Heaven and Underwear

Spongebob can be neither created nor destoryed. He can only change forms.

The end.

My ass hurts

If I could blame it on date-rape, a prison story, or even accidentally falling down on a shovel, I'd have myself a good story.

Actually, I did fall this weekend. It occured to me after having drunk far, far too much and deciding that it would be a good idea to mow our back yard. And by mow, I mean machete. And by machete, I mean napalm. And by...

Long story short, I hit a root and fell on my coccyx while my lawnmower ran over a few rose bushes.

But the reason that my ass hurts is because I just sat for 92 hours straight watching the TNT Law and Order marathon.

How better to honor our fallen brothers?

---

My wife asked me today, "What happened to the bottom half of Spongebob?" I thought I knew, but I guess he really is gone. Mr. Krabs will be speaking tomorrow at his wake.

---

I was basically gone all weekend, but I now see quite a bit of activity at my humble blog, and several comments.

I haven't taken the time to do this in the past, but thank you all for bothering to visit. I couldn't possibly mention anyone, because there are too many of you, and I'm sure that I would miss someone. But I appreciate each and everyone one of you.

Maintaining blog-relationships is harder work that I would have thought. You can't call up your b-friends, and have them all meet you at the bar. You need to make sure to visit the individual weblogs as often as possible. I may have missed some of you in the last few weeks. But just because I don't comment certainly does not mean that I find your posts boring.

There's just so much to do.

I started using an RSS feeder a month or so ago. Good god, it's like offering a heroin addict an unlimited supply of smack. When before I watched maybe 20 blogs, now I try to keep track of millions.

My head hurts as well as my ass.

Anyhow, keep on keeping on. I will keep reading. So please keep blogging.

Spongicide

Nooooooo!

Besser als Shadenfreude

Happiness.

What is it? Where did it come from? Where is it going? Why doesn't it stay? Why did it invite Depression, and give him the keys?

Does Happiness love company? Is Happiness a dish best served cold?

Why does Happiness often send his henchmen Contentment, Amusement and Mirthosity (that's his name, don't look at me) to do His dirty work?

Is it better to have loved and lost, than to never have loved at all?

Is Happiness related to Satisfaction, or is she just another subordinate?

I guess all that I'm trying to say is that I just watched Kill Bill volume 1, and I couldn't find one fucking redeeming reason for this movie to exist.

I hope Netflix ignores the holiday weekend and hurries over volume two.

I'm pretty sure that Hope must be realted to Happiness.

The Oedi-pill

Viagra may cause blindness.

There are just too many easy jokes in that.

Tag. I'm it.

I was recently tagged by Fruit Fly with the most maddeningly difficult meme. I have it on good authority that this was done purposefully, to see whether I would go completely insane. I'm happy to say that the nice young men in their clean white coats have patched me up fairly well; with discharge papers in hand, I have returned to take a shot at completing the request.


Total Number of Books I've Owned

Good God almighty, what kind of question is that? Shall I count the grains of sand on a beach? Should I number the stars in the heavens? Should I stop exaggerating?

I did a quick and entirely inaccurate count, and I would guess I have the better part of 300 in my office alone. Then there are the stacks in the garage, the random books all over the house, and my wife's books (communal property, no?) And these are just the one's that I currently own. I wouldn't hazard a guess, but a complete shot in the dark is probably more than 500, less than 2000.


Last Book I Bought

I believe that the last book that I bought was the Baby Einstein "What Floats?" I personally have a good idea of what floats (small rocks? gravy? a duck!), so this was for my son.

The last books that I bought for myself were Chabon's "The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay" and "The Final Solution", which I discussed earlier.


Last Book I Read

The last book that I read was Donaldson's "The Runes of the Earth", which I also, briefly posted about.


Five Books That Mean A Lot To Me

So far, so good. Here's the tricky one. How do you compress a lifetime of reading into 5 books? How much weight should your favorite childhood books carry against the masters of literature? This is where I cracked, and the nice young men intervened. During the lobotomy, it finally struck me that I didn't need to list my 5 all-time favorite books, but one's that, for whatever reason, mean a lot to me.

The best I can give is an approximation, and I have to be okay with that. This will always be in flux, and my answer tomorrow will very likely be different from what you see below.

But fuck it, let's begin:




The Haunted Spy was my absolute favorite book when I was a little KOM. A POM, I guess. I was obsessed with it, and had to have read to me every night for years. My poor, sainted Dad never complained, though, and read it whenever requested until I was old enough to read my own stories. Years later, I discovered that the book was lost to me.

One day I was speaking to my dad about this and that, and I mentioned offhand that the book was out of print, and the best that I could find at the time was a copy missing its cover and retailing on eBay for $200.00. I had hoped to purchase it for my newly born son so that I could share my favorite story with him.

That Christmas, my Dad gave me the copy that you see above. It is obviously well loved but very much intact. Inside he wrote a dedication to my son and I.

It was the best present that I have ever received.





Like Fruit Fly, this was one of my picks. Of course we read the curriculum classics in school - To Kill a Mockingbird, The Pearl, Jane Eyre, etc. But this was the first time that I really understood the power of an author, and how he could speak directly to me. The narrative is simple and lighthearted, but the subtext is powerful and dark. How I missed Vonnegut in school, or why he is not required reading I will never know.

This is one of two books that I currently consider all-time favorite that will be in this list.




Ah, Gogol. I stole this book from my 12th grade High School teacher. Well, not this book. This copy is a replacement for the original, which I gave to a friend as a present. I'm one of those people that can't throw away or donate books. But I often give them to the people that I think will enjoy them, and am forced to later purchase another copy. Sadly, the replacement does not contain the story "Taras Bulba" which was incredible, and I miss very much.

But I digress. Gogol introduced me to my love of Russian literature. It also awakened an awareness of "old" books in me that had been dormant. It was like the first time that you saw a good episode of the Twilight Zone, and realized that black and white is acceptable if the story transcends the cultural limitations of the piece. He was the doorway to Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, and for this reason alone the book is one which means a lot to me.




There was a great bookstore downtown that was owned by hermetic cat people. They would actually swap book-for-book. If you didn't have a book to swap, they offerd used and inexpensive ones. In my early twenties, when I was dirt poor, this was the greatest thing that I had ever known.

There was a whole rack dedicated to the "classics". This ran the gamut from Shakespeare to the legend of Gilgamesh, to Ayn Rand to... you get the idea. As a special treat for myself, once a week I would enter the store, center myself in front of the rack and close my eyes. I would reach out and grab a book, then purchase it sight unseen.

Some were better than others, but none were bad. Many have been my all-time favorites.

One day I chanced upon Magister Ludi. Herman Hesse shot through me like a bolt of lightning. I'm not sure that I even left the store until I was finished. I devoured everything by Hesse that I could get my hands on - Steppenwolf, Siddhartha, Under the Wheel... but at the end of the day, that first magical moment was the best. This is the second all-time favorite on this list.

In the back of my head, Hesse still whispers the answers to my spiritual questions. And then he raises more questions that he refuses to answer.




I had been aware of Sagan for years. One of my favorite bad impressions was to glutterally pronounce "Billion and billions of stars!"

But this book caught me off guard. It gave hypothetical answers to questions that I had never before raised. I hate to bring this into every post ("Dude, we were sooo high, and..."), but it came at a time when I was "experimenting" with several controlled substances. I don't know if it was Sagan or the altered consciousness, but I really got it. I grokked it, man. And it forever changed the way that I think about certain aspects of humanity and our world.


Tag five people and have them do this on their blog

So, there we go. It was a longer ride than I had intended, but if you kept your arms and legs in the vehicle you should have come out the other side relatively unscathed.

Tag, you're it:

Lisa (or "Lisa", just to keep it democratic).
PSUMommy
Talleulah
JOAT
Kaci

And a couple of people that I believe are out of town, or might not want to play, but I would be interested in hearing about:

IX
Yawn
MPH
Jane

A brief dream V

Last night I dreamed that the Bush administration had decided to begin "investigating" political dissidents. I knew that I was going to be picked up, so I tried to swallow a bullet. At the last second, just as the cattle-car slowed to a halt in front of my door, I realized that I was too scared to pull the trigger.

The Glass Bead Game

Damn limitations.

I have been thwarted by my ignorance of HTML, my lack of patience, my lack of dedication and finally some certain design issues with Blogger.

I thought it would be great to create a full multi-media collage and let it flow from some initial concept. A song, image, poem, formula... my own solitaire Glass Bead Game.

