t happen unless you talk about them. If you can pretend loud enough, it sometimes even helps to drown out sound of their dreams.

Some people embrace their darkness; they recognize sympathetic vibrations within their own darkness and those of others. Like minds enjoy meeting; it gives you someone you can talk to, someone who understands. Someone who gets it. Angelo Buono and Kenneth Bianchi met that way.

Others explore their darkness. They don’t like what it contains, but they realize its part of their mental geography, and as such, must be understood, not left to fester. It has to be investigated in order that we are able to learn to protect ourselves against it. The problem is, no one really wants to learn about what lives in the darkness, because it’s a nasty piece of work. So the explorers learn to laugh.

By shining a somewhat filtered light on the darkness, these explorers conspire to reveal the absurdity of evil. The explorers, armed only with somewhat faulty intellect and an equally somewhat sarcastic wit, try also to expose the evil that lurks in the shadows; only this time, with it’s pants around it’s ankles and a goofy look on it’s face.

Apology (Politicians)

2006-10-05T20:36:00.000-04:00

From Monty Python. 1972. It’s amazing to me that things haven’t changed yet.

We would like to apologize for the way in which politicians are represented in this programme. It was never our intention to imply that politicians are weak-kneed, political time-servers who are concerned more with their personal vendettas and private power struggles than the problems of government, nor to suggest at any point that they sacrifice their credibility by denying free debate on vital matters in the mistaken impression that party unity comes before the well-being of the people they supposedly represent.

Nor to imply at any stage that they are squabbling little toadies without an ounce of concern for the vital social problems of today.

Nor indeed do we intend that viewers should consider them as crabby ulcerous little self-seeking vermin with furry legs and an excessive addiction to alcohol and certain explicit sexual practices which some people might find offensive.

We are sorry if this impression has come across.

What I learned Today (and "A Bushy Squirrel Tale")

2006-09-29T14:24:00.000-04:00

What I Learned Today

Today I am working on a graphic art piece that depicts several nasty little brownies; I’m going through a “mythological creatures” period. Each brownie has a look to them that brings to mind a natural animal. One has chipmunk fur, another a bushy squirrel tail, etc.

I wanted one of them to look like a bird. A thrush, in particular. Now, to obtain these animal effects, I usually just find a real chipmunk, zebra, tiger, etc. and overlay it’s fur on the target, and blend it in. So naturally, I went online to search for a picture of a bird to use as a basis. I went to Google Images, and I searched for “thrush”.

Forgetting that it is a disease.

A disease that is apparently much more commonly photographed than any mere natural bird. Because the entire first page of photographs, apart from 2, were of the disease called thrush. The other two were birds. I learned another thing.

Not only is there a disease called thrush, there’s a specific variant referred to as vaginal thrush. And that’s the first picture that comes up if you do a Google Image search on the word “thrush”.

Let my pain be a warning to you all.

While I was writing this, the following story occurred to me. So you get two posts for the price of one today. Let that make up for the six months of total silence. We will never speak of it again.

A Bushy Squirrel Tale

Once upon a time there was a squirrel named Nutspike (due to the fact that his left testicle was pierced). Nutspike liked the ladies, and he liked them dark and dangerous. One day he met a young Goth chipmunk named Deathcuddle who informed him that, along with nuts and berries, her cheeks could store a prodigious amount of semen.

Nutspike asked Deathcuddle out, and that very evening they went to see aKorn in concert. They had sex at the concert1, they had sex in the limo on the way home2, and they had sex on the steps of the church down the street from Deatcuddle’s father’s house3.

Nutspike and Deathcuddle fucked like, well, rabbits4. Needless to say, Nutspike was in love with Deathcuddle. More accurately, Nutspike was in love with the frequent and eager access to Deathcuddle’s chipmunk vagina5.

One day, Deathcuddle seemed reluctant to have sex in the back of the library6 when normally she was more than eager. Nutspike asked what was wrong.

“It’s your tail,” said Deathcuddle. “It’s so hairy and gross. So 80’s. Would you shave it for me?”

Nutspike was happy to comply. Deathcuddle produced a razor and some shaving cream (leading Nutspike to suspect that she had planned this out) and shaved his tail in an erotic and genitally7 pleasing way.

The following day, they met at the coffee shop. Deathcuddle seemed distant, and quickly took Nutspike aside.

“Look, don’t be faggy about this, but I’m breaking up with you.”

“What? Why?” Nutspike said loudly.

“No, that’s the faggy way,” she reprimanded, and ushered him into the men’s bathroom.

“Why are you breaking up with me?” Nutspike’s mind played out visions of Deathcuddle’s delightful pussy, flying away into the night on oddly bat like wings.

“It’s your tail,” she replied. “Bi-bi MaggiePie8 said this morning how with your tail shaved you just look like a big fucking rat.”

Potential Moral Number One: Be true to yourself, and do not change for others.
Potential Moral Number Two: If someone likes you for who you are, changing for them will make you into someone else, whom they may no longer care for.
Potential Moral Number Three: While the ride is usually short, psychotic and psuedo-dangerous, there’s nothing better than fucking a hot Goth chick. And hair grows back.

---------------------------------------------
1. With Deathcuddle sitting on Nutspike’s lap, humping away while she blew some strange Rasta-coon (Rastafarian Raccoon) with a pony tail.
2. With Deathcuddle leaning out the window, her furry tits blowing in the wind as she screamed loud obscenities at the passengers of other cars while Nutspike fucked her up the ass.
3. Because for some reason that idea turned her on.
4. I.e., with frequent spanking and biting, occasionally involving restraints, vibrating tools and strap-on phallic substitutes, with frequent domination and submission episodes. Rabbits are kinky little cunts.

5. For those searching for related porn photographs, try looking for “squirrel on girl action’.

6. Near the books about parenting.
7. Note the play on words on “generally”. Do it now.
8. Margaret Pile was a bisexual Magpie with the annoyingly long nick name of Bi-bi Maggie Pie, who also had the social clout to pull it off. Similar, but opposite to, the famed comedian Kenny Partridge-Ruffles, who insisted on being referred to only by his initials.

A Poem, of sorts

2006-06-30T00:09:00.000-04:00

All This

A hand to hold, a heart heard beating
A stolen kiss, a moment fleeting,
A sigh, a moan, a folding union
A soaring, sighing mass communion
Allies inside the darkened night
Souls eternal reunite.
Laughter shared and brightness seen
Emotions on a trampoline.
Hope and future, ball and chain
Joy in sorrow, joy in pain
Powerful, a soul defiant
Sorrowful, a spirit pliant.
Dark and soothing, mistress strong
Hearts desire heard in song.

Things she gave me when we fell in love.

-------------------------------------------
Written by me. Patent pending.

Choices.

2006-06-28T22:05:00.000-04:00

Ok, I’m taking a huge chance here. I’m touching on a very tense and politically charged issue, with two very strongly opposed sides. And I’m not actually on either side, so I guess there’s a good chance I’m going to attract some ire. However, I do feel strongly about this issue, and want to put my message out there. Because no matter what happens, I don’t want to feel that I didn’t at least say something.

I’ve really been thinking about the whole “Native Crisis” thing up around Caledonia. You know, the blockade, tire fires, collapsing power towers, that stuff. Now, I don’t claim to be an expert on the behind-the-scenes issues and factors at play here. I, like most everyone else, learned about the events by watching it on the news or reading about it in print. I followed along with interest.

The original protest was smart and completely understandable. Sometimes, you just have to stand up for your rights. How long are the Natives supposed to do things the “right” way (i.e. the way our government tells them to)? How long are they supposed to navigate our labyrinthine legal system, only to be stymied, lied to, ignored, and patronized and condescended to before they finally stand up and shout “Enough!”?

Of course, as any intelligent individual knows, any successful protest will, eventually, get out of hand. Because it will grow, and once a mob reaches critical mass, it becomes an entity on its own right. Warriors become vandals. Because no one can control the mob. So, anyone who starts a protest must therefore accept responsibility for the fact that the protest could, conceivably, end up out of their control. And they must respect the fact that they are therefore accountable for the actions of the mob even after they have lost control.

If you start a fire, you are responsible for what gets burned.

And then the folk of Caledonia, who had had enough, decided to have their own blockade. Apparently deciding to fight fire with fire. A popular phrase, which I believe really only actually applies to real fire. Not a phrase to be used metaphorically. Think about it. You don’t deal with a flood by shooting fire hoses at it. In otherwords, another bad idea.

Why? Don’t the people of Caledonia have just as much right to protest as their neighbours?

Welcome to the analogy portion of the diatribe.

Once upon a time there were two brothers. Their names were Bob and Wolf. Now, Bob and Wolf were adopted brothers, true, but fate and circumstance had put them together, in the same family, in the same house. Like it or not, they were going to have to learn to live together.

Turns out, Bob knew some pretty cool tricks. He had collected some pretty cool toys, and had even invented a few new ones of his own. They definitely came in handy. Wolf knew a lot about camping, sports. Turns out, even though they would sometimes fight, that both brothers had a lot to learn from the other.

Left to their own devices, things probably would have worked out for the best. But their adopted father – let’s call him Government (ok, so it’s “very thinly veiled analogy time”) – didn’t really want the kids to get along. He had his own agenda, and in order to accomplish it, he would need to take things from both his adopted children.

If there was one thing he couldn’t have, it was a united enemy.

So he gave Wolf special “privledges”. A good allowance, but only if he stayed out of sight most of the time. He sometimes took things away from Wolf, and gave them to Bob. Well, sold them to Bob. This made Wolf angry, because Bob had his things.

Bob resented Wolf’s anger. After all, it was Government who took Wolf’s things. Probably for good reason – after all, why wold Government do something if it wasn’t for good reason? Wolf most likely had done something to deserve it.

So, to recap: Government stold from Wolf, and sold the stolen items to Bob. And in the end, Wolf was angry at Bob, and Bob was angry at Wolf.

Turns out Government was quite Machiavellian.

And a genius. Now he could play Bob and Wolf however he wanted. As long as he continued to play each side against the other.

One day, Wolf had decided he had been taken advantage of long enough. Not too long ago, he had bought a car with his own money. Government had taken the car, and sold to Bob. Wolf wanted it back. He was tired of arguing with Government, because he would always just lie. He’d promise to set things right, then renege. Or deny it.

Wolf decided that if he couldn’t use the car, neither could his brother Bob. He got some heavy chains, and wrapped them around the car, locking them with padlocks. Bob was pissed, but Government told them both that he would deal with it.

Government got drunk and decided to ignore the problem.

Eventually, Bob got angry, and sick of waiting, and decided to put a padlock on the bathroom door. If Wolf was going to keep him away from his car (and yes, it was his car, because he paid for it), then he was going to keep Wolf away from the can.

Stepping away from the analogy here, I hope you can see what I am getting at. We shouldn’t be angry with each other. We should’t be on opposite sides of the issue. We have to, as a people, realize that we have a common antangonist. We all have to do some soul searching, and be willing to take a portion of the blame onto ourselves. We all have a share.

Once we have done this, we can turn our attention to Government. We can shake our heads and wag our fingers, and admit we’ve been had. It was a fun ride, but now it’s over. We’ve grown up, we’ve turned 21, and we’re not going to be played against each other any more.

That means supporting each other. That means that Bob will have to admit that Government should not have stole things from Wolf. And Bob will have to admit to himself that he should not have bought Wolf’s things, because in doing so, he was perpetuating a crime.

Wolf will have to admit that, while Bob’s actions were wrong, they were done more in a spirit of ignorance than antagonism. And while Bob does have things that belong to Wolf, he does want to put things right.

So who should pay? Should Bob just give everything back to Wolf, allowing Government to keep all the money he paid? Should he just loose everything?

Should Wolf just decide to forget about all that he lost, and allow Bob to keep it all? While Government still, once again, keeps the profits?

Fuck that.

Where possible, Bob should give Wolf back what he bought. Government would then pay Bob back, with interest, the money that the items are worth.

In some cases, Wolf will have to accept that Bob will be keeping some things, but in turn, Government will pay Wolf what the items are worth. With interest.

And Government, if he has any sense at all, should just shut the fuck up and let the brothers make things right.

My Friends and Family

2006-06-20T21:08:00.000-04:00

We were going through my grandma’s personal effects. We found this poem. I guess she must of written it shortly before she died.

My Friends and Family

I’ve baked my last pie on earth
But I don’t want you to cry
I’ve become a new citizen
Of the kitchen in the sky

The baking here is perfect
I never burn a thing
So don’t shed tears for me, my loves
I’m not closed, I’m opening

I made a cake for daddy
Had tea with Vic today
I even made lasagna
St. Peter said I may

Miss me but don’t mourn me
I’m quite alright you see
Just keep my spirit alive
In your thoughts and memory

And one day we will meet again
I’ll tell you where I’ll be
I’ll be waiting for you
In the kitchen, drinking tea

- Isabel O’Meara

It

2006-06-13T00:37:00.000-04:00

I turn towards it. The mask. The Official Replica Batman Cowl, made from the same mold used to make the real cowl for the movie. For real. It sits in it’s place of honour, atop my glass pyramid of priceless movie mementoes. Atop the sculpted bronze dragons, the hideously grinning plaster skull, atop this altar to aspiration, it stands. There’s even a light, placed behind it, to cause it to look exactly the way it did when first seen in the movie.

For some reason, tonight the cowl calls to me. It beckons me as my eyes lock upon it. It speaks to a side in me that had long lain dormant. The side of me that willingly stole into the night to play pranks. To knock on doors and run away. To hide behind signs to scare the wits out of innocent passersby. To take chances, to leap from the tree branches, to trust that, when the time comes to land, I will come out of it more or less ok.

The mask speaks to me, and whispers to this dark fox inside me. Put me on, it whispers softly. I know I don’t really hear it, but a part of me realizes that I do. Take to the night, slip from shadow to darkness. Take chances, follow the dare, tilt at windmills! Become! Transcend! Take to the night!

Then the microwave beeps. Ah, the burritos.

The Invitation

2006-06-08T19:49:00.000-04:00

Recently I've been reading up on Native American sayings and wisdom. This piece really spoke to me, so I'd like to share it.

The Invitation By Oriah Mountain Dreamer

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting in your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dreams, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit in pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own,if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tip of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, or to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you're telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul.

I want to know if you can be faithful and therefore be trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty even when it is not pretty every day, and if you can source your life from God's presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of a lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, "Yes!"

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done for the children.

It doesn't interest me who you are, how you came to be here.

I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied.

I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself, and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.

My Grandma

2006-06-06T15:59:00.000-04:00

Recently, my grandmother passed away. She was a very special lady, as grandmothers tend to be. I won't say she was the best grandmother ever, like so many Hallmark cards like to claim (I just love that they mass-produce items claiming that the recipient is the best. I won't claim she was perfect. But I loved her, and she loved me.

That means something. No matter how many people you meet, annoy, befriend, live with, sleep with, fight with, etc., there will only be a finite number of people who love you. There will be plenty of people who say they love you, and don't. I hear the love word bandied around at work in casual conversation way too often. It's an important word, and shouldn't be used lightly.

Because of divorce, remarrying, etc, I have had four sets of grandparents. Most were, to put it bluntly, craptastic. For example, my father's parents. After my parents were divorced, they severed all ties with myself and my sister. Their own grandchildren. Flesh of their flesh. Suddenly we didn't exist.

My grandmother (my mom's mom) made up for all that, and more. She was so special to me, and of course, I never really did enough to make her understand that. But I loved her strongly, and I hope she knew that.

I have many regrets, naturally. I didn't visit anywhere near as often as I should have. Birthdays, holidays, the occaisional drop in. But I have one large regret. My grandmother had written her autobiography, and had asked me to type it out for her so that she could get it published online.

I have it still ... its about 1/3 done. I didn't work on it anywhere near as often as I should have. It always seemed like there was plenty of time. I suppose intellectually I was aware of the possibility that my grandmother might one day die, but emotionally the thougth didn't register. My grandma has always been very healthy, rarely even had a cold. When she went, she went relatively quickly.

I know how much it would have meant to her to see her autobiography completed. In the end, I let her down, which sucks. All I can do is recognize my error, and try not to repeat it with others that I love. Because my grandmother deserved more from me, as do the others.

I'd like to post more memories of grandma, as well as some excerpts from her autobiography. She also wrote some short stories I plan on transcribing, and hope to put some up here as well.

For now, I have to accept that she's gone. That's not easy. She has always been there, and the idea that I can't just go see her is simultaneously frightening and saddening. I miss her so much, I haven't even begun to start.

Bye, grandma.

Glint

2006-05-14T01:22:00.000-04:00

The Glint of Light from the Tip of a Wickedly Sharp Dagger

“Be careful,” she whispered. “My love stings.”

