Lacivious Polyphony

Aw, shit.

2009-06-25T22:30:00.000-07:00

When I was in second or third grade, I had the above image on a Trapper Keeper folder. Some 'friends' of mine began giving me shit, and I tore the folder across the middle and threw it in the trashcan.

The cock crowed once.

I feel worse today than I have in a long time. I'm sorry, Michael. You've given me reason to distrust you, but never when I was an impressionable kid. I didn't mean it.

Mr. Man no longer likes Thomas the Train, hasn't for a year or so. Says it's a "baby's toy", and that he's grown out of it. To be honest, this makes me more sad than remembering my thoughts on Michael Jackson as a kid.

RIP, weirdo.

Back from the domain

2009-05-11T21:36:00.000-07:00

You may have stumbled across this page, wondering what happened to Lasciviouspolyphony.com/blog.

Well, it's no more. In fact, no use linking to it, because the domain has been parked, and the hosting canceled.

If you'd like to go back and see what was there, I dumped it all to:

http://lpdump.wordpress.com

If I continue to blog (and I suppose I'll make it back here from time to time, if only to see if anything ever gets added to the Blogger Cooler), I'll be posting here. Probably. If not, I'll let you know.

Lacivious Polyphony comes to an end

2006-01-09T15:01:00.000-08:00

This will be the final post of Lacivious Polyphony.

I was thinking to myself, "Self, you enjoy blogging. What could make it even better?"

"Well," I answered myself, "I wish I were paying for the privilege."

Unable to refuse my sweet mug and puppy-dog eyes, I plopped down the cash.

http://lasciviouspolyphony.com/blog

Notice the 's'. I can finally duck questions about why I misspelled 'lacivious'. If you care, there's an explanation somewhere in the sidebar.

Extra special icing and sprinkles gracias to Mel for the inspiration, and more than a little help in beginning the process.

If things go poorly, she will be first against the wall. It's hard to leave a smiley emoticon after a statement like that.

I hope to see you all lurking around the new digs.

-KOM

A brief dream XV

2006-01-09T14:18:00.000-08:00

Last night I dreamed that I was listening to "It's my Party", when I realized that the lyrics are actually about trying to steal money for cab fare to a methadone clinic.

Upcoming announcement

2006-01-05T15:32:00.000-08:00

I have some changes in store for Li'l' Ol' LP. Please accept that you may be forced to live without new posts for a few days.

I'll be back with more news as soon I can.
Read: when I get around to it.

-KOM

I've got to put stickers on my stuff...

2006-01-05T15:29:00.000-08:00

Our two year-old loves to walk around the house assigning objects to people. By far, the majority of items are "mine". My train! My chair! My sanitary napkins!

Which is what made it all the funnier last night when he walked over to the couch, and pointed at two objects sitting on the cushion.

To the remote he said "Daddy's!"
To the phone he said "Mommy's!"

I explained that while mommy generally uses the phone more than I do, it's our phone. Just like the remote, which both of use.

"Yeah right," said my wife from across the room, almost, but not quite, under her breath.

"Mommy can use it when daddy goes to sleep," I amended. I was only sort of joking.

The LP one-year retrospective spectacular!

2006-01-02T22:50:00.000-08:00

The planets are nearly aligned. This was to be my 365th post, on my birthday, celebrating one year of Li'l' Ol' LP. Instead, and to avoid any Seventh Son of a Seventh Son biblical issues, this is the 364th post, near my birthday, a few days early of the actual 1-year anniversary of LP.

I have tried to collect my favorite posts from the last 12 months. It's very difficult for me to take a step back and allow these posts to live on their own - I want to preface each and every one with contextual back story. It's also been terribly difficult to pick my favorites out of the hundreds of posts that I've written. Some of my favorites have been dropped, just because I've organized on a monthly time-table, and there ain't room for them all.

I sincerely hope that you choose to look through these memories. And please feel free to cruise through the archives if you enjoy what you've read.

January:

First, Something on the Lighter Side

Honorable mention:

LP First Post

February:

My Friends Are Much Cooler Than I

Honorable mention:

Slowly

March:

Final Thoughts on the Germany Experience.