I imagined grand mouse-over control, allowing symphonies of WAV's, video, still images, all to be determined to some degree by the "reader". What I've ended up with is the very, very pale shadow of the idea which you see below.

But since I'd already copied it to Blogger so that I could verify the links, I have to follow my own rules and publish it.

Begone, would-be Opus, and torment me no longer.




And the lamb lies down on Broadway.

Early morning Manhattan,
Ocean winds blow on the land.
The Movie-Palace is now undone,
The all-night watchmen have had their fun.
Sleeping cheaply on the midnight show,
It's the same old ending-time to go.
Get out!
It seems they cannot leave their dream.
There's something moving in the sidewalk steam,
And the lamb lies down on Broadway.

Nighttime flyers feel their pains.
Drugstore takes down the chains.
Metal motion comes in bursts,
But the gas station can quench that thirst.
Suspension cracked on unmade road
The truckers eyes read Overload
And out on the subway,
Rael Imperial Aerosol Kid
Exits into daylight, spray gun hid,
And the lamb lies down on Broadway.

The lamb seems right out of place,
Yet the Broadway street scene finds a focus in its face.
Somehow its lying there,
Brings a stillness to the air.
Though man-made light, at night is very bright,
There's no whitewash victim,
As the neon's dim, to the coat of white.
Rael Imperial Aerosol Kid,
Wipes his gun- he's forgotten what he did,
And the lamb lies down on Broadway.

Suzanne tired, her work all done,
Thinks money-honey-be on-neon.
Cabman's velvet glove sounds the horn
And the sawdust king spits out his scorn.
Wonder woman draw your blind!
Don't look at me! I'm not your kind.
I'm Rael!
Something inside me has just begun,
Lord knows what I have done,
And the lamb lies down on Broadway.
On Broadway.
They say the lights are always bright on Broadway.
They say there's always magic in the air.

Diversionary tactic

I'm working on my blog Opus, which at 56K may take years to complete.

In the meantime, the most recent issue of TIME Magazine has a most peculiar "reader response" letter that begins: "I don't know a Jedi from Yoda..."

Is this a clever rejoinder to the original article, or is it possible that the responder phrased the funniest "ignorance's luck" irony that I have ever seen in typeface?

Discuss below - I'm still busy.

Sickos and Beauty

My wife recently asked why I hadn't posted any pictures of our son. The simple truth is that the internet is a scary place. While I don't fear for my wife or myself, I would prefer not to make it easier for the depraved to know anything about my family.

This of course does not mean you, my one or two readers -- it's for all of the crazies that look up doodle-bops, or whatever, and come across this site.

But I do want to share my son with the world. He's not only cute, but he is empirically the most beautiful son ever born.

So let me share: the picture below was taken a very few months into his life, and is still one of my favorites.

Pimpin' the Blogger Cooler

I was kindly invited to help contribute to a new blog, the Blogger Cooler.

It is the brainchild of Reese the Law Girl, a place to "hang out" during the day, and leave comments. The premise is that this is your blog, as much as any of the contribitors. A short suggestion is posted, and the opinions are provided by you.

It's still a work in progress, but stop on by and say hello.

The Bachelor's Guide

1. A casserole can be made from anything. I am reminded of Homer's clove, Collins mix and frozen pie crust entry.

2. If you have to have a pet, get a cat. They don't need you, and they can hunt if they are out of food.

3. Wash your bedsheets when they turn color. This weekly maintenance nonsense is perpetrated by the detergent guild.

4. If you buy carefully, Pabst will actually pay you for a case of beer.

5. Contrary to belief, fish can live off of Taco Bell. But experience tells me that they still need sunlight and air.

6. Interesting girls aren't.

7. If possible, live within walking distance of downtown. This may be relevant whether or not you are a bacehlor.

8. The girl that you live with didn't move in with you because you pay rent on time. If you don't know what this means, ask your other roommate.

9. If you leave the bar at last call, you still have 10 minutes to hit the liquor store.

10. Look the gift-horse in the mouth. Sometimes they have other goodies in their throat.

11. Label your cooking utensils. When they all come from goodwill, they all look the same.

12. PBS is worth its weight in cable.

13. If you have to forgoe a utility, make it electricity. It's more boring, but at least you can take a shower.

14. Keep a toothbrush on your person at all times. You never know.

15. A keg a week keeps the neighbors away.

16. Casual sex is seldomly either.

17. Gnats are a sign. Sandblast your kitchen.

18. Pink growths in the shower are a good thing. What pink thing has ever been bad? Note: you may experience smelly, itchy feet. This is normal.

19. Mom has a washer and dryer. Visit her, won't you?

20. You won't have health insurance. Don't get sick.

21. If you have the internet, you can learn to knot a tie. If not, apply at Burger King.

22. Don't dismiss letters from the county. It's probably for the best that you dismante the "magical emptys castle."

23. She stopped accepting mix-tapes 5 years ago.

24. But if you must, don't forget to include Janis Joplin or Tori Amos. They eat this stuff up.

25. Oh, and your hand-made Federation uniform does not impress. If it does, propose now. Do not pass go, do not collect $200.

26. Ramen is not a food, but a condiment. Eat it with everything.

27. Your friends love you, but they want you to fail. You can be happy, or you can be rich.

28. Cockroaches are bad. Burritos sprouting tendrils in the sink are worse. But there is nothng like the sound of a mouse struggling, his back broken, when you're high. Don't set traps.

29. Video games and tequila count for a lot. Ignore neither.

30. When you get kicked out, or your friends move, couch-surf. You can never go home, and your parents don't want you around, anyway.

You know you're getting old when...

Speaking of little-guy:

I caught myself in the bathroom mirror at just the right angle, and realized that I am going grey with a bullet.

I glanced down at the counter and saw a Parent magazine.

Is this now my throne-room reading material?

I wonder if these things are related.

Idiocy - a parable II

My brother in law, who watches my son, had to take his own son to the doctors this afternoon. He came by the office to drop little-guy off. I had cleared it with boss-man, so I was able to leave early today.

When we got home, I asked him what he wanted to do: stack blocks, look through a picture book, or maybe ride the rocking horse? His reply was to jump up on the couch and cross his legs. This means that he wants to watch a video. Sadly, we know how to raise couch-potatos.

I slid the Tele-tubbies tape into the VCR, and he squealed with laughter.

Later, after my wife returned home and the tape was over, I ran to the store to pick up a few essentials for dinner.

While dinner was cooking, I turned the television back on and started flipping.

An aside here: is there anything more relaxing than just channel surfing? I know that I drive my wife to hair-pulling, foam spitting insanity, but it just soothes me to flick. flick. flick.

I noticed that the further up I flicked, the worse the static. I tried to go back down to channel 2 and 3, but they were completely blocked.

Indignantly, I decided to call Comcast (the local cable provider). While I was upset at yet another interruption in our service, I tried to be courteous. I explained that our cable appeared to be out of order, and asked if she (the CS rep) had any idea what the problem might be.

"Well, sir, I am not showing a cable outage in your area. However, this is determined by the number of calls that we receive. I will log this, and if more occur we will look further into the situation."

I waited wordlessly.

"Oh. And all of our technicians have gone home for the night, but I can arrange for one to visit tomorrow."

"I think that would be best," I said, not a little perturbed under my friendly demeanor.

After arranging the for the "cable-guy" to arrive, I hung up and decided to do further research. Squeezing my hand behind the entertainment console I jiggled and shimmied the coaxial cable at the wall. Satisfied that it was properly secured, I tried the same thing with the TV connection. And the VCR connection.

All seemed proper, so I went into our bedroom to check the other TV.

To my surprise, the signal was crystal clear. I flicked up and down the channels, just to make sure.

"Crap," I thought. I probably have a bad coax cable. Our entertainment system weighs 300 tons, and I have purposely forgone updating several A/V components just so that I would never have to mess with the wires, weight and mess again.

Heading back to the front room, sudden inspiration struck.

"R," I asked "is the VCR still on?"

And it was.

Sheepishly this time, I called Comcast back to cancel the service call.

"Were you able to fix the problem yourself?" the CS rep asked hopefully.

"Yes. Er, no. Er.. yes. You see, I'm an idiot. I left the VCR on, and, well... you know..."

"Sir, you're not an idiot. You wouldn't believe how many calls we get for exactly this 'problem'."

I bet I would.