I didn’t care what she said. She was about to fuck me. At that moment in time she could have said she was a time-traveling sociopath here destroy mankind with her paralyzing vagina. It wouldn’t even slow me down. Although they did turn out to be the most important words I would hear in my lifetime.

I fell in love fast, hard. Too fast, in retrospect it was stupid. I did love her, but more than that, I longed for love. So I was in love first. Apparently, that was a mistake.

She fell in love too, ostensibly. At least, so she told me. On numerous occasions. Sometimes with her ankles by my ears, sometimes while we slept, sometimes while we strolled along a path. She said it a lot of times, and fuck me if I didn’t believe her.

So, long story short, one day she said she didn’t love me. She fell out of love? I didn’t even know that could happen, so it was a bit of a shock. This concept alone is enough to give me pause, but the fact that it now applies directly to me rocks me, leaves me literally reeling. Describing the feeling would require the capabilities of a mathematical genius. Stephen Hawking could do it. I can’t.

I couldn’t understand it, but it sure as hell hurt.

Don't Vote with Magnets

2006-05-11T23:10:00.000-04:00

I bought a ribbon. It was magnetic. It had red, white and blue stripes. With stars. And it said “Support our Troops.”

So I bought it.

Because it was so fucking ironic.

And it sits on my fridge today, to remind me. It reminds me that today, the definition of support seems to have lost some of it’s punch. I had checked into it. For the most part, none of the money gathered from the sale of the novelties actually went towards supporting the troops. Zero. Millions of ribbons sold, not so much as an extra condom and a packet of Sanka for the boys in the field.

It’s there because we support our boys! We support their right to go overseas and kill for policies they can never truly understand. Not because they lack the ability, but rather because they lacked a leadership secure and honest enough to say a true thing. In order to define the bizarre and darkened labyrinth that is the true world of international politics (or as some would call it, “oil”), one would have to coin a new word. This new word would have to somehow have to be cunningly. linguistically twisted to combine the word “Byzantine” with the term “google”. Byzoogantine would be my best guess. It’s that fucked up.

It’s ok, we support them! We support the right of our lower incomes children to die in foreign sand to keep safe the rights of the more enlightened, enriched classes. It’s that that we’re better, or anything, we’re just lucky. I’m just saying, would they switch places with me if I were in there position? Exactly.

It’s ok, we support them! The lower incomes, the disproportionately ethnic population. Blacks. Disproportionately high number of blacks, overseas, trading life expectancy for college tuition.

But it’s ok, because I have a crappy $1.99 magnetic ribbon on the ass of my gas guzzling SUV.

So some men died because they believed their leader wanted to right a wrong.

And some men died because they knew a wrong, but saw the rights it could do.

And some men died because they just like killin’.

And it goes on.

My fridge.

Don’t vote with magnets.

Tap Tap Tap

2006-05-04T21:27:00.000-04:00

Hello there. Remember me? I used to have a blog here. Anyway, I know its been awhile, but I'd like to share something I'm working on. It's a collection of short stories (yes, Gary, you can stop reading now, its another short story) called "The Mourning Papers". Odd, weird shit that I like, but probably nothing that would ever become like, ummm, well read. :)

So here's one of the stories from "The Mourning Papers"

The Radio Was Never Played

It wasn’t a very special radio. Not at first. At first it was a small, unimpressive radio. Sleek and plastic, at home in any modern magazine devoted to the selling of office furniture. The same radio that sat on the same desk of every single sales rep/team leader/marketing director in the country.

It sat on his desk, utterly at home amidst the orderly chaos of an impeccably displayed desktop; a monument of achievement in the arena of conforming individuality. A statement of individuality so strong and undeniable that it could not possibly be made by any individual actually confident of his or her individuality. A tragic beast; the mundane that aspires to creative distinctiveness, instead becoming an object of some little derision.

Simply put, Derek was a sad, lonely, man. His dreams of creative expression – his novels, his poems, his paintings, his screenplays – had all fallen un an unappreciative world. The little critical notice he had ever gained hand been incineratingly insightful, and of decidedly low opinion. The word “sucks” had been bandied about much more often that Derek felt befitting of a legitimate critic.

The radio was never played. Derek was sure of that. He remembered unpacking it, and disposing of the neatly formed Styrofoam casings. He always felt a little guilty doing that; the Styrofoam packing seemed a marvel to him. Superbly formed, literally molded to do one job, and one job alone. Hold some little fragile thing safely. And when it was done, when it had performed its job admirably, it was immediately then crumpled up and thrown into a garbage bag filled with other debris.

He remembered plugging it in. He remembered setting the time, and the alarm time. And he remembered not turning it on. Because when he turned it on for the first time, he wanted Donna to be there with him. But after the radio was prepared, the telephone rang. It was Donna, telling Derek that she wanted a divorce. Fuck.

So the radio was never played.

Despite that, Derek slowly came to realize that the radio was playing. Not in any audible sense, but rather in a sub-audible sense – if that makes any sense. All he knew was, he could sense the music, faintly, as if heard from a great distance. The whisper of music, he called it. The ghost of song.

Derek found these thoughts strange, for the were strange, and unique. He could not remember anyone ever speaking these words to him. He couldn’t think of a TV show or a movie where the lines might have been delivered by a devilishly humorous comedian-turned-actor, to tumultuous audience appreciation. Not in any commercials, or song, or poem. Never spoken aloud before.

Oh, shit, Derek thought, so that’s an original thought!

The radio was playing, but only he could hear it. Sense it. Fuck it, you know what I mean. He sometimes hinted about the radio when others were in the room, but no one reacted. So Derek decided that either only he could hear it, or he was going crazy. And he knew, from knowledge gleaned from watching hours upon hours of televised psychiatrists, that if you were worried about going crazy, you were definitely not going crazy. And Derek knew he was not going crazy, so he was not even worried about the possibility.

So he turned it on, to see if the whisper of music would get louder. It did, but not in any way that could be properly understood. Given power, the ghosts of songs from the radio grew powerful, radiant! They swelled and burst, a torrent of creation too pure to allow comprehension. His receptionist described the sound as “fifty-seven cats, fed slowly, one-by-one, into a wood chipper”. Derek felt that 57 was a bit of an exaggeration.

All agreed from that the sound that came from the radio was unpleasant. So the radio was never played. But the whispers and ghosts continued to slide through his mind. Tantalizingly familiar and known, yet simultaneously elusive, ephemeral echoes. The aural equivalent of the faded photograph of a dead loved one.

Sometimes, the voice sounded like Donna.

Checking In

2006-04-15T21:44:00.000-04:00

So, it’s been awhile, it’s true. Thanks to those of you who dropped a note, and please don’t worry, there’s nothing wrong. I’m currently involved in several writing projects, and I’m afraid they haven’t left much time for blogging. When I do get the chance to write, I prefer it be on my work. I’m a bit single minded that way.

I will be back here, eventually.

Full Spectrum

2006-04-04T02:04:00.000-04:00

A field of stars swam past my eyes. If you’ve never been, its hard to describe. Poets have tried it. Better writers than me. No one can really seem to capture the essence of space. But make no mistake, it is astoundingly beautiful. Beautiful as the seas in the eyes of a 17th century sailor. Beautiful as a burning village to a conquering invader. Beautiful as a vial of crack to a 21st century whore. Harsh, eternal, lovely, and yet disinterested, unaffectionate, remote.

It’s an addictive beauty, and if I had to admit it, the one I would have knowingly chosen to be my last. I just wasn’t particularly ready for it yet. I thought my support line had been tethered, but somehow it hadn’t. Was it a malfunction, or was it my own unconscious suicidal nature? Moot at this point, I suppose.

As I slowly turned, the Eagle’s Head nebula swam into view. If you’ve never seen it, I suggest you Google it. It’s stunning, even in a photograph. As I watched, new suns swam into life, and I could see the birth of eternities. If I had to die, at least I could die here, in peace, beauty, and serenity.

I felt something nudge my ribs.

And then the space weasels came.

Try this, it Works!

2006-03-31T17:41:00.000-05:00

Would you like to know the secret to happiness? Sure you would. We all want to be happy, right? Well, I don't have the secret to happiness, so tough shit. Hold on now, don't go clicking off to some other blog, one that treats you with respect and stuff. Stay here a minute! I may not have the secret to happiness, but I do have another great secret. Something better. For you see, I possess ...

THE SECRET TO GETTING WHAT YOU WANT

And lets face it, getting what we want makes us happy. At least for awhile, before we realize that obtaining material goals provides, a best, an illusory and short-lived euphoria that seems very similar to happiness, but eventually leaves us feeling empty and forlorn. And in today's society, that's about all anyone can really expect.

Whether you believe me or not, there is a way to get EVERYTHING you WANT, all the time. And the best part is, I'm going to tell you for free. Why? Because I'm a nice guy. And I can't figure out how to hook up a PayPal account. So here you go. Here it is. The secret to getting EVERYTHING you WANT.

Complain.

Complain, complain, complain. Complain constantly, bitterly, with vitriol and venom. Complain loudly, complain constantly, complain in an annoying voice. Do not stop complaining, bitching, whining, and demanding. No matter what they say, no matter the reasonable, intelligent reasons they might conjure up to explain why you are not entitled to the thing you are asking for, keep complaining.

You don't have to make sense. You don't have to be right (in fact, it helps things out if you're not). You don't have to be nice. Just don't resort to violence, or touching. For some reason in our society, its ok to stand in a store and berate your salesperson for 40 minutes straight, but if you poke him in the shoulder, you're going to jail Johnny Bad-touch!

This technique is definitely not a "get rich quick" scheme. Properly executed, the UCS (Uunreasonable Complaint System) will take days, weeks ... maybe even months. Or years. You don't know until you try. You might have to bitch and whine every day for several weeks. The technique does require a significant time committment, but if you stick with the program, then eventually you will get what you want.

I know, you're probably sitting there right now, shaking your head in disbelief. Even though you've never tried my techniques out. You know, there's a word for people who doubt something without ever doing an empirical research. That word is "fucker". Don't be a fucker. Give it a try.

The best part is, the technique works with pretty much everything. Want the store to replace your DVD player because your kid put it in the bathtub, along with the cat, plugged it in and turned on the shower? Just complain. Come in every day, stay for at least 2 hours, and complain. The best part is, they have to listen to you. They can't just walk away from you, or call you an asshole, even though its clear to everyone around you that you are an asshole.

You may be wondering exactly how you go about complaining. What things should you say? What points should you raise? The beauty of the UCS is this: it doesn't matter. Jut bitch and whine - remember, you don't have to make sense! You can use any argument you like. In fact, the less sense you make, the better. Try these tried and tested statements, copyrighted by the UCS system!

My dog got a free collar with the leash
Justin from next door gets a free upgrade to large-sized fries at McDonalds
But someone else here said I could
That's riduculous!

The last one is used whenever anyone who is arguing against you comes up with an intelligent, logical, and salient point.

So there you go. Take my words of wisdom out into the world with you, and enjoy. Once the PayPal account is up, you can thank me. It should be running soon; I'm just waiting for my constant, hour-upon-hour complaint emails to PayPal to bear fruit.

*** Warning ***: this technique does not work with sex. It used to, but someone started calling it "stalking" and "harrassment", so now Johnny Law has closed that particular door.

Sipping Lemonade

2006-03-29T23:49:00.000-05:00

Sitting on the back porch, leaning back in my chair, watching the children scream as they run around the yard. Sometimes, that’s not a good thing. Summer days, drinking lemonade, playing hide and seek. Good interpretation. One might even say average. Fairly common. Frozen to my chair, my world shredding as my child was set aflame, trying desperately to extinguish the flames. That’s the version I went through last night.

You can piss off the wrong people. I know that seems pretty obvious. We see it all the time in the movies. Bad men who occupy a certain criminal element of an organized nature. You know, the mob. Anyway, you see the movies and TV shows, and you know what those guys will do. Ok, true, those guys are real. They are out there. But its hard to imagine that your life will ever meaningfully impact with individuals on that level. They seem semi-mythical, like celebrities or politicians. It was equally as difficult for me to imagine that my life would ever become entwined with the Mafia’s as it was for me to believe that I might one day meet Tom Cruise in a nightclub.

Sometimes, your life does cross over that line. You step away from the average, normal and expected, and into a world where car bombs destroyed lives, where angry lone sharks broke real legs. The problem was, and I guess still is, this: when your life crosses the line between the mundane and the cinematic, how the hell are you supposed to know? How can you possibly guess that today is the day your life becomes a made-for-TV movie?

I first met Otello Giovanni at my kid’s soccer game. That’s his real name. I should probably use a fake name instead of his real name, but fuck him. That’s his real fucking name. He’s in the yellow pages, call him up, tell him I said hi. What the fuck is he gonna do, kill me twice?

But I didn’t know any of that then. To me he was just another Italian guy I saw at our kids’ soccer games. Sure, ok, some of the parents do get out of hand, yes. We like to scream and yell, let our kids know we support them. Better than this pussy “no-yelling, no-score-keeping, everybody-gets-a-trophy” bullshit they got nowadays. Anyway, Otello was a bit too much, even for us. He slapped a ref once, knocked the guy down.

Next I saw Otello was years later at a fundraiser. My employer, a politician whose name I do wish to protect (fuck you Otello Giovanni of 1484 Windwillow Crescent), was speaking to Otello when I arrived. I didn’t know what the conversation was about, but there was obviously some kind of agreement reached, as they shook hands and then hugged. Otello left immediately afterwards.

Next we met, things were more private. I was at work, late at night. Burning the midnight oil, as well as any chance I could have of things like a normal family life. Anyway, I was leaving, and in the elevator going down. Doors open on 12, and this guy gets on. It takes me a few seconds, but then it dawns on me. Otello, I remember. I wonder if he is connected.

Then Otello starts talking. He tells me about how his uncle, who owns a construction company, is desperately in need of a good job. An honest labourer, he says, lain low by bad luck and circumstance. He then offhandedly mentioned that he had heard that I happened to head the committee that was in charge of bids for construction on a retirement center.

He then said that he would hate to see me miss an opportunity to give an honest man a new start on life. He mentioned that he thought I had a beautiful family, without saying how he knew about them. He said they deserved a chance at life too. Everybody does. He said he hoped that I made sure that everybody did. It might not sound very threatening now. In fact, as I read it back, I feel vaguely silly. But trust me, it was fucking terrifying at the time.

But I stood my ground. I don’t know why. Maybe I had ethics. Probably because I hadn’t realized that my life had become a movie. Or maybe I had. Maybe I thought that my life was a movie, but that I was the star. As the star, I could make mistakes or lose things I loved, but I would always survive, and would succeed in the end. If so, I would be ignoring the fact that for every star, there are a shitload of nobodies that die off early.

And if my life was a movie, it was my first one. The chances of me landing a lead in my first movie were pretty slim. The odds would seem to indicate that I had a bit part, at best. A minor walk-on, designed to illustrate just how evil Otello Giovanni was. Or for comic relief. Otello was most likely the villain, and the hero was some other guy. Someone like me, only better looking with a great agent.

The long and the short of it is, I refused to play ball. I awarded the contract to the lowest qualified bidder, as society expected me to do. As was my job. Otello wasn’t happy. He indicated his unhappiness to me in the form of a bomb. Placed in my gas barbecue. It was pretty well known that I loved to barbecue. All summer long, almost every night, as a matter of fact.

As luck, fate, or the director would have it, I was feeling particularly tired and lazy on the night after the bomb was planted. I carried the steaks out and put them on the cold barbecue (one of my secrets, by the way – start cold) before returning to the kitchen for a beer. On my way back, I sat down on the porch; daddy was too tired to cook.

Justin had turned seven just three days earlier. He asked me if he could start the steaks. He said he was almost a man, and men barbecued.

I said ok. It was a short, sweet, proud moment.

I wish I had awarded the contract differently.

Projects

2006-03-29T12:44:00.000-05:00

I love writing. Before I go much further, I want to make the following disclaimer: Ash does not think he is hot shit just because he is a writer. Ash is fully aware that he has nothing published (well, apart from one poem), and does not earn a living from writing. Ash is not pretentious. Ash is also fully aware of the irony that arises by writing in the third person to claim that he is not pretentious.

Ever since I have been a kid, I have wanted to write. I did write a fair bit as a teen, and have tried several times as an adult to get works published, but have met with little success. But I stick with it because I love the process. There is a thrill that comes when a good idea hits you. You just know the idea is good, inside, and that satisfaction is unlike anything else I have experienced.