Honorable mention:

Schiavo

April:

Stream of Consciousness Saturday

Honorable mentions:

Dali Ticket
Things I've learned as a dad

May:

Good Times Bad Times

Honorable mentions:

Clause von Monkeysadd
Bachelor's Guide

June:

Depeche Mode Cowboy

Honorable mentions:

Vader Built My Hotrod
Kom Gets a Haircut
Land of Flat and Plenty

July:

Urine Souffle

Honorable mentions:

Painful Childhood Memory
LP Gets Lucky

August:

You Make the Rocking World Go Round

Honorable mentions:

Imagined Exchange
Same Weekend - KOM as Asshole V.2.0

September:

Open Letter to Wang Chung

Honorable mentions:

A Fair Warning
Led Bush

October:

Casting Ivory Before Swine

Honorable mentions:

I'm Not Fond of Penile Legions
Do You Know How to Suck Dick?
Perrier Eleison

November:

KOMs Time Machine

Honorable mentions:

Fasting on Mount Terrible Two
Squeel, CA

December:

Freeform Friday, The Xmas Post

Honorable mention:

That Which May Not Be Named

TY CS AKA TSW

2006-01-02T19:53:00.000-08:00

"But I still think my interpretation is more interesting than his truth."

The above referenced line comes from the book Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs, by Chuck Klosterman. As is my usual habit, I dove into this book while reading several others: Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them (Franken), and The Book of Imaginary Beings (Borges).

The Borges book is quite interesting, but not quite what I would ever have expected. It's basically (as the name implies), a bestiary of mythological characters. When I was younger, I colored nearly every page of a very similar book.

But not to be glib, this is the book that Joseph Campbell might have written were he more interested in the existing than of the of existing.

Not that this is fair, either. Let's just say that if you're familiar with Borges, you may be surprised at the brevity of cultural significance imparted by this book. If you've never heard of Borges, this particular piece will likely pass you by. Still, like all of his work that I've spent time studying, I'm sure that there are many surprises missed the first time around.

"Like life," I feel completely unqualified to say, Borges may have stated.

The Franken book is pretty damn funny, but a bit short on the details. I know that Bill O'Reilly is the henchman of the antichrist. Most of us know that. Even those who live and die by his show. But as a political piece, I imagine that it's about as entertaining and accurate as Anne Coulter with dysentery: we love to watch her squirm, but we also know that the shit coming out of her is just that - watered down shit. For the 99% of us that don't believe everything that comes from either Ari Fleisher or Michael Moore, it's a bit pedantic.

On the other hand, I would rather read an encyclopedia by Franken than a by-line by Sean Hannity. I actually respect Franken. I personally think that he's pretty darn funny (despite the whole Stuart Smalley thing), and I can tell that he thinks that he cares about politics. I'm a blue-state through and through, but I also have the ability (lacking in both the left and the right) to think for myself. But I can't abide by his choice to attack the talk-show radio right on their own ground. People like O'Reilly, Hannity and Limbaugh are bad for America. They profess to be good for America, all the while viciously attacking 50% of the country. Sadly, Al Franken has decided to fight fire with fire. It makes me sick to my stomach that most liberals believe that the best way to fight the Right is on their (the Right's) own terms.

You know, in conversation I always seem to come out as a relativist. I hate that. I usually consider myself liberal, but I find myself agreeing with several conservative points. I don't know if this is the chipping-away of youth, in which my ideology is slowly transmuted into concern for Me and Mine, or if I've actually always been of two minds. I bet people in other countries mock America for lining up in two simple queues.

Still, social relativism leads to things like the LA race riots. And a little thing that just happened in France. Unfortunately, the flip-side of relativism leads to Dachau. Except that we would never let that happen here. Because we're smarter, more informed, and dog gon'it, people like us.

Especially interred Japanese Americans.

But I've totally digressed, and probably already lost a lot of the people that the first half of this post was aimed at. "A lot" of people is relative, of course, because very few people read this. And I'm starting to understand why!

But it all leads well into Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs. This book drove me crazy, the least of which was because I was thinking simultaneously about winged horses and lying conservatives. Actually, the reason that it nearly killed me is that I kept flopping between: "I would love to be able to write like this", and "What a fucking hack."

What bothers me the most is that this is exactly the response the fucker wanted me to have.

In one essay, Klosterman details every reason why I love (and this a big thing for me to admit, so please sit down if you haven't already done so) Billy Joel. Point for frickin' point, I said to myself "Yeah, those are all things that I should have told my friends!", instead of changing the subject to Metallica and trying to remember the words to Master Of Puppets while Goodnight Saigon played in my mental background.

But then Klosterman quickly makes me his worst type of loser for only owning a best-of album, and judging my love of his music for anything less than the most obsucre B-sides. And at the same time, he makes fun of people that only listen to obscure tracks. This motherfucker covers all of his bases.

Or, as I'm honestly surprised he didn't himself state, All Your Base Belong to Klosterman. If you don't get it, it's probably best that you don't read this book. If you do, it's probably best that you don't read this book.

I found myself going round after round with this guy, but it wasn't fair because I couldn't argue. And if I could have argued, I wouldn't be half as articulate.

Smart people who think they're always right... suck. That's right, I don't have anything else, and I admit it. Fuck you, Klosterbag douche McVulvalips.