The moral of this story? Be kind to your CS representative, even if you know that you're right. Because the odds are even that you aren't.

I know the Devil, and he's a good guy

Niel is not of this Earth.

Although we have little in common, although he exists in a plane of existence that none of us have experienced, although he would have gladly stolen any of my girlfriends, I love him.

I knew Niel in Highschool, but I was not drawn into his gravity-well until my first year of junior college. He is charisma incarnate. Scratch that, he is Plato's eternal form of charisma. The guy sweats likeability.

I am unable to describe that-which-is-Niel in simple human terms, so I will try to relate a couple of stories:

I remember his counter-top one night. There were 200 beer bottles neatly lined up into a beautiful snake. And what was the snake's head? A blender. And what was that smell? The motor had burned out from trying to make one too many daiquiris. He just laughed and said "Fuck it," and you knew it wasn't just the beer talking.

He had an entire wall in his bedroom painted to look like a beach-scape. He would be happy to smoke you down until the sun came up. But you dared not speak. Someone might try to say "Man, I am so wast-"
"Shut the FUCK UP! I'm trying to mellow."
We would laugh freely at this seeming incongruity, but we would not speak. Not out of fear, shame or concern. We would keep silent simply because it was somehow correct.

He would leave to spend months at a time living in Incline Village, snowboarding and tearing at life's jugular. I remember one time he met us at a bar for a brief time, then left to go home with 3 women. He had been back in town for 45 minutes.

Niel decided to join the army. While in boot camp, he mailed us a VHS tape of his squad's gas-mask training. They emerged from the sealed bunker, eyes blazing and drool flowing. Niel threw up several times, spit, then looked straight at the camera - straight at the viewer - and smiled. Then he flashed the horns.

A few weeks later he showed up at my house. He needed a place to crash. I swear to you that if he had just killed my mother I wouldn't have refused him. It only took 24 hours for the army to find my phone number - he was AWOL, and they wanted him back. The army was swayed by his powers, and he was discharged without a single mark against him. Or so he said.

And I believe him.

Niel was there when the woman that I thought I would marry left me. He was there when I would return from some failed personal quest and needed a friend. Despite his endless luck and gumption, or perhaps because of it, he was always a good friend.

The last I'd heard from him, he was installing radar and satellite equipment on US warships across the globe for obscene amounts of money. My friends and I sometimes reminisced about his exploits, and re-told stories that are too debauched even for this humble blog. Despite all that I've said, I didn't realize how much I missed him.

Until he called me two weeks ago. He is back in town.

I don't know if these old bones are ready.

Now playing at a bar in hell

Check out this song.

The first time I heard this tune, it took me a few seconds to realize what I was hearing. It took several more weeks for me to accept it.

Took the words out of my mouth

I live in the northern edge of the San Francisco bay area. It is a relatively short drive to Lake Tahoe, and in fact many people from the bay area make weekend visits. Every day I see vehicles with the "Keep Tahoe Blue" bumpersticker.



Let me rephrase that: Every day I see SUVs with the "Keep Tahoe Blue" bumpersticker. In fact, I don't believe that I've ever seen this sticker on a vehicle smaller than the space shuttle. This fact drives me to distraction, and I decided to go on a rant about it.

But while doing a little research before posting, I came across Jeremy Zawodny's blog, and found this short but great post.

The comments come from both sides of the debate, and this sets up an interesting exchange. The only thing that I will add is a sad head shake over the comments by the people that state how they need to drive an SUVs and don't see the irony in placing the Tahoe bumper sticker on a Hummer.

KOM bears his past. And laughs.

I had been looking for a way to host data since I started this blog. Rather, I had been thinking about looking for a way to host data since starting this blog. Because a very short Google search later I found what I was looking for.

Ripway is modest, but offers exactly what I need - free data storage. I've only been playing with them for a couple of days, so I can't tell you how awesome (or not) they are, but it's good to know that the service exists, whatever you choose. Especially if you, like me, are doing this for free and are willing to jump through hoops for free service.

So:

I had mentioned wanting to write below. This is the entry that won me the encyclopedic dictionary previously mentioned. Please understand that it was written 15 years ago, and I have not bothered to go back and look at it. Raw and as-is, so to speak. Enjoy.

The last piece of fiction that I wrote, 10 years ago (god, has it been this long?) is here. My testicles shrink at the thought of sharing, because it is so insanely bad. Keep in mind that I was drunk on "Red Wolf" and Paul Bowles when I wrote this. Then cut me some slack because I was a pothead. Otherwise, enjoy.

Finally, when I was a wee chap, I made a little side scrolling space shooter in BASIC. I've kept this jem for the hell of it. Every time I buy a new computer, it and it's cousins are among the first things to be transfered. You can never go back home, but sometimes you can remember what it was like. Again, enjoy.

The above file is in .BAS form. It should be text-readable, but will need a QBasic application to run. I didn't want to share the compiled form, because it was written 100 years ago, and computers have become far too powerfull. I installed a delay in the first lines to acount for this. Just increase the "for i, next i" loop to slow the program down to managable speeds. Then you may need Qbaisc for windows to run the puppy.

Lunch Time

My review of the Safeway Cobb Salad:

Do you like olives? Really, really like olives? Do you dream of fist-sized chunks of bleu cheese? Do you crave tomatos so sweet you think you're eating tomato jolly ranchers? Do you miss bacos? Are you tired of crisp, fresh lettuce? Prefer 1000-year old eggs to hardboiled? Think chicken usually has too much flavor?

Would you like the rest of my salad?

This Bud's for you, or else

I had heard about this story a while ago, and completely forgotten it until the news again reminded me.

It would seem Mr. Hopkins, an employee of Budweiser, was fired for drinking Coors at a local bar.

What's next? Wal-mart "associates" fired for shopping at Target? Burger King employees terminated for eating at Denny's? Dog walkers given their dog-walking papers for owning cats?

I hereby promise that I will never let Budweiser pass these lips again (unless there's no other beer available.)

But seriously, what assholes. Only the "King" of beers would dare such hubris. I don't think that it will happen, but I sincerely hope that they take a good hit in the wallet for this behavior. Join me, and boycot Bud. Let the cry of a half dozen angry beer drinkers be heard, and let Budweiser tremble before our (burp) wrath!

A Brief Dream IV

A few night ago I dreamed that I had somehow aquired J's phone number.

I called him at all times of day and night, with any little thing that amused me.

During the last call, he asked me "Dude, is there something wrong with you that I should know about?"

Haruchai & despair

I just finished Stephen Donaldson's "The Runes of the Earth".

My brief but intense love of fantasy has been bookended by the Thomas Covenant series.

What more can I say? I read Lord Foul's Bane before I read the the LOTR series. Later, much later, I finished the second chronicles of Thomas Covenant.

And now I have read the first installment of the last Chronicles.

As I understand it, we will not get another book for 2 years or so. God dammit! I draw on the eldritch earthpower to make Donaldson write faster. What boon, that?

Thank god I'm not a nerd, or I might take this seriously.

Scribbling and bibbling, bibbling and scribbling

I heard on the radio that police have announced that they found the "donor" of the infamaous Wendy's soup finger. The commentator quipped "Why do we always get this kind of news at lunch?" and, "I guess he was fingered!"

The radio also told me that the government is considering closing down the naval base in Groton, Connecticut. This is where I was born. I guess it's true that you can never go home.

The sun has peeked out from behind the clouds for seemingly the first time since November. All the women are wearing halter tops and shorts. Ahh, the most magical time of year.

My hit counter has been through the roof with "doodle bops" searches. I cringe that peope would click my blog for information! By the by, FF, I get at least 5 hits per day for "sticky white panties". I guess I've got to pay this dubious honor forward, somehow. What I want to know is, who is actually looking this up? I'm down with kinky, but what makes this the search of choice?

Somewhat related, I have been thinking about posting about working for Michael Chiarello and NapaStyle, but I'm nervous about how quickly and accurately the search engines parse these poor pages. I don't want to be sued for slander, although anything that I write would be true (if not flattering). It wouldn't take a rocket scientist to figure out who I am, and I'm sure that he has an army of (bork-bork!) chef-lawyers that would love to have my ass.

I just wanted you all to know that I did not (alas, again) win the CA state lottery. When I do, I will make an effort to visit each and every one of you, and will come with a bouquet of expertly rolled $100 bills. It's the least that I could hypothetically do.

Blogging has taken a serious toll on my online chess involvement. Somebody tell me that they play, so that we can play. I promise you that I'm so out of practice that I would gladly take a pawn's advantage.