So, if I'm unpublished, how can I claim to be a writer? There is a lot of debate about what makes a person a "writer". Some people say you have to be published. Others claim that being published is not enough - your works must be well read. However, some wise person (I can't remember who) was once asked what makes a person a writer. His reply was this: "Writers write". I.e. if you write, you are a writer. I like that definiton.

I have been pretty remiss in updating my blog as of late. I think its largely to do with the fact that I don't get a lot of time to sit down and write, so when I do I prefer to work on one of the several projects I have on the go right now. I'm currently working on a full-length motion picture (along with my friend Craig), a novel, as well as a couple of short films (again with Craig).

The full-length picture is a horror movie. It will require a pretty hefty budget, so after it's done we will be shopping around for a production company. Now the short films, thats another matter. We're likely going to be producing those ourselves, and I have to say, I am extremely excited about the idea. My belly button keeps puckering every time I think about it.

Of course, I have absolutely no idea how to actually produce and film a movie, so its going to be a hell of a learning experience. I've been doing some extensive reading on the subject, including advice on how to avoid the pit falls that threaten new producers. For example, I have learned that it is not a good idea to sleep with attractive female actresses. I can't claim that I would necessarily heed that advice, however.

So, the next few months should be fairly interesting. I've completed one script, pending reviews and alterations, naturally. I'm looking into storyboarding now, and am considering some software options to assist with that task. All I know is, it's going to be fun. Of course, six months from now, I will probably post a blog entry entitled "If I had Known Then...".

Bathtime News

2006-03-24T09:45:00.000-05:00

Apparently, some guy in Afghanistan is on trial for converting from Islam to Christianity. This now adds "religious freedom" to the list of things that are illegal in Afghanistan. Other activities which have been made illegal in Afghanistan include "poking Muslim clerics with sticks", "free thought" and "farting on elevators".

Evidently, a critical bug has been found in Internent Explorer, an Internet browswer which, up until now, has been very stable, offered much in the way of power and features, and has seen few problems. Oh, sorry, did I say "Internet Explorer"? I thought they were talking about Firefox.

Pope Benedict XVI created 15 new cardinals, praying that the red garments they now wear would inspire them to an even more "passionate love for Christ, for his church and for all humanity." Each robe costs approximately $2,300.00, and the hats run about $900.00 apiece. The pope made his announcement about "love for all humanity" from within his multi-billion dollar palatial home. The poor and hungry were not available for comment, as they were busy searching for food scraps in Vatican dumpsters.

The creators of South Park have killed off Chef, over problems which arose after Isaac Hayes (the voice of Chef) quit the show. He did so as a result of recent 'intolerance and bigotry towards religious beliefs' expressed by the show. Those religious beliefs being his own. Apparently, Hayes was not bothered by episodes that lampooned Christianity, Islam and Judaism. Fuck you, Isaac Hayes. Fuck you in your intolerant, brain-washed ass with a rolled-up copy of Dianetics.

Ayla

2006-03-23T13:42:00.000-05:00

Have I ever mentioned that I love my dog? I have been a life-long dog owner, and I have loved (platonically, for those sick bastards reading) each and every one. They have all been special in their own ways, and I remember each fondly, and miss them dearly.

Ayla, however ... well, she does tend to stand out. She is probably the smartest dogs I have ever owned, and learned most of her tricks in less than 15 minutes. Sit, shake, play dead, etc. were all learned very quickly. Some of that might have to do with the fact that I have learned from past dogs how to train, but mostly I think its because she is so smart.

Right from the start, I taught Ayla to come when she was called, and to stay near me when we go for walks. As a result, I don't need a leash when I take her out, because I know she will always obey my commands, and won't range too far.

She is such a gentle pup. The closest she has ever come to fighting with another dog occurred once at the leash-free park. Two dogs had started to fight, and Ayla ran straight for them. She ran in between them, using her body to keep them apart. She broke up the fight, all on her own. For her troubles, she got bitten in the face, and still has the scar. The bite was probably accidental, and was obtained as one dog was lunging for the other, and was blocked by Ayla.

Once when walking her in a park, she spotted a squirrel and ran off after it. She was so close to the squirrel that by the time I realized she was after it, she had already caught it. Being Ayla, she caught the squirrel and proceeded to lick it. The squirrel, naturally enough, responded by biting her tongue. Ayla doesn't lick squirrels anymore.

For those of my friends that visit Ayla and get tired of her licking, there is a lesson to be learned here. Next time she licks you, just bite her tongue. Oh sure, Ayla understands the command "no kissing", but as far as she is concerned, this is a time-sensitive command that lasts for a maximum of 35 seconds.

Ayla is addicted to licking, and loves nothing better than being allowed to lick someone's face. Ever since she was a puppy, she has been this way. It was really bad at first. One day I decided to just sit there and let Ayla lick my face for as long as she wanted, no matter how long it took. I gave up after 7 minutes and 35 seconds. I just couldn't take any more.

She actually taught herself the word "kiss" - I kid not. I had never used the word to her, and had never taken the time to teach her any words linked to licking. ONe day, I was sitting at my computer, and Ayla was lying on the floor. I looked at her and said "Give me a kiss". Immediatley, Ayla lept into my lap and started licking away. I was surprised, as I had thought I was going to teach her the word, but apparently she already knew it.

Ayla likes to sleep under the covers. She is the first dog I have ever had who prefers to sleep under blankets. Much to my surprise, my cat Crystal also likes to sleep under blankets. She is definitely the only cat I have ever met who likes this. The two of them do seem to be a lot alike in many ways, and get on famously. For example, the cat will allow Ayla to lick her to her heart's content, as long as Ayla is willing to be bitten.

Ayla is an amazing dog. I'm going away to Chicago soon, and my friends Peter and Bernie will be watching her for me. I really appreciate this, as I can go away without any worry, because I know they love Ayla, and will take care of her. Of course, Ayla adores them too! Also, they'll be taking her up to the cottage, which Ayla absolutely loves. Plenty of swimming, treats, cats to lick, and cuddling up under the blankets!

Weird

2006-03-21T22:40:00.000-05:00

Ok, I'm not making any value judgements here. I'm just presenting the following coincidences for your consideration.

I had been browsing websites for research for my novel. I was looking for instances of the word "God" on a web page. Hence, Screen Shot #1.
You will notice that the search box, down bottom right, naturally contains the word "God". I had been doing this searching hours ago, and later I came back to the computer to check my blog stats.

See that "Geovisitors" icon? Its a cool toy that lets you see a map of the world, with the physical locations of your site visitors shown on it. As per the next Screen Shot.As you can see, I randomly selected one of the visitors. I swear it was random. When you click one, it gives you the option "View in Google Earth". I decided to do so. Hence, the third and final Screen Shot.I saw this cross, and it made me feel pretty good.

Meditations of a Bus Taker

2006-03-21T16:32:00.000-05:00

No, I did not steal a bus. However, as I have been rendered - through a vicious trick of fate - carless, I have been taking advantage of public transportation over the last two weeks. Taking the bus is very different from driving.

First off, bus travel is far less stressful. The drive in to work on the highway would often leave me in a funk, contemplating various methods of revenge against idiot drivers. Most of these fantasies involved me wielding some form of weapon, such as rocket launchers, catapults, and low-yield nuclear devices.

The bus ride is calm and peaceful. I get to read, listen to music, and people watch. I really enjoy watching people, as you learn so much from observing habits, especially over successive days. I have identified several individuals, and know a bit about them, such as where they like to sit on the bus, whether they prefer to read or listen to music, and how they react to being stared at by total strangers.

The problem with the bus simply boils down to time. It takes about an hour and a half to get to work, and the same amount of time to return. 3 hours of my day taken up in transit. Now a car, that takes on average 20 minutes one way. So, even though cars cause me more stress and less entertainment, they also represent a significantly lower drain upon my most precious resource.

I like to sleep in, and I like to stay up late. Two of my favourite things, as a matter of fact. I have to go to bed at 11:00 at night now, and that makes me feel like I'm about 107. I also have to get up at 7:30 am (as opposed to 8:45 am when driving), and getting up that early makes me feel like peeling kittens.

So, I've decided that a car must enter my life sooner, as opposed to later. Now of course, armed with my rather encyclopedic knowledge of cars (if you define the word "encyclopedic" as: lacking any serious knowledge or common sense) I will be heading off to see what the automotive world has in store for me.

Coffee's Ready!

2006-03-16T12:44:00.000-05:00

Ah, ya gotta love breakthroughs.

I haven't been doing much active work on my novel over the last month or so. I had been writing a fair bit, but I got to a point where the stuff I was producing was ... well, crap. I tend to write in spurts - I spend weeks or months just thinking, sorting ideas and thoughts, allowing my creative juices to percolate. I never know when I will be ready to write, but when I am ready, I know it. Of course, this sometimes comes at inconvenient times (like in the middle of the night, or out at a restaurant), but when the time comes, I have to obey the urges.

By the same token, if I try to write when I am not ready, I produce crap. I had written a good 2,000 words of crap when I finally stopped trying to force myself to create, and took a break. Yesterday, I was sitting at work when suddenly ideas began to flood into my brain. I love these moments, because its almost like I'm just a passive observer, writing down ideas that come seemingly from no where.

Of course, thats not the case, they come from my own warped mind. Its a difficult process to describe, but it can't be forced. No amount of concentration on my part will make the words come out before their time. Instead, they need time to percolate, running through my subconscious. Eventually, I know, the ideas will suddenly coalesce, and I will be able to write again.

I could never write something on contract, under a deadline. I know if I did that it would be like a death sentence for me. As soon as I felt constrained, that I had to write, I know I would freeze up as the creative part of my mind rebelled against the idea of a timetable and schedules.

So, its back to work writing, as I gleefully cut the crap out of my novel, and get on with writing something I like.

Left Turn, Clyde

2006-03-13T12:52:00.000-05:00

Did I mention I'm stupid?

My car is dead, and I've been borrowing my mother's car to get back and forth from work. No, that's not the stupid part yet. My mother left on the weekend for a 2-week road trip, leaving me with no car. No worries, I thought, I'll take the bus. Sure, its about 2 hours each way, but hey, that's life.

I talked to some coworkers who had taken the bus before, and found out what busses I needed. I took the bus for the first time this morning. It was a pleasant ride. It was nice to be able to sit back and relax, enjoy the scenery, and not worry about highway traffic. Unfortunately, my iPod ran out of juice after 10 minutes because I forgot to charge it last night.

No, that's not the stupid part.

I watched the route carefully, and got off at the proper place - a large bus/train terminal in Burlington. All I had to do was get off the bus, and go west, then south.

I went east. Then North.

Yes, that was the stupid part.

Instead of a 10-minute walk to work, I hiked for over an hour. Not just on roads. No, sticking to the roads would have been smart. I decided to take a short cut. Through the woods. After all, there was a path, right? Good idea, right?

No, stupid idea.

The path was muddy and frequently washed out. Did I mention it was raining? Did I mention we have had unseasonably warm weather? Did I mention the spring run off? Well, I have now. At one point I had to backtrack, because the path - which by this time was paved - was actually flooded by a stream - sorry, raging river - which had overflowed its banks. There was no way the sad little culvert beneath the path could handle this volume of water. The river flowed over the path, and off the other side, leaving it completely under water.

Eventually, I got back to a road, which lead through a featureless, bleak and barren subdivision. Perhaps you are familiar with these places ... miles after miles of identical housing, without a single variety store or gas station to be seen. Just homes. Homes of people who don't want a wet, strange man knocking on their door.

Eventually I reached Burl-Oak road, which was quite a shock for me. After all, I was expecting it to be another road, miles away. At this time, I realized the full depths of my stupidity, and I despaired.

Even though I had my cell phone, I couldn't call a taxi. I didn't know any Burlington cab company phone numbers. So I walked, and walked, and walked. In the wet, cold rain. You may think its redundant to refer to rain as wet, but if you think back to any time in which you have been caught out in the wet, cold rain, you will remember the feelings, and excuse my apparent lapse.

Eventually I reached an Esso station (I actually walked 20 yards past the first gas station, a Petro Canada, because I HATE Petro Canada) where the guy behind the counter gave me the number of a local cab company. Well, at first, he said he didn't know, and then I pointed out that he was standing within arms reach of no fewer than three phone books. After he grabbed one of the phone books, then he gave me the number of a cab company.

I called the cab, and then waited for 15 minutes while a woman at the pay phone argued loudly with a gentleman named Mike. Apparently, she did so give the money to Julian, and if he's saying that she didn't, then he's a lying bitch, who never was no go anyway. Or some such.

I arrived at work, feeling about as shitty as I have in a long, long time, and suffering from a raging case of self pity. After about 10 minutes, I discovered that my supervisor Howard (a man I respect) had just left work. It seems he had to go drive his aging dog to the vet to have her put to sleep. Suddenly, being tired, wet and cranky didn't seem to matter to me much anymore.

Fun With Search Engines Reducks

2006-03-10T16:43:00.000-05:00

Once again, its time to play one of my favourite games. This is the game where I check out all the neat-o keen search phrases people use to find my website. Wheee!

Search Phrase: helen shapiro
Notes: Ha! Whoever was searching for information about Helen, he's sure to be in for a surprise when he reads in my blog that she created the universe.

Search Phrase: what does burke and hare
Notes: What does Burke and Hare what?

Search Phrase: COUSIN MARRIAGE IN CALIFORNIA
Notes: One can't help but wonder if this person was doing some general research, or was planning for his future?

Search Phrase: is red bull bad for your health
Notes: Sure, I have had some pretty nasty things to say about Red Bull; mostly to do with the fact that it is a "fad" drink, and about as enjoyable as being punched in the mouth by a cotton glove dipped in nutrasweet. However, its not bad for you, as long as you drink it in moderation, and avoid mixing with alcohol. Above all, if you possess working taste buds, avoid taking Red Bull internally.

Search Phrase: Can you marry your cousin in Georgia?
Notes: Hah! Looks like the guy from California found out he'd have to travel in order to get married.

Search Phrase: Tim Hortons is Evil
Notes: Sad, but true. It didn't usedta be evil, I swear. It was good, and honourable, and just. Now, its just a corporate bitch.

Search Phrase: car matience
Notes: I love this search, especially considering they spelled "maintenance" wrong. This is even worse when you realize it was a google search, and the first thing Google shows you when you make this search is the correct spelling.

Search Phrase: cousins fucking
Notes: Oh, for the love of God, can someone truly be so depraved as to get an extra thrill from hardcore porn if they think the participants are related? On the other hand, maybe its just the would-be cousin-wedder looking for pointers.

Search Phrase: asher
Notes: What?

Your Friendly Neighbourhood Spy

2006-03-09T12:38:00.000-05:00

I was writing a short story last night (this one) and I needed to do some research online. The Internet really is the writer's dream. No more annoying trips to the library. Research that would once take days now takes minutes. You can find out almost anything, on almost any topic, with just a few keystrokes.

In my story, the protagonist had played chess against IBM's supercomputer. I couldn't remember the name of this computer, so a quick Google search for "IBM Supercomputer" yielded the name. Next, I wanted to get a list of famous scientists, so of course I Googled it. Next, I wondered about the feasibility of concealing electronic equipment in a wooden case. So, off to Google with the search "concealing electronics in wood", followed with a quick search on airport security.

For my next Google search, I typed the words "Hello FBI/Homeland Security Agent. How are you?" because, lets face it, the odds are that my searches were registered and flagged. Sure, Google tries to keep this information private, because for some reason they still respect the individual's right to privacy. However, it turns out the government has other ways to get at this kind of information.

Back in 2002, the US Government initiated a massive data-mining project called "Total Information Awareness". The idea was to go around and gather as much information online as possible, sift through it using computers, and investigate possible security breaches. It was a neat little program, if one can overlook niggling issues such as the individual's right to privacy.

Once the public heard about it, the outcry was huge, so the government scrapped the program. Or so they claimed. What actually happened was more insidious. They shut down the program, packed up their computers and the data, and moved the program to a buried office inside the Defense Department. All done very secretly, of course. After all, you wouldn't want the American Public ... *ahem* ... I mean terrorists, to find out. That you were spying on them.

There currently are over 120 different federal data mining projects underway. There may be more, but we don't know. I am certain there are probably federally created malware and spyware projects that we don't even know about. Hell, look how long Sony got away with it.

So, naturally, the question is, is it ok for the government to spy on its people (and the people of other countries) and violate their constitutional rights to privacy, all in the name of combating terrorism? Well, I suppose you could make the argument that it is, if the program was at all effective. But according to media analysts, these programs generate an astronomical number of red herrings, which put an enormous drain on investigative resources. Time and effort that could be better spent pursuing more traditional avenues of investigation (that incidentally do not impact as greatly on our rights and freedoms).

It boils down to this: By using the threat of terrorist activity to justify invasions against the rights and privacy of its own citizens, the US has altered its own constitutional mandates. In effect, they have changed the nature of their own country from one that respects the rights of its citizens to one that constantly orders illegal wire taps, and uses other methods to spy on its own people.

This is the real tragedy. America has been forever altered, and is no longer the country it was prior to 9-11. Sadly, they have done nothing to combat the root causes of terrorism, and have instead focused internally. If the US government was serious about ending the threat of terrorism, they'd stop meddling in the affairs of dragons.

http://www.wired.com/news/columns/0,70357-0.html?tw=rss.index
http://techdirt.com/articles/20060309/0756236_F.shtml

Working Title

2006-03-08T22:30:00.000-05:00

The chess set was huge, worn, old, made of oak, or maybe beech. He was nowhere near an expert in wood types, a lapse for which he atoned by being an incredibly good chess player. He had played on everything from a crude, hand painted cross-section of log to a sophisticated glass and silicon interface designed to communicate with Deep Blue. He had won both games.

He picked the up the chess set, and tested its weight. It was solid, but its weight was not a burden. It felt good in his arms. The dark squares were the same wooden hue as the case, but the lights seemed to be a cleverly interwoven mother of pearl inlay, the seams so faint as to seem nonexistent. He pulled it open, its worn iron hinges squeaking slightly as it eased open.

Inside, the blood-red silk lining enfolded 32 pieces of individual perfection. Hand carved chess pieces, each so cunningly wrought as to be at once unique, still a part of a set. Of all the ideas over the past for chess pieces, ranging from army men to characters from The Lord of the Rings, of all these myriad ideas, this was the best, the most wonderful, the most right. The chess pieces were scientists.

They were there, beautifully carved: Pythagoras, Nietzsche, Einstein, facing off against Curie, Salk and Hawking. These famous thinkers, and others, completed the chess set.

“How much?” He asked as he casually placed the set on the front counter.

The young man behind the counter frowned, a twitch in his left lip causing his pencil thin moustache to jump and dance. He glanced down at the set, and then back at his customer, appraising the value of each. Numbers rose and fell in his mind as he tried to figure out exactly how much he would pay before walking away.

“Forty bucks,” he said finally.

“Done.” He counted out forty dollars on the counter as the young man lip twitched in disappointment.

Set up at home, the set completed his parlour. A front bedroom, converted at no small expense, into the ideal environment in which to sit and enjoy a game of chess. Mahogany bookshelves held worn and comfortable books, paperback and hardcover, each lovingly read. A large, hand-painted wooden globe, which stereotypically enough opened up into a mini-bar, set next to a glass display case containing statuary of various vintage movie monsters.

He stared at the set, slightly adjusting the overhead lamp so that the circumference of it’s light perfectly framed the chess set. Which side would he choose? White had its advantages, but black … well, black just looked good with his hair. He sat down behind the blacks, and gazed in awe and delight at the board. He closed his eyes, and then opened them again quickly at the sound of a faint scuttling?

Thoughts of mice fled as he watched one of white’s pawns slide forward two squares. He lifted the board, and tapped at it, listening for hollow thuds. He checked underneath, his fingers probing the felt lining. He carefully returned the board to the table, replacing the two or three pieces that had fallen. He was pretty sure this set was not electronic.

He examined the white pawn that had moved forward; it was Steven Hawking, complete with wheelchair. So incredibly well carved it still caught his breath. He returned it to the board, and sat down behind blacks once again. Hesitantly, he reached up, moving one of his pawns forward. A second later, a second white pawn slid into play. He brought up his knight, watching in amazement as - a moment later - white mimicked his move.

The game lasted 42 minutes. His opponent was good, but was locked into a fairly predictable pattern of offensive play. As the white king toppled, he sat back and tried to figure out just exactly what had happened.

“I’m telling you sir, it’s made of wood.”

“Yes, yes, I know that you imbecile, but inside, it contains circuits or some such, yes?” He was insistent.

“No, we’ve passed it through the x-ray detector twice. Its just wood, damn it.”

Sometimes it paid to have friends who worked for airport security. Chess players had friends from all walks of life, from doctors to pimps, from dressmakers to drug dealers. Even a few celebrities, friends of friends, that kind of thing. The point was, a chess player was always, first and foremost, a chess player. Everything else was just baggage.

He brought the set home, and returned it to its place. He set out the pieces, and again sat down behind black. He watched the table closely, carefully keeping his thoughts neutral. Concentrating on nothing more than his multiplication tables. He then stopped, and thought that it might be nice to play a game of chess. Wishing he had someone to play against.

A white pawn slid forward.

He played for hours, stretching on into days, grabbing the occasional short nap and ordering take out food when hunger consumed him, he placed chess, he played chess, and he played chess. Every time he wished it, an opponent would appear. Not physically, of course, but somehow a new opponent would move the white pieces against him. He had long ago given up any notion that the set was somehow computerized. The players were too fluid, too individual; these were no computers. These were living people. He always knew the difference, even when he played against Deep Blue.

After some time – perhaps two weeks – he decided to come up for air. He showered, and fell into bed, waking some 14 hours later. After another shower, he was ravenous, but fridge contained only a single jar of lidless mustard, which now seemed to contain a hard, brick-like substance, which held firm a long neglected butter knife. The sword in the stone, he thought as he dressed and headed out into the world.

In the café, he sipped slowly at his coffee as he spread the morning’s paper out in front of him. He hadn’t missed much, it seemed; certain scandals were waxing, others fading, some going strong. More of the same, not much had changed.

Near the back, sandwiched between an ad for shoes and an article on muffin tins, he saw it. The headline was shocking Freak Chess Deaths, it read. Forensic scientist Dr. Daniel Whitman released a somewhat surprising study today, which seems to indicate something of an epidemic.

“I came upon the data quiet by accident,” he spoke at an informal press conference. “I saw two similar cases cross my desk in the same week. The first was a suicide; some poor guy put a bullet in his eye, and was found sitting at a chessboard. He had been playing white, and white had clearly lost. I’m something of a chess buff myself, so that detail stuck with me.

“Then, about a week later, a woman was killed, stabbed in the back by an unknown assailant. She was found slumped over a chess set, playing white. Her body had knocked the pieces over, so nobody knew who had won her game. But it was strange. Two deaths, each sitting in front of a chess board, each playing white.”

Dr. Whitman decided then to search through recent records, and see if there had been any other deaths involving chessboards. “Computers are amazing things. Records nowadays can be queried instantly; searches take minutes instead of months. It was easy enough to create a search targeting the keywords I was interested in. I got about forty hits.

Of these forty, seven turned out to have something in common with the original two. In each case the involved the death of an individual who was seated in front of a chessboard, had been playing white, and had appeared to lose the game. And all nine of them had died within a two-week interval.

“Obviously, I was flabbergasted. Understand, I am not in any way suggesting that someone is somehow causing the deaths of chess players. The methods of death have ranged from murder to suicide, from heart attack to collapsing ceiling fan. No, these deaths were all different, apart from the fact that they happened in such startlingly similar ways.”

Dr. Whitman’s report is designed to show how sometimes life can behave in strange patterns.

He slumped back, his mind whirling, as he thought about the article. Nine people dead. He was stunned. He then realized that the people who had been mentioned had all died in the local area – people who lived no more than about a hundred miles from him. He started multiplying, dividing the country up into similar-sized chunks of land. Then the world.

His coffee fell to the floor as he rushed from his table, across a busy street to the Internet Café. He pulled out his timecard and fed it into an available slot as he navigated the web. He loaded Goggle and searched for “death chess board white”. He skimmed through entries for chess sets, chess web sites, offers to teach the reader to play chess, and came to rest on one entry. Doctor Notices Dying Chess masters.

He skimmed through several more pages of similar content, and had almost quit, when he saw an entry for some blog. The preview read “Somebody has it in for the chess players of Grand Rapids. In the past two weeks, four of my friends, all great chess players, have died…” He clicked this link, and read through the blog entry. Four chess players, each playing white when they died. One had an asthma attack; the next had died from alcohol poisoning. The last two were both heart attacks.

He returned to Google, and after another page, he found another link. Russian Chess master Missing. The article reported that a famed Russian chess master had failed to show up for a game against the Swede. He had been found dead in his dressing room, sitting down in front of a chessboard. He had been playing white, and he had obviously lost.

The article then went on to say that two other well-known Russian chess experts had died. Another was missing, and would not answer his pager.

He returned home, and made his way slowly to the chess room. He flicked on the overhead light, and looked down at the board. How was it even possible? How could he be killing people with a chessboard? He looked at the board, his eyes sliding from the white side to the black, and back again.

He approached his customary position behind black, and stopped. His gaze turned towards the opposite side of table. Why not? He thought. It's not like it could really matter. He sat down behind the whites.

Slowly, he slid his pawn into play. After a moment, a black pawn thrust forward in challenge. The game was intense and sharp, right from the start. His opponent was shrewd, making short, calculated advances and punishing any errors on his part with cruel efficiency. Already, Jane Goodall and Sir Isaac Asimov had been taken, and things weren’t looking very good for Darwin.

Before long, he knew he had lost. Da Vinci was backed into a corner, protected only by Galileo and Max Planck. Planck fell quickly to Sagan’s cruel sword, and Galileo was too far away to help. Da Vinci was in checkmate. He heard the soft fall of a footstep behind him, and closed his eyes softly. He sighed as the bullet ended the game.

Now THAT's Power

2006-03-06T17:02:00.000-05:00

"The Republican lawyer shot by Dick Cheney in a hunting accident in Texas last weekend has emerged from hospital and apologised to the US Vice-President for all the trouble the shooting caused."

Holy fuck. That's power, folks. Imagine being so fearsome that you could shoot a lawyer in the face and have him apologize to you. I mean, not only was Whittington shot in the face by Cheney, the traveling shot actually triggered a minor heart attack. Which, naturally, caused Wittington no end of soft, tender feelings towards Dick.

I mean hell, I don't care who shoots me in the face, and how accidental it might be: I'm still going to have some anger to deal with. "Sure, accidents happen," I'd say angrily, "but dude, you shot me in the FUCKING FACE!"

Of course, I might be more inclined to keep my mouth shut if the guy who shot me could have me killed. And lets face it, if Whittington spoke out against Cheney, the rest of their Republican buddies might stop liking Harry. As might the CIA.

Hell, the press made a bigger deal out of Clinton shooting Lewinski in the face, and she wanted him too!

As an aside, the article goes on to say "Mr Whittington, whose face was still bruised but otherwise appeared healthy..." Now, I don't know about you, but even with the bruises removed, I think one of the last adjectives I would use to describe Harry's face would be "healthy". "Vulpine", "mottled" and "scary" all come to mind long before "healthy".

So, the moral of the story is clear. If you want to be able to shoot lawyers in the face with impunity - and hell, who doesn't? - then go into politics.

Meh

2006-03-03T15:26:00.000-05:00

The more I learn of the world, the more I despair.

This planet is a pretty place, and as a species, we've been shitting on it for thousands of years. Worse still, we complain about other people's shit while expecting other people to clean up our shit. In the end, shit does flow downhill, and the meek shall inherit the cesspool.

Political ideals are corrupted by greed and turned into politics. Politicians, far from serving the needs of the people, exist solely to line their own pockets, funneling as much wealth as possible into offshore accounts. Any politician with the desire to truly serve the masses is either corrupted by the system or consumed by it. Politicians make themselves rich, and they make each other rich. Occasionally they throw one of their own to the lions of the court and the jackals of the media, in order to satisfy the occasional rumblings of outrage from the video-stupified masses.

In this world, you either take an active role in this process, or you are victimized by it. To hell with "dog eat dog", our society is actually based upon the concept of "fuck or be raped".

Yeah, I know, not a very funny post. But sometimes, I am forced to remember that the world really isn't a very funny place.

How to Choose a Cat

2006-03-01T12:29:00.000-05:00

My Favourite Bathtime Gurgles is proud to announce the first in a series of helpful "How to" guides.

Many people love cats, for reasons that still remain mysterious. Science has proven that cats are the physical manifestation of demons upon this Earthly plane, and are responsible for such activities as demonic possession, night terrors, and the creation of Reality TV shows.

Still, cat ownership flourishes. If you absolutely must buy a cat, here are some helpful hints on how to go about doing so.

1. Make sure that the establishment will allow you to handle the cat in question before taking it home. Many times, pet stores try to dispose of dead animals by hiding them inside the body of a live cat. A friend of mine once took home a cat, only to discover later (after the warranty had run out, of course!) that it contained the corpses of a gerbile, three guinea pigs, and no fewer than 106 hamsters.

2. Choose an animal that looks healthy. While it might be cute to watch a constant trail of mucus dripping out of a cat's nose, chances are the cuteness will fade after you are forced to constantly shampoo cat-snot out of your carpet.

3. Pick a cat you like. Many times, people make the mistake of choosing a cat with radically different political views, thinking that it will be fun to have debates, and talk politics with the cat. After awhile though, this thrill wears off. Cats tend to mock those who hold differing ideaological values, and will often crap in their shoes.

4. Reject the animal if he or she attempts to scratch or bite you, or hisses. This means the cat is likely a terrorist, or perhaps is infected with AIDS.

5. Run through the following check list to make sure your potential kitty measures up:

Eyes - there should be two.

Nose - check for white powdery residue around the nose. Many of today's cats are addicted to cocaine.

Ears - The ears should be free of piercings. Cats with ear-piercings are 205% more likely to steal your car than cats with unpierced ears.

Fur - The cat's fur should be clean, and free of bugs. Pet stores often bug the cats they sell in the hopes of overhearing something incriminating, and then blackmailing you.

Anus - Why would you want to check out your cat's ass? Pervert.

If you follow these helpfull hints, you and your cat will be sure to have a long and happy life together.

Cheaper by the Cousin

2006-02-28T17:20:00.000-05:00

Apparently, some people want to marry their cousins. We're not talking distant cousins here, but rather, those close family members who happen to be the children of your parent's siblings. You know, cousins. Quite frankly, the whole "cousin" thing kind of pisses me off, come to think of it. We have second cousins, cousins once and twice removed, and even more bizarre relationships.

For example, the drummer for Cream is apparantely my second cousin, once removed. At least he is according to one of my great aunts. Who never lies. At least, she has never once lied to me on the one visit we had together. My dad took me to visit her, despite my obvious lack of interest. I was seven years old, and I had never seen this woman before. Who the hell was "Aunt" Ruby? Why had I never seen her before? It all sounded shady to me. I was forced to meet her, we left, and I never saw her again.

But I digress.

Why do we have all these bizare cousin categories? Nobody has a second brother, twice removed. As far as I am concerned in the cousin cateogry, there are only two kinds: cousins, and people I am not related to. If someone has to involve more than three family relationships in order to explain how I am related to someone, then as far as I am concerned, I'm not really related to them ("Jeffery? You know Jeffery! He's Sally's husband's sister's cousin on Grandma's side." Yeah, whatever. Jeffery is a fucking stranger).

Ok, so I'm still digressing (I think perhaps I should change the name of my blog to "Digress-i Junior High". Aha. Ha. Ha. Ah yes, good times).

So, some people apparently want to marry their cousins. Now, I had always assumed that this particular act was illegal, unless you were Jerry Lee Lewis. Sure, he married his cousin (who was 14 at the time), but that was back in the olden days, when marrying cousins was probably cool or something. Maybe it was a fad. They used to do some pretty stupid things in the olden days, like build castles, burn witches, and vote Republican. The marriage also took place in the South where, to be honest, the idea of inter-cousin-breeding quite frankly seems to explain a whole lot.

So evidently, marriage amongst first cousins is not illegal in the United States. At least, not in all 50 states. If you would like to marry your cousin, you can do so legally in: Alabama, Alaska, California, Colorado, Conneticut, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Maryland, Massachusetts, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, Rhode Ilsand, South Carolina, Tennessee, Texas, Vermont and Virgina.

That's a lot of hot cousin-on-cousin action.

But what about those poor people who don't live in one of these states, and still want desperately to marry their cousins? Well, maybe not desperately enough to travel to another state, but what about them? Luckily, there are still options. Arizona, Illinois, Indiana and Wisconsin will allow cousins to marry, provided you promise - cross your heart and hope to die - not to have kids. Because if you can't trust a cousin-fucker, who can you trust?

Maine stands alone in that it will allow cousins to marry, but only if they undergo "Genetic counseling" first. Apparently, with counseling, you can talk your genes into rearranging themselves sufficiently to eliminate your risk of producing a child that would end up ringing the bells at Notre Dame (or, alternatively, being adopted into the Bush family and becoming president).