One final thought. What's up with people saying that they are "more mature" than other people their own age? Is it just me, or does this indicate a lack of maturity? And why doesn't it end in middle school? Why are 40 year-old women telling me this? Trust me, you really, really don't want to know.

It was a dark and stormy night....

I'd love to write.

Since the age of 12 I've kept a journal of some kind. Most of my pre-teen writing is of the "woe is me" variety, and would be laughable except that I remember something of the truth, or my truth, of what was scrawled on the pages. Through highschool I wrote more fiction than anything else. The drama began again in my early 20's, as evidenced by yet another link to the Germany chronicles. Currently it's mostly right here, in whatever form this blog has become.

I always did well in english. In highschool I was placed in the GAT programs. But to be honest, I chalk this up to my private-school days rather than any natural aptitude. We were well prepared for public highschool, and I was able to coast through in a pot-induced haze. Of course I had to read the books, but this was never an issue for me because I love to read. Plus, we re-read many of the same books in the first three years of highschool that I had covered in my 8th grade english class.

When I was 14, in the early days of AOL, I joined an on-line writing contest. I still have the unwieldly "encyclopedic dictionary" that was awarded as first prize. I'm not sure that my story was better than anyone else's, but it was longer...

By 12th grade, and into the college that I took, I noticed that my writing was often dry. It sounded better as "just the fact's, ma'am" journalism than the fiction that I hoped to write. If I became engrossed (as often was the case) in a particular author, I would hear he or she turning in their grave as I badly emulated them. But I've never had an original voice.

The thought had never crossed my mind until just now, but maybe this is one of the reasons that I love the movie Amadeus so much. I had always thought of mediocrity in broad strokes. While I applied it to myself, it was as a gestalt, not any particular issue. But when I think about the great authors, past and present, I ask myself "why even bother trying to write?" It's been done better by someone before.

There's something to be said about words, and bringing order out of the chaos of letters; diminishing the entropy of the universe by some insignificant degree. But that's probably the rationale for "reality" TV. Some order, as some orders, should not be blindly followed.

So I sit. And I blog. And I think that maybe someday an idea will burn itself into my head, an idea that must be born. Then I think that this sounds like I'm waiting for divine intervention. Then I think that God helps he who helps himself. Then I think that I don't necessarily believe in God. Then I sit. And I blog about not necessarily believing in God. Then... it's like a mobius strip. I believe that the technical term is a "rut".

I just read over this drivel before posting, and it occurs to me that it would appear I'm fishing for compliments. The idea makes me blush, and I assure you that this is not the case. I just wanted to share, let you know a slice of what makes me tick.

I control the vertical - and the horizontal

For all of the hemming and hawing below, I still consider myself a religious fellow.

I may have forgotten to tell you all, but I am an ordained priest.



I removed my given name from the document, but the rest I assure you is true. A dear friend of mine asked me to officiate his wedding. How could I say no?

In the end, any given practicioner of religion is just a person with a piece of paper that says that they are legitimate.

Well, the documents have been filed with the state, and I am truly an ordained minister in the Universal Life Church. Like Chris "in the morning" Stevens, I can legally marry you. How fucked up is that?

Sweet nothings. And nothingness.

I was reading a post on D&BQ that made me consider my view of life.

Not re-evaluate, but again consider.

I was born Episcopelian, rasied Lutheran and married Catholic. And what did that magical concoction create? A dyed in the wool agnostic.

Sadly, most of my post-religious education has come from Herman Hesse. Magister Ludi, Siddartha, Steppenwolf... forget it, the littany of Hesse shaped my formative years. I say sadly because I have been exposed to so much since. I'm sorry Hesse, but you are not the "answer" - but you never pretended to be. And therein lies the magic.

70% of the classes that I took in college were humanities courses. And 50% of those were taught by one brilliant professor. I loved her from day one, and signed up for any class that she taught, just so that I could be there. If she had taught "proper application of plastic wrap to irregularly shaped bowls", I would have been in the front row.

I bring this up because as much as I loved her, as much as her classes taught, they were, ostensibly, secular. Well, as secular as Joseph Campbell, but I digress.

I also took a class from a total space-cadet on comparative religion. This guy prefaced his class by telling of the crazy kama-sutra position he'd tried, and in what circumstances. He would (does?) have an excellent blog, but lacked a bit on the critical-thinking aspect in his class.

Damn, but I ramble.

Very long story short, my life experience has led me to belive that there is something greater that I am. It might be whales, it might be mountains and it might be god. I don't know. But my research has led me to believe that it is a nameless thing. Worshipping, to me, seems futile, because it can not answer. At least not directly.

Anyone that tells you that they know anything, and particularly scripture, is trying to sell you something. Follow the money, people. Then sit in a field of green and contemplate.

I'm not anti-God people, I'm not. I just think that He is much bigger than you can put into your box. I also believe that He is more inclusive than you imagine. Than I can imagine.

I personally believe in an infinite, lumbring giant that takes millenia (in our reckoning) to pass a single thought. He is all, and we are mere zits, cells, etc. on His back. And I already lied - I think that his reckoning is not of his world. I believe that "he" does note exist, as such. We are all matter and energy, and when we die we will return to the "collective".

There is a collective, but it is impersonal and cold. It doesn't care for us because we are as insignificant as a thing can be. Yet we are its consciousness. We exist in this space-time simply to explore the idea of existence for this collective. There is nothing to "read" our lives, and nothing to "judge" our lives later. Only we who exist, currently, and so shortly, on this metaphysical plane.

Good times, bad times

We met in Houston. In the ensuing whirlwind romance, it took me only hours to convince her to come back with me to California.

We were together nearly every day, truly inseparable. I knew what she wanted, and she knew how to get me there. I could always turn her on - she never had a headache, never said No.

She got tattoos for me. She had a beautiful Steal Your Face on her back, and an amusing scribble on her butt.

Over time, though, we drifted apart. I think she always knew that I cheated on her, but she never said anything. She was always ready for me. She was my Giving Tree, and like the boy in that sad tale I used her up without a thought. I would even hit her, sometimes. Once I kicked her. It was never her fault, and we both knew that, but she took my blows and continued to offer anything that I could ask of her.

Once, when I was at work, she was violated. I didn't find out unitl hours later. Her already homely looks were made grotesque. Despite my anger, there was nothing that I could do to help. She bore this indignity as well, and continued to give. But she never listened to music again.

One time I tried to see if she would still like the songs we used to sing together while driving. I bought her a new tape deck and turned it on. She screamed, once, and has since remained completely mute.

Days before I washed my hands of her forever, she was hit by a car. It was not fatal, but I still think it was cruel of me to leave her in such a state. I understand that a charity organization took her in, and gave her a new lease on life.

She always loved me, and in my melancholy I will admit that I loved her, too.

I miss you Festiva.

Ukiah krow

gniciovni eb dluohs
hguoht yenom sdeen ohw
derob yrev ma i

An eye-twitching mystery

Has anyone seen the Lewis Black routine about overhearing someone say "If it wasn't for that horse, I never would have spent that year in college"?

In the comments of a recent post of mine, in which I wrote about an article that I'd run across on Salon, somone asked "Does this happen in a spoon?" I read it shortly after it first appeared, shrugged, and moved on.

That night I woke up in a cold sweat. What the hell does that even mean? What could posses someone to say something like that? Was this the insane comment of a certifiable blog stalker? Perhaps a coded message from the future?

Luckily she did not post anonymously, so I was able to go to her blog and try to figure out what this was about. I couldn't find an email address, so I commented on her most recent post. I stated that after the non-sequiter left on my blog, I just had to know what she meant by it.

4 sleepless nights later she responded: "You had said your friend dreams he is sailing in a spoon. I wondered if you had had any adventures as such."

Get out of my head, lady! What a freaky thing to say! What's even more frighteing is that she's right! So I assumed the only possible explanation: she's some kind of a god, and she's messing with me. While I was composing a fealty speech in my head, it occured to me that I may have said something about my friend and spoons while "next-blogging" and leaving random comments. So I scoured her blog. Nothing. But she never said that I had mentioned it on her blog. Touche.

The original mystery is solved, but now a deeper mystery remains. Under what circumstances would I have mentioned my friend sailing on a spoon in his dreams? At what moment in your life do you find the need to share something like that?