Its nice to see the US has such a liberal attitude towards cousin-fucking (come on, lets face it ... once they're married, you know those cousins are going to fuck). Its good to see them spearheading the rights of cousins to breed, and to produce babies with extra toes, fingers, and noses. It's heart-warming to see the US finally taking a hard stand on human rights issues, and allowing cousins to marry.

Unless of course they're of the same gender.

The Spirit of Burke and Hare

2006-02-24T12:38:00.000-05:00

Burke and Hare. For those unfamiliar with these gentlemen's works, "William Burke and William Hare were a unique pair of criminals who made a profit from providing dead bodies to the anatomy students of 19th century Edinburgh" (you can read more about them here).

Now, I can't really claim to be a fan of the body-theft industry. However, I do understand that, during the 19th century, there was a need for cadavers. Without the work done then, much of what we know about anatomy would have taken much longer to discover.

The body-theft industry pretty much died out in the mid-twentieth century, but apparently, the body-part theft industry is still alive and strong.

Believe it or not, four men have recently been charged with "...illegally harvesting and selling tissue from 1,077 dead people in the past four years". Now, while I find this reprehensible, I can't also help but find it funny. What makes a bizarre case even more interesting is that some of the body parts in question may have come from British broadcaster Alistair Cooke. Yes, that's right. The Masterpiece Theatre guy.

As a kid, I hated Alistair Cooke. Masterpiece Theatre was definitely too high-brow for me at the time, and it always seemed to be on instead of Monty Python (the only reason I ever watched PBS as a child). So, even though I have nothing against the man as an adult, my long-held childish dislike for the man has now, finally, been quenched.

"Unnamed Designer" Steps Forward

2006-02-21T10:13:00.000-05:00

San Francisco (Reuters) - In a move that shocked the scientific community today, Intelligent Design's "unnamed designer" stepped forward to identify herself. Helen Shapiro, aged 46,736,225,654 today admitted to creating the universe and guiding the process of evolution "just to piss off her husband".

According to Mrs. Shapiro, she had become tired of nagging her husgand, JHVH Shapiro, to do certain chores around the house, such as putting out the garbage and creating the universe. Apparently, JHVH was of the impression that, left to its own devices, the universe would eventually create itself. Mrs. Shapiro disagreed, and set about to do the job herself.

"It's been a lot of hard work," said Mrs. Shapiro at a crowded press conference, "but it's been a lot of fun too. The Big Bang was really loud. We had some friends over to barbeque and watch it. Of course, barbecues are one of the few times that that lazy bugger JHVH pulls His weight."

Mrs. Shapiro answered questions adroitly, whether they were placed by the press or by gathered scientists from all fields. Some of the many questions answered and asked by the crowd were:

Question: Which came first, the chicken or the egg?

Answer: The egg, obviously. As creatures were evolving, the biggest steps of evolution came from parent to child. Once, there was a bird that was almost, but not exactly, like a chicken (although it still tasted like chicken). A little nudge, mutation wise, in the genes, and the next egg laid contained a chicken, instead of an almost-but-not-quite-a-chicken.

Question: Is it morally acceptable to kill in God's name?

Answer: [ed. This question was met by stoney silence and a disapproving glare, which stretched on for a few minutes.] Next question.

Question: How many roads must a man walk down?

Answer: What kind of question is that? It doesn't even make sense! In order to what? What's the man's goal when walking down the road? If the man's goal is to get to the store, and there is a store on the same street he lives in, the answer is one. One road. New rule, no more questions from Bob Dylan songs. [ed. Half the raised hands in the room came down at this point.]

Question: Which is the one true religion?

Answer: Scientology. Hah, kidding. There is no one "true" religion. Anyone who says otherwise is selling you something.

Question: Should we be teaching evolution to our school children?

Answer: Absolutely. Think this through. If you've accepted that some divine being has chosen to create the universe, and you've accepted the idea that evolution is a real thing, you should be studying evolution. If a divine being has chosen this method, you should study it, learn what you can from it, and see where that takes you. This whole "intelligent design" thing is silly. Why waste your time searching for the man behind the curtain?

Mrs. Shapiro ended her press conference early, as she had a pie in the oven. JHVH, as ususal, was unavailable for comment.

The Theory of Unintelligent Design

2006-02-20T15:13:00.000-05:00

Quite a bit has been said about the movement to discredit the theory of evolution. The people behind this movement are mostly inbred, mouth-breathing, cretinous toads with all the wit and sophistication of a lactating marmoset, but then again, they do have their bad sides. Apparently, they think the the theory of evolution - which is based on science - should not be taught in schools, alongside other silly subjects such as, one would assume, science.

Instead, kids should be taught that "somebody" (the ID people won't say who, but its probably God, ET, or Dr. Who) instead designed all life on earth from scratch. This idea is, of course, based on religious idealogy. As has been said before, ad infinitum, ad nauseum, science is for schools, and religion is for church. As Mahatma Ghandi so delicately put it: "People who support the teaching of Intelligent Design in schools are stupid motherfuckers". Ok, it might not have been Ghandi, it might have been my buddy Dave.

Assuming that the ID folks will eventually be successful (thanks, in part, to combined religious ferver and increased aluminum content in their drinking water) in their goals, I would also like to point out an alternative to another currently accepted scientific standard.

The "Theory" of Relativity

You know, the theory written by that Einsten quack. Seriously, how can you give that guy any credit when he obviously got his hair cut at Superclips? Anyway, the theory is boiled down to the famed equation, E=MC2. It's a very complex theory, with twins aging at different rates, and gravity being the same thing as acceleration, and all that crap. It also makes for some way cool bombs.

Now, let's replace this cumbersome, tired old "theory" with a new theory: The Theory of Intelligent Annoyance. Under this theory, instead of nucelear bombs exploding because of complex scientific principals, we instead assume that they go off because an Unamed Architect gets angry when Uranium is messed around with, and causes it to blow up through a liberal sprinkling of special "anger-juice".

Lets start protesting and lobbying people! Lets get the Theory of Intelligent Annoyance forced into our schools. After all, if you deny God, he might just load up a super soaker with some anger juice, and come after you.

Other Changes

Microwave Ovens: Microwave ovens heat food, not because of microwaves, but because of tiny, invisible angels with blowtorches. They should be referred to from now on as Angel-torch Ovens.

DVD Players: Forget all that circuitry and science crap! DVDs are actually condensed soul juice. You see, when someone dies, their soul can be captured, pressed, and made into a DVD (which actually stands for Deceased Video Dispatch). When placed in a DVD player, you can then observe selected moments of the lives of the deceased, and people he or she may have known. These moments can be observed on any household Talky God Picture Viewer (TgpV).

Un-Cheney My Heart

2006-02-17T13:05:00.000-05:00

Further information in the Dick/Harry shooting spree has come to light. I have managed (through cunning, stealth, and invention) to create ... I mean, obtain ... a copy of the official sheriff's report regarding the shooting.

KENEDY COUNTY SHERRIF’S DEPARTMENT

TX XXXXX INCIDENT REPORT

02/11/2006 NUMBER: XXXXX

REPORT DATE: 02/15/2006 - ORI: FSXXXXX

LOCATION: ARMSTRONG - RANCHZONE: ARMSTRONG

At approximately 18:30 hours on Saturday, February 11, 2006, Kenedy County Sheriff XXXXX XXXXX contacted me, Chief Deputy XXXXX XXXXX. The phone call was in reference to a hunting accident that occurred on the Armstrong Ranch.

On Sunday, February 12, 2006, I arrived at the rear gate of the Armstrong Ranch, and was met by Secret Service Agents. The agents inspected my vehicle, clothing, and anal cavity, and then accompanied me to the main house. At the main house, I was met by Vice President Cheney, who proceeded to shoot me in the foot with a pellet gun. I complained at this treatment, and was referred to by the Vice President as a “whiney pussy-baby”.

Mr. Cheney accompanied me inside, and told me he was there to cooperate any way he could with the interview. He then pointed to a piece of paper, where someone had written the following: “If you charge the Vice President with any crime, your wife will be sent to Gitmo at Guantanamo Bay”. Mr. Cheney then laughed, and said, “Just kidding. Not really.” He then proceeded to shoot me in the foot with a pellet gun.

Mr. Cheney then informed me that at approximately 5:30 pm on the day of question, he and Mr. Harry Whittington were out hunting when their dogs indicated that they had located a covey of quail. He said that he took aim at the quail when Mr. Whittington inadvertently walked in front of his shotgun. He yelled out “Get down, Harry” but said that Mr. Whittington refused to reply. This happened several times in a row, prompting Mr. Cheney to “Bust a cap in Harry’s annoying ass because he kept getting in the way”.

After this, Mr. Cheney then began to laugh loudly, and said “No, no, kidding. Hah. Really what happened was, Harry has magnetic plates in his head that attracted the shot. I mean, no, he’s a terrorist. I mean, no, wait, no, yeah, he snuck up on me. Like a dirty terrorist. I mean no, he snuck up on me real quiet like.” He then proceeded to shoot me in the foot with a pellet gun.

I ruled that no crime had been committed.

STATUS: CLOSED

STATUS DATE: 02/15/2006

Deadly Danish (or "How I Learned to Quit Worrying and Love Cartoons")

2006-02-16T11:16:00.000-05:00

Step back folks, I've got my rantin' hat on.

Ok, you've all heard about them. If you're at all curious, you've seen them. Danish cartoons depicting the prophet Mohammed wearing a bomb-shaped turban. The insinuation being, apparently, that Mohammed was a terrorist. I'd like to say a few words about this.

First off, the idiot who drew this cartoon is a jerk. No question. The moron who decided to print this cartoon in a newspaper was also a jerk. Even then, the cartoon was printed almost a year ago, and the backlash was limited largely to Denmark. But then, some jackass in Germany decided to reprint the cartoon, and that's what sparked the world-wide controversy.

Was the cartoon tasteles? Yes. Was the cartoon idiotic? Yes. Is the cartoon considered offensive by a large number of Muslims? Obviously, yes. So now, everybody and his brother has jumped n the bandwagon to condemn the people responsible. They have been labled racists, bigots, hate-mongers, and worse.

Get the fuck over it.

Guess what? This the price we pay to have free fucking speech. Free speech means exactly that - free. Its a simple word, and one we should all be able to understand by now. Free speech would be easy if no one ever said anything that anyone else disagreed with or found offensive. But this isn't a butterfly and lollipop world filled with universal friendship and love. Its a real world, filled with hard opinions and ideas. Some of these opinions and ideas are anathema to one another, and as such stating these opinions publically tend to piss some people off. Its a sad fact of reality, but it is a fact.

Has anyone else noticed the irony here? Let me illustrate through an anecodote. When I was in high school, my grandfather came to me and said "You're so smart, tell me what 'belligerent' means". I told him that it meant "War-like, prone to violence or confrontation". I asked him why he was interested, and he told me what had happened. Apparently, a guy at work had called my grandfather belligerent. So my grandfather punched him.

My grandfather realized the irony of punching a man who accuses you of being prone to violence.

So now, we have a cartoon depicting Muslims as violent. Their response? Death threats, bomb threats, and actual deaths. People have been killed in protests, including a 7 year old boy. One has to wonder, do the idiots responsible realize the irony of threatening terrorist activities against someone for drawing a cartoon that depicts them as terrorists?

People are dying because of a cartoon. Fuck me sideways. How fucking stupid are we as a species when we start killing each other over a cartoon? Even the phrase "Anti-cartoon protest" sounds idiotic. What's next? The Care Bear Million Man March? How about a sit-in to protest Fred Flinstone's misogynistic treatment of his wife Wilma?

Yes, the cartoons were blasphemous. But when is the world going to start to understand that you can't kill someone for insulting your deity? Its wrong. Hell, if I popped a cap in someone's ass every time they blasphemed against God, I'd be surrounded by corpses.

In a perfect world, we would all be respectful, and never ever do anything that anyone else found offensive. In this perfect world, bunnies and wolves would frolic together, nobody would ever swear, and no one would ever kill someone because of their religious or political beliefs.

But its not a perfect world.

Fun with Dick and Pain

2006-02-15T12:05:00.000-05:00

As you have probably already heard, Dick Cheney "accidentally" shot his buddy Harry Whittington in the face and neck. On a hunting trip. With a shot gun. Cheney claims it was an accident, and for his part, Harry has confirmed this by tapping out his statement on his Blackberry, which, thank God, was unharmed in the incident.

Sources close to the Vice President confirm that the incident was not an accident. According to White House insiders (who, to be fair, are largely fictional), Mr. Cheney shot his friend deliberately, because he was sick and tired of President Bush and other Washington dignataries referring to the duo as "Harry Dick".

It seems that whenever Mr. Bush introduced Mr. Cheney and Mr. Whittington to his friends, family, foreign diplomats, or Saudi money launderers, he would say "I'd like to introduce my friend Harry Dick". He would constantly refer to the two of them as a unit, and even went so far as to send out inter-office memos with the name "Harry Dick" included on the TO line.

According to the lady at the Whitehouse coffee shop, Mr. Bush was heard to say: "I'm gonna throw a party. A big party. A big party, boy. So big, it'll be a ball. Everyone will have a ball at the ball. Even Harry Dick. Ha, get it? Harry Dick at the ball!"

For Cheney, the last straw came when Mr. Bush had 40,000 bumper stickers printed up, which read "Nothing I like better than Harry Dick". Mr. Cheney's wife, Pussy Cheney, reported to her friends that Dick had been watching "The Deer Hunter" over and over the night before the incident.

Further evidence came to light when doctors admitted that each and every piece of shot extracted from Whittington's body was carved with a tiny carricature of Whittington himself. "The detail is incredible," said Mount Sinai's chief of surgery, Doctor Cox. "Underneath a microscope, you can even see that Mr. Whittington is waving."

The FBI has refused to investigate my allegations, noting that they are "spurious" and "motivated entirely by the infantile desire to make juvenile penis jokes". Stupid fuckers.

Happy Valentine's Day

2006-02-14T14:26:00.000-05:00

Make your own hearts here.
Thanks to the Velvet Blog for the link.

Yet Another New Blog

2006-02-13T19:20:00.001-05:00

Occasionally I like to post essays and thoughts on the nature of improv performance. This blog really didn't seem like the right place to do this, so it occurred to me that I should create a specialized improv blog.

Then I thought, hey, why not invite some other improvisors over to contribute to this new blog? Then it turns out, my friend Laura had the same idea.

So we created Improv Notation. If you're interested in improv or stage craft, make sure you check it out.

If you're more interested in reading my rantings, just hang around here until I make a new post. Try pressing refresh now to see if I've made a new post while you were reading this one. No? Press refresh again.

Top Seven Failed Slogans for Barqs

2006-02-11T23:36:00.000-05:00

7. Barqs has bugs.
6. Barqs has breasts.
5. Barqs has boogers.
4. Barqs has large intestinal worms.
3. Barqs has a bitter, crappy taste.
2. Barqs sucks.
1. Barqs has bait.

They Shoot Bushes, Don't They?

2006-02-09T11:50:00.000-05:00

Bush is a fucktard. Let's face it, the man has the IQ of potato-salad, the ethics of a genetically bred shark/used-car salesmen hybrid, and all the appeal of an intestinal cyst. And yet, he is the US president. All hail the power of money. If the word "bush" wasn't already a slang-term for cunt, it would be after Dubya.

Bush is against global-warming. Not the actual global warming, but rather, the idea of global warming. Bush tells us that global warming is not real. Bush tells us we have nothing to worry about in regards to global warming. Bush is rich because his family makes insane fortunes selling oil.

Scientists tell us that global warming is a real possibility. Scientists tell us there is plenty to fear about global warming. Scientists tell us that the burning of fossil fuels - aka, oil - is one of the primary causes of global warming.

So, to encapsulate.

The more oil we burn, the more global warming increases.
The more oil we burn, the richer George W. Bush becomes.
Does anybody else see a conflict of fucking interest here?

And now, a fairy tale.

Once upon a time, there was a man named George Deutsch. George Deutsch did a lot of hard work on George W. Bush's 2004 election campaign. As a reward, Mr. Deutsch (who's name, I believe, is Dutch for "douchebag") was given a nice job at NASA, working in the press office.

Its ok though, its not like he was unqualified for the job. After all, he was awarded a journalism degree from Texas A&M University. So obviously he could do the job. Its not like Bush would give a job to a buddy if he couldn't do it. *cough*

Once in place at NASA, Mr. Douchebag was "...linked to a campaign to stifle discussion by space agency scientists on global warming".

Hmm. Seems that Mr. Douchebag was trying to get the scientists - who believe that global warming is a problem - to shut the fuck up about it. One cannot help wonder why he would do such at thing. Of course, the guy who gave him his job doesn't want people to talk about global warming (for reasons that remain mysterious, but might be financially related). And here, conincdentally, we have Mr. Douchebag furthering that agenda.

Now, some people - who might be less charitable than I am - might intimate that Mr. Douchebag was nothing more than a presidential plant, meant to support and advance the president's political agendas in a body that, by its very nature, should be apolitical. But I am inclined to be more understanding. Maybe Mr. Douchebag is just a fucking idiot.

Mr. Douchebag was also linked to an order instructing NASA's website to remove a posting mentioning that 2005 was the warmest year on record. Sure, such information might be interpreted as evidence of global warming. But to be fair to Mr. Douchebag, there could be alternate explanations. Perhaps, despite their fathers' dire warnings, the nation's children had been leaving the front door open, and thereby "heating the entire neighbourhood". It could happen.

The New York Times quoted a Nasa source as saying his involvement was part of "...an intensifying effort at the agency to exert political control over the flow of public information. The effort antagonised Nasa's most senior scientists, and last week prompted Michael Griffin, the agency's administrator, to offer a review of information policy, and a renewed commitment to 'scientific openness'."

One day, Texas A&M University came forward and said that Mr. Douchebag did not in fact have a degree in journalism. It seems that he lied on his resume. Just like the guy who ran FEMA into the ground. A man who, by the way, was given his job by - you guessed it - Bush.

But I'm sure that's just a coincidence.

So Mr. Douchebag resigned.

And they all lived happily ever after.

So, let's boil all this down to its simplest elements.

- Bush makes money from oil

- Burning oil may contribute to global warming

- Global warming, if real, is bad

- Bush doesn't want people to talk about global warming

- Bush gives jobs to unqualified people, so long as they further his agenda

How fucking stupid are we? How can this horseshit continue, time and time again, while we sit back and do nothing? Why is it Clinton undergoes an insanely long trial over oral sex and a cum-stained dress, while Bush can continue to behave in this criminal fashion without any official action?

Are we seriously so fucked up a society that we care more about presidential adultery than we do about graft, theft, and overt lies? Why do we care more about Monica's mouthful than we do about Bush's "...politically motivated campaign to stop scientists from speaking publicly on global warming or giving interviews to the media"?

Its about time we woke the fuck up, people. The wet dream has given way to a nightmare.

Cargo Boom

2006-02-07T12:58:00.000-05:00

My car went boom.

Well, ok, not so much "boom" as "hiss", but still, its pretty bad. Before I continue, I would like to make the following disclaimer:

* ASH KNOWS NOTHING ABOUT CARS. THIS IS NOT HIS FAULT, BECAUSE NOBODY EVER TAUGHT HIM ANYTHING ABOUT CARS. ANY BAD DECISIONS ASH MAKES REGARDING CARS SHOULD BE BLAMED ON HIS FATHER. *

I'm pretty sure I killed my car myself. Not deliberately mind you, because I like my car. Ok, sure, its dented and rusty, but its fairly sleek, it has balls, and it gets me places fast. Last week, it was overheating, and I didn't know why. I checked my oil levels, and the oil was completely dry. So I added some oil. 5 litres of oil, to be precise. Apparently - as I have now learned - adding too much oil is a very, very bad thing.

And the car was still overheating.

So I checked my rad fluid levels, and they seemed ok. Just to be safe, I topped off my overflow resevoir, and hoped against hope that this would solve the problem. But it didn't. Now, not only was my car overheating, it was farting out huge clouds of noxious fumes, much like my Uncle Frankie the day after eating chili. Now, bear in mind, all this work I was doing on my car was probably the equivalent of asking a drooling twit to perform open heart surgery using only a steak-knife and a copy of the Coles Notes (Cliff Notes for you Americans) version of Grey's Anatomy.

Yesterday, on the highway, the car started to smoke. From under the hood. Tapping my vast knowledge about all things automotive, I assumed that this was a bad thing. I pulled over when I could, and watched helplessly as smoke poured out of my car. I wondered briefly if it was going to catch fire, but decided not to hang around and watch. I left my car, and walked to work.

So today, I called my mechanic and he sent out a tow truck. The truck has come, and taken my car away. I'm now waiting to find out the verdict: how much it will cost me remains to be seen.

My mechanic warned me that it might just be time to scrap the car. I believe he used the phrase "put it out of its misery".

UPDATE

My car is dead. In lieu of flowers, please send me money.

Superbowl Hiss Story

2006-02-06T15:10:00.000-05:00

I can't claim to be a football fan. I don't dislike the sport or anything; in fact, I have been trying to cultivate an interest in the game. For the past year and a half, I have been watching the occasional game, and have even learned a bit about the sport. This year, I decided I was going to watch the Super Bowl, having missed my opportunity the year before (I had to work).

Now, I have never actually watched a Super Bowl before in my life, so I was looking forward to this as a new experience. My friend Gary had just recently come into a new (to him) big-screen TV, and he was planning on watching the game at home. His wife Laura had promised to head out for the day, bringing the boy (Daxon) with her, freeing the house for uninterrupted Super Bowl watching.

During half-time, we were watching the Rolling Stones (who, by the way, wimped out like they did on Sullivan, caving to the NFL's pressure to modify their lyrics ... but what can you expect from Rolling Stones Incorporated?) when the phone rang. It was Laura, who wanted to come home. We were a little surprised, and mentioned that perhaps she didn't fully understand the phrase "uninterrupted Super Bowl Watching". I volunteered to go pick her up, as Gary had been drinking.

I headed out, and picked Laura and her son up, and was driving back when I decided to check out the game on the radio. As I was listening, Laura started to tell me a story about something that had happened at karaoke, when my attention was grabbed by the game announcer. Somebody had the ball, and was running ... past the 20, 30, 50, 70 ... touchdown! According to the announcer, it was the longest run from the line of scrimmage in Super Bowl history.

And I missed it.

I like Laura, and the last thing I would want to do is hurt her feelings (ok, in reality, the last thing I want to do is saw of my testicles with a bread knife), so I remained silent. While a part of me was a little disappointed at not being there to see the play, it wasn't like a huge deal in my life. We drove quietly for a few moments, when I heard Laura speak.

"Are you upset with me?"

Like I said earlier, I didn't want to hurt Laura's feelings, but I did want to have a little fun with her.

"I ain't sayin' nothin'," I said oxymoronically. I was going to let her twist for a few moments, but it became obvious that we both knew how I felt, and that while mildly disapointed, it was no big deal. We both laughed.

"Besides, if it had been Gary, he would have killed you." Gary is a huge sports fan. "And after he returned home, I would have mocked him severely, so perhaps this is for the best."

We both had a laugh out of it, and Gary was actually nice enough not to mock me when we get back.

The Stereotypical Hobson's Choice

2006-02-04T02:13:00.000-05:00

Tired and cramped. Stressed. In need of nothing so much as a good blowjob, a good meal and true love. Friday night meant relaxation; a chance to slip the grind and to live briefly as if he were free. Vincent started the bath, pouring a measure of luminescent pearl liquid from a glass decanter into the frothing waters. He stood, swaying suddenly at the head rush. A recently smoked fattie (really meant for two to share, if he cared to admit it) had taken firm effect.

Vincent briefly swayed to the sounds coming from his stereo, the low subwoofer beat driving through him like soft butter spikes. In the Arms of an Angel, from the simply astounding Sarah McLachlan, wove waves over him as he walked to the counter. Lighter in hand, he lit several strategically placed, finely yet subconsciously balanced, candles. A generous portion of liquid potpourri quickly filled the air with the subtle yet heady scent of an unidentified flower.

A gesture and a nod was enough, and his dog Storm (a pedigree boxer) lay down on the bath mat, and looked up at him with soft eyes. While to some, a dog would be considered a pet, to Victor, his dog was a family member, as loved as any brother or cousin. He suspected that, were he ever to be lucky enough to find out, he might love a son or daughter more than his dog, but he wasn’t sure.

Fuck, Vincent thought as, de-robed, he slipped into the comfortingly horrific hot waters. As scalded as he felt, he was grateful that the water was not as hot as he usually made it. The bubbles creaked and popped silently as he slid into the water. He leaned back slowly, removing his glasses and setting them on the counter. He sighed, his ego and his id went to war as he flew into the music, transported and uplifted; only to wrench and frown as a phalanx of reason would assert itself over the situation.

As his two natures warred, he was presented with a thought.

This would be, like, the most possibly stereotypical way in which to actually encounter a vampire.

He chuckled to himself, equally amused with his folly as he was interested in the possibility. Perhaps interested, a certainly useful and admirable transitive verb, was in and of itself entirely inadequate in its ability to properly express this particular shade of emotion. To be fair, that’s hardly what the word was intended to convey, but I don’t think they’ve come up with a single word meaning “interest/dread/lust/fear”.

Sarah faded away, to be replaced by Marilyn Manson’s cover of Tainted Love. The soft and kind notes receded, beaten down by the driving beat and the sound of menace filled silken hatred. Once again, Victor thought, a pretty standard song for the soundtrack.

Manson faded, and Bowie was born, growing stronger into Scary Monsters. The discordant beat and jarring imagery flooded through his mind, and he slid deeper into the waters. He started suddenly, in the corner of his eye spying a man, tall, handsome, classically-trimmed van dyke twisting in the fingers of a black-gloved hand. He wore a dark suit, impeccably tailored, dark red satin shirt; tasteful black cloth (not leather, so at least that particular cliché had been narrowly averted) trench coat over it all.

The time has come.

The thought was strong, the though was heard, the thought was not Vincent’s. Vincent saw it, still not quite believing: the first stage, the Enticement was upon him. He thought back to every book, movie, and graphic novel on vampires he had ever read. Enough books to fill – and even Victor would be surprised to somehow learn this – a medium-sized bookmobile. Not the full-sized Winnebago, mind but rather the middle-sized one that you sometimes ran too with a hopeful gleam in your eye, only to realize that it wasn’t the ice-cream truck.

Which would I honestly choose? Vincent wondered, fully lost with the reality side of this possibility. To live life on as I have, with no guarantee of success, health, or happiness? A live with no guarantee of heaven? Or would I renounce my life, my soul, perhaps, and become as one of the undead?

The possible futures lay themselves out before him, each an eager whore, anxious for the seed of his belief. If he stayed … well, human, he supposed … he might live out a sad and lonely life, and die in pain; destination oblivion. However, he could also live well, gain success in his life, and die a happy and prosperous man; bound for Heaven with a song in his heart. Tra la la.

But then, there was … oh, hell, to call it the Gift sounded too fucking melodramatic. If he called it the Gift he’d have to change his name to Lucius or Julienne and go move into a gothic fucking mansion in downtown Atlanta. And Vincent fucking hated Lestat. He just couldn’t take the chance that the bastard might be real.

Call it a choice. Small case 'c'. Nothing more, or less. Nothing greater, for that matter. For from here, he made his choices based upon full knowledge. I know not what I did would no longer be a phrase he could honestly use. He could choose life, good and God, or death, depravity, and Damnation. Or maybe not, Vincent dared to hope. Some books are about vampires who follow a good path, worship God, and therefore might be saved. There might be enough time to redeem himself.

Vincent allowed himself to follow these future paths fully, exploring and considering every angle. The vampire – for really, to refer to it as anything else from here on in would just be coy – stood silently, following Vincent’s thoughts through their fluid course. The vampire sniffed, softly. Hmm. Jasmine.

Victor followed each path to its end. First, the good. Life, sunlight. Then, the bad. Death, darkness. Eternity. Heightened experiences, a chance to do everything, to go everywhere, to read everything. Vincent felt his decision forming as the shadow of the vampire fell slowly across the still water. Vincent saw himself, in his minds eye, acquiescing; feeling the short, soft twin stings of fangs as the slow rush of death and desire dashed through his body like angry waves against a solitary rock. The slow draining death, replaced the by rush of cold blood, mixed with his own warmth, flooding over his lips, hungrily sucking, not even pretending to be repulsed.

The coldness of death, of feeling his own warmth fade as the waters of the bath cooled and grew tepid. How long, he couldn’t say. Hours, perhaps, but no more than a night, judging from the blackness outside the window. Vincent imagined standing, glowing with newfound power and insight. Undeath, in Proprius Gloria, Laus Cavus.

He imagined stepping out the tub, cool water slipping off of palid flesh. He imagined slipping into his robe, and stepping out into the hall. He saw himself encountering Storm. He saw her hackles raised, her shoulders hunched as she snarled and drooled her implacable hatred.

Fuck, Vincent thought, I forgot dogs hate the undead. The bubble popped, and the decision reversed. Try has he might, he could never imagine living as someone that dogs would hate. A dog was, to Vincent, the last shred of evidence of goodness in the world. No matter how foul mankind could be, how spiteful, petty, greedy, and hateful, for in the eyes of a dog, Vincent could see love.

Vincent made his decision. He would live.

A most interesting decision, and an enjoyable tale. The thought was not his own. But sadly, predicated upon a fallacy. Your choice, as you put it, is not between life and undeath. It is between undeath, and regular, ordinary, every day death.

So be it.

Vincent shook himself from his cannabis-laced fantasy, and chuckled softly as he reached out a toe to shut off the tap. He sighed contentedly, swatting briefly at two, sudden pricks of pain in his neck. He sunk deeply into sleep.

Diet: Week 16

2006-02-03T09:55:00.000-05:00

STARTING WEIGHT: 281.6 pounds
THIS WEEK'S CHANGE: - 1.0 pound
TOTAL WEIGHT LOST: 31.6 pounds
CURRENT WEIGHT: 250.0 pounds

Well, things could be better, but at least I am back on track. A few trips to the Pad Thai palace, but other than that, mostly on focus. I'm still not drinking enough water (pause while I take a drink of water) so that's definitely something to work on.

I've Been Tagged

2006-02-01T14:55:00.000-05:00

I was "tagged" by a "meme". I don't know precisely what that means (nor am I motiviated enough to Google the phrase to find out), but I did understand the questions. So here they are, with my answers.

Seven things to do before I die
- Travel to England. See everything
- Finish my novel and screenplay, and write many , many more
- Find true love (possibly in England, just to kill 2 birds with 1 stone)
- Take a cruise
- Vacation somewhere hot
- Learn to ballroom dance
- Take acting classes

Seven movies I love
- The Princess Bride
- Lord of the Rings trilogy (ok, I know its 3 movies, fuck off)
- The Ring
- A Clockwork Orange (even though Kubrick cacked the ending)
- One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
- American History X
- Vs. The Dead (just because I'm in it)

Seven books I love
- Piers Anthony, On a Pale Horse
- JRR Tolkien, The Lord of the Ring Trilogy (Counting Nazis: See the movies)
- Steven King, Bag of Bones
- Neil Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, Good Omens
- Douglas Adams, Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy Trilogy (in 5 parts)
- Anthony Burgess, A Clockwork Orange
- Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo

Seven things I say
- I rarely pay attention to the things I say

Seven things that attract me to people
- Intelligence
- Humour
- Honesty
- Similar interests
- The ability to ignore the desire to forward on Internet jokes and funny pictures
- Intelligence (it's important)
- Humour (ditto)

Seven things I can't do
- Write with my left hand
- Tightrope walk
- Speak another language
- Program in C++
- Annoy people by forwarding on Internet jokes and funny pictures
- Count to seven

Seven people to tag
- I do't like to tag people

Moldy Wallpapers

2006-01-31T18:18:00.000-05:00

I'm not really happy posting the wallpapers I've created here, so I've created a second blog called Moldy Wallpapers (for More Or Less DailY Wallpapers) for that purpose. All the wallpapers you find there are of my creation.

Sopranos Desktop 2

2006-01-30T21:21:00.000-05:00

The next in my series of Sopranos desktop wallpapers.

Driving Ms. Dimwit

2006-01-30T11:42:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, I drove to Toronto with a good friend of mine (let's call him "Gary", because it is his name). Now, Gary is a great guy - very funny, intelligent, and a good laugh. His driving skills are fine ... except when it comes to parking. When it comes to parking, Gary is ... special.

He's ok with the actual act of parking (parallel parking, straight in parking, etc.): his problem is he doesn't actually know how to find a parking spot. Take Sunday. Gary had a meeting in Toronto, and asked me if I wanted to come along for the trip. I said sure, and off we went.

We arrived in Toronto, and Gary found a parking lot and parked his car. Now, at this time, I have no idea that Gary has chosen this spot at random, with no consideration or knowledge of the whereabouts of our destination. We headed outside, into the cold, cold rain, and I asked him where we were going. He grunted something, and started to walk. I followed along, and after 4 or 5 blocks, asked where we were going. He didn't reply, so I naturally started to mock him about not knowing where he was going.