I so badly want to ask her now if she knows why I would have said that (or put my mind at ease by letting me know that she is, in fact, a god). But I dare not, because I'm just one tenuous hair from going completely insane. I don't want to be the crazy one running around screaming Spoon! Spoon! Spoon!

Tequila travelogue

We were heavily drinking tequila, and it was about 12:30am. We asked ourselves if tequila really came from Mexico, or whether it was a sham perpetrated by Cuervo, et al.

One thing led to another, and I found myself tying my shoes to go. This is still an inside joke with my friends. Did KOM tie his shoes? Then he must be serious.

I went upstairs, threw my toothbrush and a couple of shirts into my backpack, and I was ready to go. We were going to drive to Mexico, and we were going to go now.

Aaron, Anna and I were 30 minutes outside of town before Anna realized that she didn't have her birth control pills with her. So we turned around and wasted another hour getting to where we were. God forbid that she leave without them. Perhaps she was expecting more action that I got on the trip?

We eventually merged onto I5, my Festiva chomping at the bit for more road. I remember a woman waiving us down, then speeding up, then flipping us off. We were never sure what this was about. We assumed that she must be a chupacabra. If you've never driven I5, imagine a strait line extending forever. I would guess more people have died from boredom on this interstate than in traffic accidents.

We just reached the Grapevine as the sun came up. Something had happened, and there were hundreds of trucks and cars attempting to turn around on a two-lane road. Consulting our map, we found a back-way through the quagmire. This was the most desolate, lonely road that I've ever driven. This is where "Texas Chain Saw Massacre" takes place, or that episode of X Files with the Mom under the bed. Creepy, and very, very long.

After several day's worth of BS which was dutifully conducted in less than 4 hours (including visiting Aaron' sister, among other hair-raising events), we checked into a budget sleepery and tried to crash. I called an ex-girlfriend who lived in Sand Diego. She agreed to go with us to Mexico.

Her name is Julie, and someday I might feel the need to post specifically about her. In the meantime, just know that she was a tall blond. She had taken it upon herslef to deliver a several hundred mile booty call when my last girlfriend and I broke up. She also put dish washing liquid into our dishwasher, which caused suds to fill the entire kitchen. Good thing we were always high back then, or I might have been pissed.

Early the next morning I called my job. No one answered so I left a message something to the effect of "I've been shanghai'd for my birthday. I'm in Mexico, and I won't be able to come in for the next couple of days!" We were within a month or two of my birthday, so I thought this was appropriate. We stopped at Split Pea Anderson's, but didn't enter. We crossed the highway and went to a great consignment shop that had several t-shirts that made us laugh. Further fortified with clothing, we continued.

One quick comment on San Diego. Has anyone been there? Have you seen the highway signs picturing fleeing Mexicans, the daughter's pigtails trailing her head, that signify that you should slow down, illegal immigrant crossing? How surreal.

We parked right on the border and walked over. Took a cab and entered TJ. We had spoken several times on the way down about not going to TJ. We wanted to explore the countryside, see the sights, etc. But it was not to be. Let me tell you, it's harder than you think to plan a trip when you leave in the middle of the night, blitzed on tequila.

The rest is a blur, let me fill you in on the highlights:

I remember a bar. There were two beer choices - Tecate or somthingsomething. Aaron asked what the somethinsomething was. It turned out to be a really fucking big Tecate. We laughed and laughed.

There was some club that offered a bucket of Corona's for $3 (American). They drew us in by putting some skank out screaming "Hey sexy American cowboy!!". Aaron and Anna were alternatively wearing a large, leather cowboy hat because they were dorks, and it made us laugh. The beer was great, and the tequila was free.

Another club and more tequila. The very insistant man with the whistle and the large bottle of tequila kept pouring it down our throats. Firewater, indeed.

After the black-out, I came-to in a smaller, empty club. We were well stocked for drinks, and Aaron and Anna kept putting the crapiest songs they could find into the jukebox and tried to breakdance on the dance floor. Julie and I made out the whole time. The whole time that she wasn't dropping her drinks. The proprieter finally came over and placed newspaper on the floor to catch the shattered beer bottles and drink glasses that fell, like rain, from our drunken hands.

At some point we came across a very, very drunk (and this is saying something, given our state) man who was willing to answer all of our questions about chupacabras. I think he told us that they were most prevelant in Brazil. When we finally left him, he was cradled in the arm of a giant statue. I don't recall how he got up there. Or why he kissed my Julie.

I remember sometime later that night trying to find an ATM. For some reason, they couldn't access US banks, and we were shit out of money. Regardless, we found a little Italian restaurant, and sobered up some with spaghetti and pizza. The irony was lost on us, at the time. We finally found a cab that took us (pro-bono, btw), to an ATM that would give us money. He (the cab driver) brought us back to the border.

Brushing by, nay, running into the US custom agents, we declared nothing and laughed and laughed. I had Cuban cigars poking out of every pocket on my body.

We stayed at Julie's parents house that night.

The drive back was anticlimatic. Except for Anna telling me that I had asked Julie to fuck me in the bathroom stall of one of the clubs we were in. Apparently this was disturbing, and Julie was pissed. I feel confident, though, that I would have let her know that a BJ would be acceptable. But I'll never really know. Either way, I don't remember sex, oral or otherwise, on this trip.

Aaron and I sat in my living room, smoking cuban cigars, and listeed to the endless "you're fired" messages that were left for me on the answering machine. We laughed and laughed.

Finally I untied my shoes.

Best response yet

My sister ran into a friend of ours who hadn't yet heard about our news. Friend later asked her boyfriend (the Doktor), "Have you heard about R and KOM?"

To which the Doktor replied "Christ, tell me that they didn't get another cat."

Ego and teddy bears

Dear diary,

Why are all of the girls at school soooo cute, and why don't they know that I exist? Maybe I should begin an on-line diary, so that everyone from Manhattan to Timbuktu can know about me?

What's that Daddy Woo-Woo? You don't think that's a good idea?

I would agree, my fuzzy bear friend, but I'm not a 12 year-old girl anymore. I have needs, and no better outlet than this.

"Squeek?" Well, true. I've never been a 12 year-old girl. Granted.
"Squeek-squeek?" I love you too, my oldest confidant. But hush, I have something to say.

I logged onto Blogger with the intention of sharing another few thoughts. Then it occured to me that I'm plum out of'm. I don't want to keep my audience of millions... well, let's be honest here, I am talking to Daddy Woo-Woo. We'll guess at 5. Anyhow, didn't want to keep my small audience waiting. I haven't posted since Saturday night (sunday, Mother's Day!, morning). I'm sure that I could have come up with something about Shatner, or airline peanuts, or Gore inventing the internet. But I have drawn a complete blank.

Well, not complete. It occurs to me that blogging is perhaps the most self indulgent, narcissistic enterprise possible. A few links here, a few comments there, and I expect people to think that I have anything new or interesting to say? What would make someone like myself, a generally normal guy with a 9-5 job, (almost) 2 kids, and a computer think that I could be someone in a realm that I know so little about?

What makes people blog? There's the politicol blogs. That I understand, although I wonder if late at night M Drudge is asking himself "how did this snowball so big? Who am I to go there?" Actually, I don't think that Drudge has this problem. Then there are the lifestyle, cultural, "embedded", music, love, sex... well, we'll just say a lot of them. But what about the average joe's personal weblog? What emotion or need causes us to put forth our personal feelings, hates, wants, loves, etc.?

I've posted before that I'm a solipsist. Woo-Woo, this is a lie. I'm sorry that I've sold myself at the alter of ego, but this is a lie. Otherwise, I wouldn't care what I wrote. Many people don't. I wouldn't care what people think. But I do. I wouldn't care that this post has become far, far, too long. But I care.

Does the desire to blog exhibit some failure of regular human contact? Some need for aplause in the only medium that we may have some talent for?

Daddy Woo-Woo, I must put you to bed for tonight. You have a lot to think about, and, to be honest, I don't understand your squeeks like I did as a child.

Give my best to the Care-Bears.

Speaking of earthquakes!

Wow, that was a pretty strong tremmor. Living in California, I'm used to quakes that I can feel once or twice a year, but that was the first one since we moved to fairfield that I've been worried about.

I just ran into the master bedroom where my wife was sitting straight up and looking confused. I then ran over to the boy's room, where he slept through the whole thing.

We'll probably hear that this was only a 3.5 on the Richter. Whatever. I'm going to try to read the news and find out about our little (not so little) quake and then go to bed.

My wife and I have good news. Please see the previous post.