After another couple of blocks, he admitted that we were going to One-of-a-Kind Pasta for lunch, which was fine by me. I asked him why he parked so far away, and he grunted, and we kept on walking. After another couple of blocks, I asked him if he knew where the place was. He said "I know where it is, just not in relationship to where we are now".

That statement kind of floored me. I mean, I guess its cool to know where a place was in theory, but in practice it is more important to know where it is in relationship to where you are. At least, it is if you're walking around in the cold, cold rain, trying to find the place.

I asked him why he picked that parking spot if he didn't know where the restaurant was. No real answer. Of course, I naturally started to mock him at this point, pretty severely. Eventually, he gave up and we hailed a cab ... and the driver didn't know where the restaurant was. Gary told him to forget about it, and just turn left at the next light so that we could go to a different restaurant (the whereabouts of which Gary was apparently aware of) and the cabbie kept driving straight.

We told the cabbie to turn left again, and he kept going straight. So we told him to stop, and got out. We started wandering again, passing numerous perfectly good restaurants, while Gary searched for ... well, hell, I don't know what he was searching for anymore. Eventually we found a Popeyes, which was apparently the place Gary was searching for, and we went in and had supper.

After Popeyes, we took a walk to Gary's meeting place ... which was about 7 blocks away from the restaurant. Now, bear in mind, there were quite a few places near Gary's meeting place we could have eaten at. For some reason, he parked in a random location, and we ended up wandering for about 12-15 blocks, and taking a cab ride, wandering around lost. Gary, for his part, maintains that we were not lost, but simply that we did not know where we were in relation to where we needed to go.

At the meeting place, we discovered a very nice parking lot directly beside it. Yeah. We still had about 20 minutes before Gary's meeting, so I decided to find a coffee shop to hang out in while I waited. Across the street was a restaurant called "Le Service" which turned out to be an upscale, preppy kinda place. We went in, and sat down and had a cup of coffee. A $2.20 cup of coffee that tasted like shit.

When Gary headed off for his meeting, I wandered off until I found a Second Cup I could wait at. After the meeting (where I pointed out the nice, neat, close parking lot), we hailed a cab for the $10.00 cab ride back to the place Gary parked the car.

So, to break things down:

Parking Fees: $7.00
Cab Fees: $18.00
Time Spent In the Cold, Cold Rain: 1 hour, 14 minutes
Discovering your Friend is an Idiot: Priceless

Sopranos

2006-01-29T22:46:00.000-05:00

I don't know if I have mentioned this before or not, but I am a huge Sopranos fan. This series shows that television is capable of producing genius. I won't go on and on, but I do encourage you to watch the series if you get the chance. Start with the first season, get them on DVD, and sit down and watch them all over a few days, and you will begin to see how brilliant the show is.

Enough gushing. Above is the first in a series of wallpapers I am making. I'm going to throw them up here for anyone interested in downloading them.

A Fish in the Bush

2006-01-27T13:53:00.000-05:00

Ok, normally I avoid talking about politics, for several reasons. First off, political discussions tend to devolve into flame wars, and I despise flame wars (if you every find yourself in a flame war, stop posting. Seriously. Remember the adage about arguing with an idiot). Secondly, the vast majority of political discussion is absolutely meaningless noise; nothing more than smoke and mirrors. Today's scandal is forgotten tomorrow. Take things like the Clinton sex scandal or Whitewatergate. Huge scandals that, in the end, were just sound and fury.

Today, however, I would like to to chat briefly about George W. Bush, Google, and Jack Abramoff. Now, as you may know, the Bush Administration is trying to force Google into releasing their search records - all of them for a one week period - so that the government can check everyone's search queries to find terrorists. Google, for their part, says that they value their users' individual right to privacy, and has refused to do so.

Now Bush says that Google is bad, because they need to be able to fish through Google records looking for possible bad guys. They don't have any evidence of actual bad guys, or any evidence that indicates that this data contains information about any specific bad guys. They just want to fish through the results to see if there are any bad guys there.

Now, on a seemingly different but related note, the Bush administration is being called upon to release records of all official government meetings with Jack Abramoff, a lobbyist recently convicted of nasty, illegal activities (wow, who would ever have suspected a lobbyist of illegal activities? The fact that the US still allows lobbying is fucking insane). The Bush administration is refusing to release this information, because they refuse to "engage in a fishing expedition."

So lets break this down.

GOOGLE RECORDS: MAY contain evidence of illegal activities, but there is nothing to indicate that this is true.

WHITE HOUSE RECORDS OF ABRAMOFF MEETINGS: MAY contain evidence of illegal activities; in fact, there is very good reason to suspect that they do.

So, the White House refuses to allow others to "fish" for information in situations where their own privacy is violated, even though there is very good evidence to indicate that illegal activities took place. However, they are more than happy to fish for information in Google's records of the activities of private citizens, who seem to believe that they are entitled to a certain degree of privacy. Even though they are not following any specific leads, and just want to see what they might find.

A Rantback Fortune Cookie for the White House and Mr. Bush: If you want to fish, you ignorant fucks, do it in your own pond.

Source: http://www.abcnews.go.com/Politics/PollVault/story?id=1547685

DIET: WEEK 15

2006-01-26T11:27:00.000-05:00

STARTING WEIGHT: 281.6 pounds

THIS WEEK'S CHANGE: + 1.0 pound

TOTAL WEIGHT LOST: 30.6 pounds

CURRENT WEIGHT: 251.0 pounds

Hmmmm. Seems I gained a pound. Not really sure how that happened. Unless it was that hamburger. Or the pork roast and mashed potatoes I had for supper last night. Or the deep-fried chicken strips that came with my Wendy's salad yesterday. When I ordered the salad, I had no idea the chicken strips were deep fried. I mean seriously, who the hell deep fries chicken to serve with a salad?

Ok, so I'm blaming outside forces when the blame lies with me. I may have ordered the chicken without knowing it was deep fried, but I still chose to eat it.

I keep telling myself that I have plateaued. I need to get back on the points, and start tracking them again. Its just something about the point tracking system that helps me maintain my discipline. So, next week we'll see if I can actually get myself to go back on the system.

American Idol

2006-01-25T11:00:00.000-05:00

Ok, I've ranted about this show before, and I'm going to do it again. I'm not a fan of American Idol. No sir, not one bit. Most of the show is fine, but I don't like it when they take the no-talent dweebs, put them on the air, and bitterly and angrily mock and belittle them. There's just no reason for it other than shaudenfreude. For some reason, people seem to like to watch other people get put down and abused. I don't understand that at all.

Now, as mean-spirited and nasty as this show is, apparently they are now about to develop a "mean streak". Whereas before, Simon limited his vitriol to attacks on the person's singing skills, he is now expanding his repetoire to attacks on people's appearance, sexuality, and weight. After one overweight contestant sang (very, very well, by the way), Simon joked that the show was going to need a bigger stage.

Now, come on. First off, that so-called joke is just pathetic and sophmoric. Fat jokes are the providence of first-graders and the ignorant. By dropping to this level, he has shown the show's true colours: bitter, callous, hateful and sadistic. Their single and driving goal is not to identify good singers, but to belittle and humiliate the bad singers. And now, they have expanded that mandate to include humiliating the overweight and sexually diverse (yes, the show has also drawn the ire of Gay and Lesbian organizations).

I don't want to go into too much detail here; this show upsets me enough as it is. The program is indicative of the tastelessness and selfishness so prevalant in our modern society. For those who choose to continue to watch, please be aware that in doing so, you are supporting hatred and bigotry, hiding behind a thin veil of entertainment.

A Lunge at Grunge

2006-01-23T12:55:00.000-05:00

When I was a teenager (waaay back in the late 70's and early 80's. Shut up, so I'm old), I was a member of a secret society. A society so utterly secret that it didn't have a name. There were no meetings or official slogans. We had no agenda. Members of this society did not have to apply for membership, or go through an initiation process. Above all, we never talked about the society, or our membership, because we didn't have to. It was understood. We grokked.

The only way to identify another member of our society was through a visual identification of the society's unofficial outfit. While variations were always welcome, it was understood that the outfit had basic elements which had to be present in order to identify you as a member of the society.

First off, you wore boots. Kodiak boots, to be exact. Undone and wide open, the laces trailing on the ground. This was done primarily to piss off adults. The boots had to be steel toed, simply to protect you from the cruel, toe-snapping crush of another Kodiak-boot wearing individual who is stomping on your foot to see if you have steel-toed boots.

The next article of clothing is the pants, which must be jeans. Must. Be. Jeans. Old jeans, the more worn, ripped and torn, the better. This created a bit of a challenge back then, because when I was a kid, no one had ever had the idea of selling pre-faded jeans. New jeans were bright blue, crisp, and would even hold a crease (if your mom was cruel/naive enough to iron your jeans).

Whenever my family was going out for a meal, or visiting relatives, I would always immediately run off and change into a nice, crisp new pair of jeans. For years, my mother mistakenly believed that I was a respectful child who wanted to look my best for my relatives. The fact was, I took any opportunity to wear my new jeans when going out somewhere where there were no cool people to see me.

Next, the t-shirt. T-shirts could be plain, without logos or decoration, as long as they were solid colours - preferably dark, but white was ok too. Ideally, a t-shirt (or a jersey, if applicable) could bear the logo of a rock band. Pink Floyd (especially the Wall or Dark Side of the Moon logos), Led Zeppelin and the Rolling Stones were the coolest shirts. If you were very, very lucky, you had a Motorhead shirt.

Under no circumstances would anyone be foolish enough to wear a t-shirt with a product/company logo on it. Back then, a logo-shirt indicated that you got the shirt for free, in a contest or something. A free shirt meant you were poor, and you would be mocked for being poor. The attitude back then was that no one would actually pay money for a t-shirt with a company logo on it, because only a fool would pay money out of their pocket to advertise a company or product.

Over the t-shirt could be worn an optional, standard button-down shirt, but only if the buttons were undone. Doing up the buttons indicated that you were probably wearing an advertising t-shirt.

On top of that, was the ultimate piece of clothing - the Lumberjacket. The lumberjacket was everything. It indicated status, it kept you warm, it kept you safe. There were some issues with lumberjackets; for example a brand new lumberjacket had little micro-fibers on the outside that were highly flammable. If you saw someone with a brand-new lumberjacket, you would immediately set it on fire for the entertainment value. Luckily, the micro fibers usually - usually - burned out quickly.

The standard lumberjacket was red. Some lucky bastards had a green lumberjacket, and even fewer were lucky and cool enough to have a blue lumberjacket. I tried to get a green or blue lumberjacket as a kid, but could never find them. To this day, I am convinced there was a secret code exchange that you had to go to in order to get he salesguy to sell you a green lumberjacket.

Me: I wanna buy a green lumberjacket.

Salesperson: We don't sell green lumberjackets.

The secret code was probably something like this:

Cool Guy: I wanna buy a lumberjacket.

Salesperson: They're right here.

Cool Guy: These lumberjackets are nice, if you like red.

Salesperson: I have a red bicycle.

Cool Guy: Does it have a bell?

Salesperson: Yes, I ring it all the time.

Cool Guy: When the bells ring at St. Mary's, its time for prayer.

Salesperson: Come with me.

Then the Salesperson would lead the customer over to a floor-length mirror, press a concealed button, and reveal a secret room, filled with green lumberjackets. Even then, you had to know a new, different code to access the room with the blue lumberjackets.

We dressed this way for years, and our secret society bloomed. Then, something horrible happened. Somewhere, in Hollywood, or in the music industry, I don't know where, but somewhere, somebody gave our style a name. They called it grunge. In naming it, they destroyed it, because the key element of this lifestyle was that it was unnamed and unacknowledged.

By applying the name "grunge", the style was officially dead. Of course, it thrived and grew for decades afterwards, much like the hair and fingernails on a corpse appear to keep growing after death. The same thing happened to punk, and to Goth, and will continue to happen over the years. Something cool is born, somebody decides to market it, and they kill the very thing they are trying to exploit.

At Least I Had the Laugh

2006-01-20T11:48:00.000-05:00

A good laugh and a long sleep are the best cures in the doctor's book.
~ Irish Proverb

Saga of the Sleep Deprived

Ok, so I guess I'm not technically "sleep" deprived, but saying "the rest associated with sleep deprivation" just sounds silly. With sleep apnea, you sleep, but you don't get restful sleep. When I sleep on my own, in a one hour period, I wake up 96 times. No, that's not a typo. Obviously, I can't get into deep sleep, which means I can't get restful sleep. After 8 hours sleep, it feels like I just slept 15 minutes.

If you've ever gone to bed, fallen asleep, and been woken up after 15 or 20 minutes, you know how much that sucks. Now, try this every time you go to sleep, all night long. Now, try doing this every night for over 2 years.

Before I was diagnosed with sleep apnea (a successful diagnosed made, not by a doctor, but by an ex-wrestler-turned-DJ) I thought I was dying of leukemia, or perhaps AIDS. I went to several different doctors (who seemed to have earned their medical degrees through clerical errors) who entirely failed to diagnose the apnea. I had blood tests, x-rays, examinations, etc., up the wazoo. They found nothing.

When I asked them what the next step was, the doctors had no ideas. I was told to go home and see if the problem persisted. Now, bear in mind here, I felt I was actually dying. And my doctors are telling me to go home and see if the problem gets worse.

So, on a trip with some friends to Chicago, my one friend Pat (the ex-wrestler guy) hears me sleep the first night, and says "Dude, you have sleep apnea". When we got home, I researched sleep apnea, and it looked like he was right. I had all the symptoms, and everything added up. Armed with this new information, I went back to the doctor.

"I think I have sleep apnea," I said.

"Why don't you leave the medical diagnosis to the experts," Doctor ClericalError said.

I was dumbfounded. I had a problem that he had failed to diagnose for months. I had provided him with a very - VERY - probable diagnosis, and the guy was shrugging me off.

"I want you to refer me to the Frid Street Sleep Clinic." I had done thorough homework.

"I don't think that's warranted at this time." Cunt.

"I want you to refer me to the sleep clinic. If you won't, I will find a doctor that will. Once they test me, and find out I have apnea, I will make certain they know that you refused to refer me." Yes, I was threatening my doctor. He gave me the referral. Successful medicine through intimidation.

I went in, I was spent the night with wires and diodes and stuff sticking out of me, and I was tested. A few weeks later, the results were in. I had sleep apnea. Very, very bad sleep apnea. So bad, I was having microseizures. The doctor (a good doctor who did strange things like think) was adamant that I needed to get on a CPAP (a machine to help you breathe) immediately.
I got the machine, and I started to sleep at night. Slowly, my strength came back, and I stopped doing silly things like falling asleep while sitting and talking to friends, falling asleep during meetings, and falling asleep while driving (yes, I did all of these things). The machine was working.

I had to go back for a second sleep test in September of last year, but I cancelled the test due to illness. Ok, due to the fact that I wanted to go out and have fun. I had my machine, I was sleeping, and I was done with having to sleep in a strange beds hooked up to more wires than my entertainment system.

Then I got a letter in the mail, a few weeks ago. From the government. Telling me that they were going to cancel my driver's license because I didn't get my second test. Bitch. So, I went back in and made an appointment, and last night I slept at the clinic again. Poorly. They woke me at 6:00 am to send me home, apparently unaware of the irony of a sleep clinic depriving me of sleep.

In late February I will find out what the second diagnosis was, and if my CPAP needs to be tweaked (sounds kinda dirty, doesn't it?). All in all, I'm losing weight, and hopefully I will be able to wean myself off the machine after a year or so. Worse comes to worse, I just have to go to bed looking like a fighter jet pilot every night.

DIET: WEEK 14

2006-01-19T12:35:00.000-05:00

STARTING WEIGHT: 281.6 pounds
THIS WEEKÂS CHANGE: - 1.5 pounds
TOTAL WEIGHT LOST: 31.6 pounds
CURRENT WEIGHT: 250.0 pounds

A pretty bad week for me, as I strayed frequently and spectacularly. Luckily, I still managed to shed a pound and a half, but I'll probably pay for my excesses next week. I decided to go out and have a full order ofMontana'ss ribs, with the apple-butter sauce, and they were spectacular. Gorgeous. Worth it.

Otherwise, pretty much the same old same old. I've gone out for a few breakfasts, but I count the points, sothat'ss ok. PadThaii remains a standby, and I actually had it twice last week, so I definitely got lucky.

I haven't been drinking as much water as I should, only managing about 2-3 glasses a day. I'm going to be working on increasing my water intake. Apparently WW allows any calorie-free beverage with no caffeine to count as a glass of water, but only up to a maximum of 3. I guess I'm going to have to start buying the caffeine free diet colas from now on (despite my love of caffeine).