Happy Mother's Day! Earthquake and all!!

------------Update

As of 5/8/05, 2:04am, the official report is that we had a 4.1, centered within about 1 mile of my house. No injuries reported, a minor earthquake as they go. The proximity explains why I felt it so strongly, though.

Love thy mother

Happy mothers day! Call them, send them flowers, send them chocolate.

Remember that without your mothers you would not be. And remember that odds are she changed most of your diapers and gave you the welcoming hugs when you scraped your knee. Remember that she would love you even if you were a ticket puncher, gas attendant or crazy murderer. Remember that she did her best, and you are blessed because of her.

This is a very special mother's day for the KOM family. My wife is carrying our second child. We plan on telling our families today.

We have known for a couple of weeks now, and it was recently confirmed by our doctor. We are expecting a late December baby. Hold on to your hats, people. This may be a Christmas baby!

We are both very excited, but I must admit that I am again lost in a sea of self-doubt and confusion. If you care enough to read my blog, you may remember recent posts that were, we'll just say, a bit self indulgent. I knew that we were expecting, and I was looking once again over my past. People may disagree with me, but I am just as nervous and silly-giddy as the first time. I feel like I've forgotten everything that I learned as a parent beforehand! I am actually more nervous now than I was the first time R let me know that she was pregnant.

Actually, as I remember the story, I came home from work and she threw the pee-stick at my head! There I was, wiping urine off of my face and looking at some white plastic nonsense. It finally passed through my thick skull what was happening!

If my wife is reading, this is not quite how it happened. Otherwise, it was just like that.

This time, she came home from her sister's friend's wedding shower. She mentioned that she had forgotten how many old wives tales and superstitions marked these events. She said that she had forgotten that the bows that you break while opening your presents are the number of children that you will have. She said that she must have broken two.

Watching TV, I said "What? What does that even mean?"

When she didn't reply for several seconds, I looked over at her (I swear, this is my wife's greatest power - to state importance through silence). It became clear soon enough. I was going to be a daddy again, despite our 3-year plan.

Here's where I wish that I could tell you that I jumped into her arms and wept like a bridesmaid. As a matter of fact, I said something like "Hunh."

My mom tells a great story about the news of my birth. We were Navy, and my dad was always away. My mom finally got him on the phone and told him that she was pregnant again. Keep in mind that my closest sibling is ten years older than I. My mother sweetly calls me a "miracle" instead of a mistake. My dad calls me the tax-break that he didn't get for 1975, since I stubbornly refused to be born until January 4th, 1976. I'm not sure that he's ever quite forgiven me. Anyhow, my mom tells my dad that she's pregnant, to which my dad replies "Yeah, umm, hmm. Well, we're going to have to -" at which point the phone went dead.

My mom laughs about it now. My dad still looks embarrassed.

Anyhow, I was shocked. Absolutely, to the marrow shocked. To the damn cells, atoms and quarks shocked. I did what any guy would do - I drove to the store for a pack of cigarettes. The good news is that I came back. And after the initial shock, I realized how happy I was. How happy I am!

It was an earthquake, but the best kind.

I love you, R, and I'm so glad that you are bearing my second child. Happy mother's day!

No rest for the wicked

My wife and I were driving home from a lovely afternoon visit to her grandmother, my son's great-grandmother. We had just taken the off ramp to our street, when my wife said, "What the hell?"

I looked around for a traffic problem, maybe a car cutting another off, but didn't notice any major issues. I looked back at her and asked "What?"

She didn't answer. It took me another few seconds for my mind to piece together what I was seeing. Two identical trucks, joining the highway ahead of us, were painted with photos of aborted fetuses. These were of the graphic nature that would recently only have been available on extremist's websites. Body parts scrambled, dead near-term infants.

It was horrible and nauseating.

But I just let it go. I know that there are seriously fucked up people out there, and when they are not busy telling us what we should be allowed to see TV, they are busy telling us of God's love. Or they are driving trucks with graphic photos of abortion on every surface.

I wonder how far I would be able to drive with a picture of a decimated city, the lifeless strewn on the roadside like so much garbage? On the other side of the truck, I might paint a picture of an Arab woman, stooped over the charred remains of her youngest son. And on the back, so that everyone following me could see it, I would paint a jawless, dead American soldier. His hair would be slicked with blood, and his extremities would blackened or missing.

How would you like to see this, America?

I'm so angry, and it's not because of what I've seen. It's because these images made my wife cry.

Fuck you, you heartless bastards. Feel your righteousness now. I know you feel stongly, I know. But one day, exposed breasts will be on every television station, Howard Stern will be the voice of your microwave and your dirty, ill-begoten children will love every damn minute of it. Mark my words, your fanaticism will end.

And with it, any thoughts that I waste thinking about hating you.

The bird to you... sorry

I consider myself a good driver. I've only received one speeding ticket, and it wasn't my fault. It was the fault of the damn highway patrol officer.

Today (technicaly yesterday), some jerkoff decided to play a game with me. I was merging from two lanes to one, across a narrow bridge. I was clearly in front of Herr Schwantzkopf, but at the last possible second, he pushed the pedal to the metal of his piece of shit Le Baron. There was a surreal moment where we caught eachothers eyes. I looked over with pure, confused hate and he looked back with a smug calm. Like he does this all the time, and on purpose. And he enjoys it.

Let me take a step back. You know how to merge, right? I mean, I know that you all say yeah, yeah whatever. But you understand the concept, right? Like a zipper, one car from the left is just ahead of one car from the right. That car is just ahead of the car from the left. And so on.

You fucking liars. You don't know.

If you did, we wouldn't be backed up for 3 hours every time that a lane merges. You know you're guilty - you think that by cutting off the car ahead of you, you will save yourself one-billionth of a second on your trip home. In fact, if you do it enough, you might save the better part of one-millionth of a second. I don't mean to sound insensitive. You probably need to deliver the drugs before 5:30, or maybe your mob boss just called and needs a pedicure... now.

But I digress.

While I was looking into Mr. Donkey-fuck's eyes, I realized that my left arm was raising, quite against my will, into the classic salute of the road. Finally he took his eyes off mine and squeezed the last bit out of his POS in order to pull in front of me. It was too late, I couldn't show him my middle-fingered wave to any effect. I was forced to glare at his bumper. But I glared as hard as I could.

I've only flipped-off one vehicle in my life.

I don't remember where I was going or why. But I remember a little blue hatchback suddenly cutting in front of me and nearly forcing me into the delivery vehicle double-parked on the street nearby. Instead of trying to break or swerve, I found myself, like an insolant prisoner facing the firing squad, shoving my hand as far out of the open window as possible and forecefully wagging the longest digit at the bitch.

Later that afternoon, getting Starbucks, the selfsame "bitch", aka "barista" said to me "You're that guy that flipped me off this afternoon!" Check and mate! She was here, and I could let her have it!

Then it occured to me that one shouldn't piss off their barista. I knew better. I was working as a waiter, and would be happy to piss on your dinner if you were an asshole.

I gave my coffee a sniff, then another. I replied that I must have been having a bad day, no worries. Right? Right? Hah, hah. A little fun between patron and worker.

Two weeks later I forgot my sweatshirt on a chair out front. They were kind enough to keep it for me, but I still gave it a sniff. Not that I would have washed it - I was a bachelor, and a little piss never hurt anybody. But it was the thought that mattered. And there was no strange scent. After inquiring, I found out that the girl that I had flipped off was the same one that found, recognized and saved my sweatshirt. I never spoke to her again, so I don't know if it was altruism, guilt or something sinister that I never uncovered. But she had saved my favorite sweatshirt from certain goodwillism.

I swear at people, I project as much anger as my body can muster, I turn beet red with steam coming out of my ears. But I've never flipped anyone off since. You never know when that person will be your future boss, future wife, future benefactor.

Or the person who personally handles your food.

Mickey and the glass pipe

SOMEBODY GET THESE DAMN DOODLE BOPS OUT OF MY HEAD!

Let me back up.

My son usually watches 30-45 minutes of Disney Channel TV in the morning while either my wife or I gets ready for work. It used to feature Jo-Jo's Circus (has anyone seen this? the theme song reminds me of Lush), the Wiggles (I briefly mentioned them before), maybe the Shanna Show or Clay.

Tutu once remarked that she wasn't fond of the Wiggles. My wife and I laughed and said to ourselves, "kids programming isn't meant for adults!"