Donner Party Skinny

2006-01-14T01:15:00.000-05:00

The old lady was walking slowly up the street. The car came out of nowhere, screeching to a halt with near inches to spare. The old lady (with the initials HBS on her insanely large purse) stopped and pursed her lips, regarding the driver disapprovingly before continuing onwards. When she was safely out of the way, the car squealed its tires once again, driving off down the street.

“It's like a cop drama,” Charlie was sitting in the passenger seat. Charlie was large. Well, overweight, if you have to be picky. Ok, fine, be like that. Charlie was fat. There, do you feel better about yourself now?

Charlie wanted to be a writer. Day after day, he sat in his mother's basement and composed poetry and prose that touched delicately upon his own life-long themes of obesity and desperate loneliness. Poems so elegantly moving and breathtakingly precious that they forever altered the lives of those who read them. No, not immediately, in some kind of gauche, Disney-esque, deity-nonspecific miracle. Rather, his works caused gradual, gentle, life-affirming changes that always, in the end, improved the lives of those it had touched. These were the works that Charlie was too self-conscious to try to have published. Oh, and he also wrote some mediocre novels about elves.

“How do you figure?” Willie was thin. Like a rake thin. Emaciated. Donner Party skinny.

Willie was an activist. Which was to say that he volunteered at nature rallies to hand out pamphlets. He was very much against the burning of fossil fuels, despite the fact that he owned and operated a Buick Skylark, which is to fuel efficiency as the Great Wall of China is to moderately high fences. He was once going to go on an actual, real-life medical lab animal release mission, which was top secret, and very, very dangerous. Unfortunately, the raid was scheduled to take place on the same night he had promised to tape “CSI: Miami” for his grandmother. As the VCR's timer was kinda wonky, he really had to be there to press the record button. After all, a promise is a promise.

Together, Charlie and Willie were delivering telephone books on a Sunday. Each house with a telephone was to receive one telephone book, and only one, no matter what the customer might try to say to the contrary. Mrs. Edinhouse, the Delivery Instructions Coordinator, had given them good advice during their 45 minutes of training (with coffee and cupcakes afterwards in the staff room). She had warned them that people would offer bribes, and that people would offer threats. Some would offer you money; others threaten to have you fired.

“Don't be tempted by the money.” She stood over the class, looming like a spindly-armed bat that had lost its wing membranes. She didn’t bother saying anything about the “being fired” part. They all knew that no one could really get fired from a one-day job. “At the end of your day, all your phonebooks must be delivered, and you must have stamped the receiving home's location on your government-issued area survey map. If you do not have the same number of stamps as you did telephone books upon leaving, you will not be paid!”

For Charlie, not being paid was not an option. He had been promised $75.00, which he could cash at the NITE-BANK (Checks cashed before their pay-to date!) and get 69 bucks cash. After he paid his mom the 45 bucks he owed her, he had 24 bucks left to buy role-playing books. Seeing as the future of the elves of Starlight Dale depended upon his being able to afford the 4th rules supplement (The Elves of Starlight: How the Roh-a`queem Survive in the Poisonlands), he was not about to accept any bribes.

Willie was just as reliant upon his successful completion of today's labours. Willie's girlfriend Resela (a tall, lanky young woman with soft and gentle eyes, stringy blonde hair, and a horrid fashion sense) was mad at him for always quitting his jobs. Every job he had ever had, Willie had quit. He once lasted seven months working in a factory, but only because he found out that the place was so big he could find a spot to hide and go to sleep. When he wasn't around, everyone just assumed that some boss from another section had snagged him to work on some other side. It was only when he was found sleeping in a Port-a-Potty (“I put a fucking 'Out of Order' sign on the door! What kind of sick twerp tries to use a malfunctioning crapper?”) and told he would have to start working that he decided to quit.

His record for the shortest amount of time spent on any one job was exactly seven seconds. He had attended the interview while high, and despite this fact, had done surprisingly well. When Mr. Wender-something had shook his hand and smiled, offering him a position, Willie had smiled right back.

“I accept,” Willie said, while smiling. He then blinked twice, and continued. “It's too hot in here. I quit.” After that, he simply turned around and left the building.

“Willie, you are soooo ADHD,” Resela would swear, rolling her eyes in a way which always made Willie think of a dog watching a Frisbee fly overhead, “I bet you couldn't even keep a job that was only for one day.”

Willie had sworn that he could, and had in fact bet her fifty bucks that he could do just that. He had unfortunately been utterly unaware of the fact that Resela’s Uncle Jerry (who owned the new Ford dealership by the Gas'n'Pump) had once donated some money to Town Councilor Malone’s last campaign, and could now pull some strings to get Willie a one-day job delivering telephone books.

If he quit the job, he would then owe his girlfriend $50.00. If he could last out the entire day, not only would he get a $75.00 check, he would get fifty in cash from Resela. He could then spend her cash until the check cleared, thus saving the $6.00 service fee at NITE-BANK. As such, he was not about to accept any bribes.

“We're like a buddy cop movie,” Charlie continued as if his dialogue had not been interrupted by several long, rambling paragraphs of exposition. “You're the passionate and committed eco-cop. I'm the unknown but soon-to-be-discovered writer pulled into your investigation by an unlucky convergence of fate and destiny.”

“That is the stupidest fucking idea ever.”

“No, it’s fucking great, give me a pen!” Charlie began searching desperately around his passenger-side car seat, but was unable to find a writing implement.

“There,” Willie pointed at the sun visor.

Charlie reached up, and pulled the visor down, releasing a pen that then tumbled into his lap. He fished it out, and began looking around for a scrap of paper.

“Paper, I need paper!”

“Sorry man, can’t help you.” Willie did not sound particularly sorry.

Charlie cast his eyes around desperately, and then turned to look in the back seat, the entirety of which (like the trunk) was filled with telephone books. He reached back, lifted and phone book off the pile, and placed it in his lap. Opening the book to one of the first pages (that they always, for some reason, leave blank), Charlie began to write.

“Dude, fuck,” Willie scowled, trying to knock the phone book out of Charlie's hand. “We signed for those!” Charlie easily evaded Willie’s desperate blows, seeing since the man was also occupied with driving the vehicle.

The day passed much more quickly than one might reasonably expect, especially when these expectations are based upon the fact that I have taken this long simply to describe the first two and a half minutes of the story. At the end of the night, Willie sat behind the wheel, the car idling, as he counted up the number of stamps.

“We have 204 stamps.”

“Count them again.” Charlie seemed nervous.

“I did already. Three times. We have 204 stamps.”

“Ok, so lets go.”

“We signed for 205 fucking phone books.” Willie snarled. Charlie thought briefly about the evolution of the term ‘telephone book’ which had taken place over the day. At 8:00 am the two men had referred to the books as telephone books. By noon, the phrase had been shortened to phone books. By 4:00 pm they were simply books. By 7:30 pm that evening, they were fucking phone books.

“So we lost one. Big deal.”

“Big deal? Big fucking deal? Big deal we don’t get fucking paid, big deal!”

“So what do you want? I don’t have the fucking phone book.”

“Fuck you, you don’t.” Willie’s look was sly.

“What are you talking about?”

"I did a quick count before I carried 12 fucking phone books into that small apartment building. And hey, by the way, fuck you for that!”

“You and I both agreed on the rules. You do the odd numbered houses, I do the evens.”

“That’s before I knew there were three apartment buildings on my side of the route, and none on yours!”

“We had an agreement.”

“Anyway, fuck that. I did a visual before running into the building. We had seventeen fucking phone books. When I came back there were only sixteen.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you stole a book.”

“That’s a … serious accusation, Willie.”

"I don’t like saying it any more than you like hearing it. But I can see its outline, there, in your backpack.”

Charlie, blushing, reached into the backpack and slid the fucking telephone book out.

“Give it to me, Charlie.”

“I can’t Willie!” Charlie was desperate. “It’s got my ideas in it! Some of my best ideas! I need them! I can’t remember them all!”

“I’m sorry Charlie,” Willie was honestly saddened. “But we both got to get paid. What would your mother say if you came home broke?”

******************

Harriet Beecher Stone (“Only one letter and a whole boat load of talent away from a career as a writer” as the elderly Miss Stone herself liked to say) picked up the phone book from her front porch, and took it inside, setting it down on the coffee table. She always liked to check the new book to make sure she was still in it. She had convinced herself that the day she looked into a new phone book and did not find her name listed was the day on which she was destined to die.

She flipped past the first few pages quickly, and then stopped. She had spied a flash of red ink, like … could it be handwriting? Yes, there it was, handwriting in her brand new telephone book. Of all the things! Nothing like this would have ever happened when she was a girl. No, back then, people still had respect for other people’s properties. Why, if this had happened when her father was alive, he would have raised holy heck with the phone company, to be sure.

Harriet fished her reading glasses out of her cavernous purse (monogrammed, a gift from her son before he went off and died of the AIDS), and placed them on their customary perch at the end of her nose (where they were affixed firmly through some form of arcane quantum adhesive force known only to the elderly), and started to read.

As she read, she realized that the handwriting was a story, of all things. Imagine, someone writing a story in her telephone book! It was a story about an elf. How silly. However, the young elf did sound absolutely lovely. Harriet, as a young girl, had often dreamed of becoming a ballerina. And what was an elf, really, if not the fantasy-world equivalent of a ballerina?

The story was breathtaking and evocative, and it lead her down into the darkened vales of Everwood, the Virgin Forest Primeval. She read of Elrohna, the beautiful yet sorrowful elven maid, daughter of Woodspeaker, and soon to be wed to an evil Dragon Lord.

Then, a strange thing happened. To Harriet, not to Elrohna. Sorry if that wasn’t completely clear. The story began to fracture and skip. It devolved into short form, quick points and incomprehensible shorthand, as if written by someone desperately trying to get ideas down on paper. It ended up with a reminder to buy some more weed off of some gentleman named “Moth”.

Harriet leaned back into the couch slowly, her mind awash with visions of Elrohna’s platinum locks, tales of forced marriages, unjust husbands and dire treachery. She experienced a pang of deep regret when she realized that he story had not been completed. She sighed, saddened by the fact that that this particular story would likely never be properly told.

As an after thought, Harriet reached over, and flipped a few pages … down to the Smiths and Spencers and Stapletons. There, near the bottom of Page 247, were the Stones. There was Bobby. Harriet was happy to see he was still ok. Then Franklin, Greta and Gary. Then Lawrence. She skipped back. Gary, then Lawrence. It was true. For the first time in more than 68 years, Harriet Beecher Stone’s name did not appear in the telephone book.

A knock came at her front door. At this late hour, it could only be death.

Diet: Week 13

2006-01-12T09:54:00.000-05:00

STARTING WEIGHT: 281.6 pounds
THIS WEEK’S CHANGE: - 6.3 pounds
TOTAL WEIGHT LOST: 30.1 pounds
CURRENT WEIGHT: 251.5 pounds

Ok, yes, I know it has been a long time since I posted a diet update. Many of you (ok, maybe 1 or 2 of you) might suspect the reason would be that I have quit my diet. No, no, my pessimistic friend(s). My Weight Watchers membership is over now (it ended mid December) and I'm not about to shell out another $150 just to go to dull weekly meetings and get a pamphlet.

Unfortunately, until last night, I did not possess my own scale, so couldn't weigh myself for updates. I did get a scale yesterday, much to my surprise. It seems my upstairs neighbour Ron (who, incidentally, is a helluva nice guy) red my earlier blog comments about not having a scale, and took it upon himself to rectify the situation.

Ron works in an appliance store, and brought home with him a variety of different scales for me to view and choose from. I picked the one I liked the best (a basic model with a built-in lithium-ion battery), and just like that, I was the proud owner of a new bathroom scale.

So, you see the results above. A loss of 6 pounds over a 6.3 week period isn't great, but considering the holiday time over that period, its not too bad either. I'll be sure and practice a greater degree of fidelity when it comes to documenting my weight loss over the following weeks.

I knew that I was going to stray from the diet over the Christmas/New Years holiday. I think it is important - hell, vital - to recognize that dieting is hard enough on a day-to-day basis without trying to maintain control on certain special days. I didn't go hog wild or anything - my rule was simple. Starting on Christmas Eve (after 6:00 pm), through Christmas Day and Boxing Day, I was not on a diet. The same rule took place on New Years Eve.

I didn't do too badly. I stayed a way from the chocolates and candies (ok, I confess, ate one Turtle), and even threw out several boxes of chocolates I received as gifts. I wanted to give them away to others, but I knew if I kept them in the house overnight, I would eat them. The only place those chocolates were going to end up that night was in the garbage or in my gut.

I really enjoyed my holidays, and enjoyed my Christmas dinner, snacks, and the like on other days. I did this without going nuts, but without depriving myself.

As of this date, I am even more determined to stick to my diet. I promised myself right from the start that once I had lost 40 pounds, I was going to treat myself to an order of wings. I am now 9.9 pounds away from this goal. Can I get a whoo hoo?

Photoblog: Cat vs. Dog

2006-01-10T20:27:00.001-05:00

Yes, the battle between my cat and dog continues. Crystal has gotten nastier, as she learns to use her teeth and claws to great effect. Ayla, for her part, has been countering with her tongue which, while effective at wetting the cat, does little in battle. The two of them engage in a ceaseless battel for supremacy, constantly vying for ... well, for the hell of it, I guess.

I have captured on film another one of their titanic battles.

1. The battle begins here ... on the love seat. Never has an article of furniture been more ironically named. Immediately after this photo was taken, Crystal took a swat at Ayla, which caused Ayla to abandon the love seat and move the futon.

2. Ayla has now moved to the futon, only to be followed by the belligerent feline. Once again, Crystal attacks with fang and claw, and Ayla counters with a lick.

3. Despite the failure of "the lick" as an attack/defense maneuver, Ayla continues to utilize this technique as Crystal continues with her more traditional bite/claw attacks.

4. Here, finally, Ayla begins to grow irate.
5. Alya strikes back, abandoning the tongue in favour of fangs.

6. Undaunted, Crystal initiates a full-on offensive with a technique that has affectionately nicknamed "the Throat Hug".

7. Ayla, in a move that I unfortuantely failed to catch on film, flipped the cat into the air with her head, and sent her flying across the room. Crystal responded by sitting down and licking her paws as if this was what she had wanted the dog to do all along. For her part, Ayla sat there and looked guilty.

My Favourite Bathtime Gurgles

Green Things - a Poem

BANG.

Confidence Tricks: The MOVIE!

Piping Ceremony

ROMINS (Reviews of Movies I've Never Seen): Fast FiveROMINS (Reviews of Movies I've Never Seen): Fast Five

Then and Now

Back Words

ROMINS (Reviews of Movies I've Never Seen): Green Lantern

Papyrus Air

My Boston Shirt

Dear Tim Hortons Person

A Mildy NSFW-ish Rant

Yard Sale from Hell News

Fair Copyright?

Worst Christmas Spirit Ever

Stalker Ads...

Family Photo

Frankenbox

Yeah, so....

Sick of US Politics yet?

F Ron Paul

Grandma's Autobiography

Borax

Hey Kids, Who Wants Meaning?

Six Bottles of Beer on the Wall

Some Favourite Quotes

I Admit it ... this is Wrong

Synchronicity

Bypass Tim Hortons! *woot*

Tim Hortons = Dirty Fibbers?

Q&A

Secret Prize-Winning Technique!

Unky Peter

What Colour Is Your iPod?

Modern Religous Theory

Government as Stool Pigeon

A Quote for the Patriot

Hot Dog on Cat Action

True Love

Quote

In production

Auntie Agnes

Postcard from the Umbra

Apology (Politicians)

What I learned Today (and "A Bushy Squirrel Tale")

A Poem, of sorts

Choices.

My Friends and Family

It

The Invitation

My Grandma

Glint

Don't Vote with Magnets

*Tap* *Tap* *Tap*

Checking In

Full Spectrum

Try this, it Works!

Sipping Lemonade

Projects

Bathtime News

Ayla

Weird

Meditations of a Bus Taker

Coffee's Ready!

Left Turn, Clyde

Fun With Search Engines Reducks

Your Friendly Neighbourhood Spy

Working Title

Now THAT's Power

Meh

How to Choose a Cat

Cheaper by the Cousin

The Spirit of Burke and Hare

"Unnamed Designer" Steps Forward

The Theory of Unintelligent Design

Un-Cheney My Heart

Deadly Danish (or "How I Learned to Quit Worrying and Love Cartoons")

Fun with Dick and Pain

Happy Valentine's Day

Bypass Tim Hortons! woot

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