But now, oh now, come the Doodle Bops. And they sing, and they dance, and they do all of the things one would expect of a childrens show. Except turning usually decent fathers into Doodle-cidal maniacs. Words can not describe how I loathe these damn things. My son, of course, eats it up litterally for breakfast. The worst part is, like all good kid songs, they get stuck in your head. And stay there. And the only sure way to remove them is with a bullet.

The only consolation I can take is that a full generation of kids made it through Barney without their parents committing dino-cide. Or scuicide. Either must have seemed like bliss.

Behold the terror of my dreams:



While searching for the picture above, I found exlusively negative things from parents about these freaks. I stole the photo from this blog, and I agree with everything he says in the post, except that the red mark in their hands are stigmata. They are obviously Logan's Run age discriminators. I just fear that they may have a few years left before they are quietly "retired".

And I can't stop crying, and I can't get the damn theme song out of my head, and I can't stop feeling stomach-turning bile toward the show. Won't someone please help me? Bring me back to the good ol' days of Bear and the Big Blue House?

I blame Canada, and I take back all of the forgiveness that I was willing to extend to Maine for being next to Canada and changing time zones. I realize now the evil in the hearts of all Canadians.

Oh, Mickey. What were you thinking. You'd sell your creator's dream for a few more rocks? Somebody get Goofy and Donald. It's time for an intervention.


-------------- UPDATE 5/10/05, 2:40pm

I've noticed that LP is currently in the top-5 listings for Doodle Bops on both Google and Yahoo. I hope the significant numbers of you coming for more information about the these colorful devils have learned something. Write the Canadian consulate and demand the removal of this scourge. Then offer your children a hug, because you will have made them very sad indeed.

A milestone for LP

As of 3:01pm Pacific time, Lacivious Polyphony is the number 10 ranked Yahoo result for the search term: "terri hatcher loses dress".

I thought maybe, one day, with a lot of hard work and a lot more references to Terri Hatcher and dresses, I would reach #150 or so. But I never dreamed of this honor.

Representatives from Who Gives a Shit Quarterly will be interviewing me on this amazing accomplishment soon. I promise to drop some names.

Thank you, little people, for helping to make all of this possible.


---------------UPDATE

As of 10:45 Pacific time, I have slipped to #11 in the rankings. Damn this dog-eat-dog, cutthroat business!

Is it dark yet?

I just heard on the radio that Maine is thinking about changing from the Eastern to the Atalantic time zone.

Apparently some people are very upset, because this means that Monday Night Football won't start until 10pm.

I take back anything mean I may ever have said about our half-canadian brothers. Apparently there are some people with their priorities straight.

Clause Von Monkeysadd

I'd become a little too introspective in my posts, and wanted to lighten the mood some. Cleaning up some files on my computer, I ran across the following email exchange between my friend Mike and myself. I believe that I had mentioned Mike earlier - the guy cracks me up. We were both bored at work a few years ago, and just got to rambling about Monkeys. I've edited all non-pertinent information (regular email stuff) out.




....How many incontinent Helper monkeys does it take to refurbish an
average sized Victorian bathroom... in November... Presuppose the monkeys
have poor organizational skills... also assume that one monkey is just the
vehicle for another's thematic festival of light and distance...




EMPLOYMENT AGREEMENT
Employment Agreement, between Monkey1 "Vehicle for another's thematic
festival of light and distance" (the "Company") and the Employee
("Monkey2").
1. For good consideration, the Company employs Monkey2 on the following
terms and conditions.
2. Term of Employment. Subject to the provisions for termination set
forth below this agreement will begin on 8/7/02, 2002, unless sooner
terminated, or accidental death due to imbibing, inhaling, or related skin
diseases due to, but not limited to, Clorox, Pine, Simple Green, et al.
3. Salary. The Company shall pay Monkey2 a salary of 200 bananas per
year, for the services of Monkey2, payable at regular payroll periods.
4. Duties and Position. the Company hires Monkey2 in the capacity of
Incontinent Victorian Bathroom Cleaner. Monkey2's duties may be reasonably
modified at the Company's (Henceforth referred to as "Poor Organizational
Skills, INC",) discretion from time to time.
5. Oral Modifications Not Binding. This instrument is the entire
agreement of Poor Org. INC and Monkey2. Oral changes have no effect. It
may be altered only by consistent Alpha-male charging displays, excrement
slinging, or signed by the party against whom enforcement of any waiver,
change, modification, extension, or discharge is sought.

Signed this Seventh day of August 2002




Note: " Displacement Techniques for Monkey Infantry "
Summery by Michael xxx.
Monkey no clear. Monkey in state of unatendance. Monkey afraid of
past/future convergence.
Despite the employment contract and its subsequent acceptance
without negotiation, the aforementioned employee has achieved a status
of non-compliance with said employees rating and overall ability to operate
substandard equipment and machinery.
The interpreted note of the original text document would indicate a
technique of confusion and stimulus to better enhance " Monkey's " over
all parameters.
end note.
* The previous advisement was taken an summarized from
chapter seven of the instructional text
" The Monkey That Works For Me " * 1937*




MONKEYS OVER ALL PARAMETERS
A STUDY OF TECHNIQUES IN ENHANCEMENT BY CONFUSION THROUGH STIMULUS
I - OBJECTIVES
A. To study the enhancement possibilities of "Monkey2"
B. To bring about these possibilities through the use of past/future convergence
a. Temporal confusion
b. Workload exceptions
i. Terminating before hiring
ii. Use of substandard equipment and machinery
c. Acceptance without negotiation
C. To expose findings through lens of so-called "Jane Goodall Effect"
II - FINDINGS (MODIFIED 8/7/02 3:20pmPST)
A. Aural hallucinations in the form of requests, suggestions and commands
a. Parameters met to satisfaction
i. "Monkey hate clean" seems to illicit screams of what can only be
described as urgent approval
ii. "I am the Devil - I command you to kill your parents" met with quiet indifference
B. Strobe lights and beer
a. Parameters exceeded
i. "Nonattendance" - disassociation and confusion, followed closely by
vomiting
b. Second attempt unsuccessful
i. Monkey2 could not be coerced into a repeat experiment
C. XXCONFIDENTIALXXxxx xx xxxxx xxx and "Company"
a. Parameters exceeded.
i. XXXX xxx xxxxx xx xxxxx xxxx xxxxxxxxx xxx xxxxxx
ii. Xxxxx xx xx xxx xx xxxxx x xxxx
b. Xxxxx xxx xxxxxxxx xx xxxx
i. A frenzied dash to the door was accompanied by the sounds of xxxxxx
III - CONCLUSION
The findings have shown, without any real or meaningful divergence
of opinion, the utopia of "Affen uber alles" (Aldous Huxley 1954) or
"Monkeys over all parameters" (Desilets summary of "The Monkey that Works
For Me" 2001) will be a sustainable reality within a few short decades.
XXXxxx xxxx xxxxxx x xxxx xxxxx xxx xxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxx xxxxxx xxxx xx xxxx.
Xxxx xxxx xxx "XXXXX" xxxxx x xxxxxxx. "Monkey no clear", indeed!




" The Monkey Share, The Monkey Take "
Appendix to previous summery:1923*
Translated From original manuscript , 1906*.
written by Clause Von Monkeysadd.

" I would begin only to presuppose that a Monkey that shares a
brain with another Monkey is a most interesting Monkey, indeed. The
abnormality of the dual or in some cases tri shared monkey brain is a
vague effort in the duality of what we deem as " the Syndrome ", or more
often referred to as post reflexive Monkey panic. Is often found to be,
in most ways, the detracting factor in the Primate labor industry.
It was theorized that when a Monkey "rents" a space in another
Monkey's brain the original test subject shows signs of motor
improvement fed by the subjects terrible anxiety associated with the
transfer..

translators note: much of the text was lost in " The Great
Laboratory Fire of 1908".
" Monkey non pattern.stop.
Monkey dual brain test.stop.
monkey is most displeased." subject became unclear as to
his portion of natural Brain. Subject Now worships a medium weight bag
of yams.
Also demonstrates voilent tendencies.

God is a teapot orbiting Mars.

I read an excellent article on Salon today.

It made me think of a dream that I had when I was very little, one that I've always carried with me. I like to bring it out, dust it off, and reinterpret what it means to me every once in a while.

It's a very short dream, or at least what I remember. It's basically an image, a snapshot of an impossible time, tucked away with my other childhood memories.

We are in heaven. Jesus stands alone on a huge circular dais in an unimaginably large cavern. We surround the dais, millions of us, knees bent and heads down. Directly above is the only source of light, shining directly down on Jesus and quickly fading into the crowd. We will stay like this forever.

When I was little, I wasn't afraid of death. I was terrified of eternity, and being forced to endure it.

Now that America is becoming a theocracy, I do fear death. Now that I finally have something to live for, the religious zealots and their insane fantasies threaten to take it all away.

The above-linked article is described: "Evolutionary biologist Richard Dawkins explains why God is a delusion, religion is a virus, and America has slipped back into the Dark Ages." If you have strong religious convictions you may want to skip this one. If you have a more open mind, it's an interesting read with some excellent points.

Mostly out of my mind

While I'm still on the subject of revealing myself:

When I was younger I used to do a lot of acid. Well, a lot is relative. I had friends that went to school frying on more than I would take in a week. We used to mess with them, whisper things near their heads and tap their books when they were reading.

You know, some of the smartest people that I've ever known have tried acid. Some have never come back. I count myself blessed that I have not been... ah, permanently... ah... what were we talking about?

This is one of the few arifacts that I've saved from this time in my life. I believe that this was drawn the second time that I dropped.


The snake-guy hanging on the "I" is my internal monologue, and his name is Jamal.

I certainly don't think that I have any drawing talent, this much at least is clear. Man, I dropped with a friend of mine that can really draw, and I wept like a little baby when I saw his picture. I vividly remember his words when he saw my little pittance: "That's either the most profound thing that I've ever seen, or a child's drawing."

We had stayed up all night watching Nick at Night, Star Trek re-runs, and then, inevitably, Fantasia. My friend laughed and laughed, and told me about the red wasteland that he invisioned, full of skulls on spits. I broke a fig newton and we both laughed at the thunder and earthquake that it caused. I thought about bleeding my cat with a razor, to let the color out.

Then I held my head for 30 minutes, trying to stop smelling color and hearing bitter.

I wish that this were a warning story. I know a lot of people that should never have done it, and many more that couldn't have done it safely. Like eveything else in my past, I can't regret it, because here I am. But I still wonder if I would have been more... something if I hadn't.

It sounds cliched coming from a nearly 30-something, but don't do drugs. They seriously fuck with you in the end. I know that your 14 year-old ass can't see it now. I know. But trust me.

Where do you get a bun that big?

Ahh, America. Where nothing is enough, where there are microwave instructions for Pop-Tarts and Hummer's are single-occupancy vehicles.

Today we have a new jewel in the crown of our greatness. Behold the world's biggest hamburger.



Highlights: 15 lbs total. 10.5 lbs beef, 25 slices of cheese, 1 1/2 cups each mayo, relish mustard and ketchup. Plus a whole head of lettuce, 3 tomatoes and 2 onions, for those heart-healthy people.

Judging by the photo, the mere sight of this burger causes grown men to go stark, raving mad. When it's ordered, cows as far as 35 miles away perk their ears and shudder.

God bless the fine folks in Clearfield, PA. for keeping the union strong by closing the dreaded "burger gap" with the North Koreans.

A little about KOM

The Diva of the Office asked:

You see dead people? And I thought I was crazy -They are everywhere.
That's as good a first question as any, I guess. I've seen dead people, but luckily I don't see them everywhere. Maybe you are crazy?



Jerk of All Trades asked:

Why does Bob Sagat KEEP getting work in Hollywood?
Have you ever sucked cock for marijuana? He works hard and is apparently willing to do anything for something.

Who's you favorite Stooge? George W. Does not count!
This one's tough. They're all kind of assholes, aren't they. Let's say Shemp.

Did you have sex with Jenna, and what was THAT like? She was kinda hot! Will your wife be mad at you for anwering that question?
No, the relationship never took that direction. She was my closest female friend at the time, and I think a couple of my emotions got crossed. I think that to piss off my wife, I'd have to dig deeply into the black corners that I'm afraid to look in. Everything else she knows.

How did you meet your wife?
My wife and I "met" several times. The first time was at a birthday party in highschool where our band was playing. The next time was at a party at her house. Finally during a Holloween party at a mutual friend's house is when we started talking. That's kind of a funny story in itself, but for another post.

If you could write and direct a movie what would it be, and who would star in it?
A comedy-action-drama-sci-fi-snuff. Everything that I would do in Hollywood would star Christopher Walken. Think "Di di mao!" in space, with puppets.

Are you right or left handed?
Right.

Did we REALLY land on the Moon?
Yes.

Why are there not more questions here?
Either I'm doing my job and answering all questions before they can be asked, or no one loves me.

What the HELL is going on with the "Niners"?
Two words: John York.

Should I have this looked at?
I didn't want to say anything, but I'm surprised you've let it go on this long.

What have not done, that you always wanted to do?
Be able to fly. Or finish college.

Here's an easy one. He played for Notre Dame & The "Niners". Whos jersey am I wearing today?
Joe thanks you.

What's you record for consecutive questions asked?
Being asked, or asking others? Strangely, both are exactly 53.

Are you EVER going to answer these PRESSING question?
Yes. The 49ers have many issues including their owner. A rebuilding year has become a rebuilding decade, and first pick in the draft hasn't helped in a year where there are few break-out players. It still looks bleak.
Did you mean Jenna?

Should this be my last question?
This time around, yes.



Kaci asked:

What is the one word that most appropriately describes you in a whole.
Gestalt.

How mad would you be if I told you that I changed my url to kaciland.blogspot.com right after you just fixed my link? *LOL* There's a question.
Mad? Maybe just enough to not fix the link for a while... I'll give it another 3 or 4 days to make sure you don't move the URL again.

Do you drink coffee?
I love coffee with a passion. Unfortunately it gives me the shakes and makes me nervous, so I generally only drink decaf anymore. And even then not often.

What is your favorite movie?
I would have to say Amadeus.

Who is your rolemodel, if any?
My Dad. Rather, he's the person that I admire the most. But I guess rolemodel means someone that you emulate, so... Andy Capp.



FruitFly asked:

Ok, I'll be the stick in the mud and ask serious questions. :)

If faced with a life or death situation and you living depended on you naming your all time favorite book/poem/piece of prose, what would that be? (I'm just sort of assuming, being the reader that you are, that question is as difficult for you as it is for me.)
Book: This one is difficult. When I was 16, I would have said The Great and Secret Show. At 18, Magister Ludi. 2o, Giles Goat Boy. 21, Crime and Punishment... Recently I've been leaning toward the The Sot-weed Factor. But I'm sure that will change as well.

Poem: I don't read much poetry. I did read something funny in the MST3K Episode Guide about Ator. I believe it began something like:

Sinew.
A warrior approaches.

Prose: What's this? Am I supposed to say Chaucer?

What K. Vonnegut books *haven't* you read?
I just did a brief Google search, so I may have missed something. But I believe that I have not read: Slapstick, Jailbird, Canary in a Cat House & God Bless You, Dr. Kevorkain.

Why is your moniker KOM? (I may have missed an explanation along the way.)
I think that I've mentioned this a couple of times, but I explained it at the end of this post. Appropriate given that I'm again borrowing an idea from the local blogosphere.



Desiree asked:

Since you say that all men are always trying to get at females, no matter what they say, do you think that exists in blogger world too? Are you trying to "get at" J's harem of women too?
Did I say that? Let me amend it... no, nevermind. It's probably basically tue. I think it exists in the blog world for some people. I read an article recently about a couple that met and married through their blogs. But I'm a bit of a solipsist (if you can be a 'bit' of this), so as soon as the computer turns off, so do you all. I'd have to meet you in person to realize that I was interested. No, I'm not trying to "get at" J's harem. Actually, I feel more like a bull in a china shop.

Do you have an internet blogger girlfriend?
Nope.

An online crush?
I'm so tempted to say yes, if only to drive you crazy by not letting you know who it is. But no.

Did my cute smile guy really call you to tell me he's not really pshycho?
Yes, and he asked me to say to you "It's always raining when the eagle lands". Made me repeat it to make sure I got the message right, and said you'd understand.



Shamus O'Drunkahan asked:

Have you had a colon exam?
Waiting until I'm 35.



MPH asked:

Just how awesome do you think I am?
Somewhere between Jeff Dahmer and Aretha Franklin.



Tutu's Amazon asked:

Are you going to take the garbage out?
Is it garbage day already? If I do that, it's just going to get full again. Best to let these things be.