At the same time, I was compelled to read every word, line, paragraph and chapter of the damnable book.

You all know what kind of person Klosterman is. He's that guy that you've always hated. But one time he put his arm around you and took you in. He showed you your first porno, smoked you your first joint, introduced you to your first girlfriend. Then one day he sucker punched you and stole all of your money.

You still hate him, but if you ever saw him again, say, getting beat up in an alley behind a seedy bar, you'd help. And when you'd finally driven off the assailants, your ribs bruised and your breath thick, you'd help him up. He'd buy you a beer inside, tell you about his amazing life, perhaps even introduce you to your future wife.

Then he'd sneak out and stiff you with the tab.

Thank you, Carter. It was great.

Bushism VII - The final frontier

2006-01-01T02:07:00.000-08:00

"I think if you know what you believe, it makes it a lot easier to asnwer questions. I can't answer your question."

In response to a question about whether he wished he could take back any of his answers in the first debate; Reynoldsburg, Ohio; October 4, 200

Be careful what you wish for

2005-12-30T11:06:00.000-08:00

The girl with the chips is gone.

She has been replaced by the woman with the fingernail clippers.

I submit that it is not fucking possible to clip your fingernails every day. They don't grow that fast! What could she possibly be doing?

I'm so afraid that I'm going to knock on her office, and catch her with a toe in her mouth, gnawing off a hard yellow nail.

She'll spit it out, and it will lodge in my sweatshirt. We will both stare at it for a very long, very uncomfortable time.

PSA con frijoles

2005-12-30T09:40:00.000-08:00

"I haven't been there in what... 5 years?" I asked myself. This almost invariably leads to a bad decision.

"I think I'll try it out for lunch." Well played, shit-hole restaurant. Well played indeed.

While spending nearly 30 whole seconds investigating High Tech Burrito, I discovered that it appears to be a Bay Area phenomenon. But McDonalds started as a single stand, too. Just say no, people.

As soon as you walk in, you are accosted for your order. No time to look things over. You wouldn't be coming here if you didn't know what you wanted. Or at least that's what I imagine management assumes.

"I'd like the chicken burrito."

"What kind of tortilla?"

"Uhh, kind? Magic, please."

"Whole wheat or flour?"

This line of questioning continues through choice of beans, rice, salsa, and toppings. For people so uppity about me spending a few moments to decide on an entree, they sure have an awful lot of questions.

As they gave me my total, I discovered what all of the smoke and mirrors were about - my $4.00 burrito was costing me $8.00. It would seem that I had made the wrong choices. I could see it in register attendant's eyes: "Should have said whole wheat, asshole."

What kills me is that I could have gone to any hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant and gotten a burrito the size of my fucking head, with all the trimmings, for just over $3.00. Include tip, and I'm still ahead of the base price of this burrito.

"This better be one good burrito," I thought as I left.

How was my High Tech Burrito? Essentially, I had just spent $8.00 on a Taco Bell 7-layer burrito. Except that this burrito didn't have 7 layers, and was smaller. And cost over 4 times as much.

And I don't like Taco Bell.

Fuck you, Robotic Tostada, or whatever you call yourself. My bowels have stopped cramping from your food, but they still ache whenever I consider what an unmitigated rip-off you are.

That which may not be named

2005-12-29T15:05:00.000-08:00

"I shall not cause harm to any vehicle nor the personal contents thereof, nor through inaction let that vehicle or the personal contents thereof come to harm."

A meth snorting, Asimov quoting Harry Dean Stanton reciting the Repo Code is only one of the many reasons why Repo Man is among my favorite movies.

There's a scene in which Tracey Walter is waxing shamanistic about pine tree deoderizers. "Find one in every car. You'll see."

I haven't found that to be true, but I have found that the Post Office is a time machine. A twisted, fun-house time machine which forces you to confront the ghosts of your past. The poeople who you can no longer truthfully say you know, because both you and they have changed nearly beyond recognition.

Walter later explains that since there was a time without people, people must have come from the future. People who dissapear go to the past. And they get there by flying saucer. Which is really a time machine.

I haven't found this to be true, either. But if people do dissapear from the future, they come back to the Post Office. There's no other rational explanation.

I'm pretty sure that if I spend any more time there, I'll see my future self. And I'll see that he suddenly remembers what I just saw.

And we'll walk past eachother whithout saying a word.

The spoken word!!!!!!

2005-12-28T11:35:00.000-08:00

the spoken word is the spoken word the spoken word is just that.... the spoken word!!!!!!the spoken word is the spoken word damnit!!!!!!!!!

Dammit, people. Dammit.

The Festivus jimmy leg

2005-12-27T16:35:00.000-08:00

The night before last I had the worst leg cramp of my life.

It was Christmas, and after eating all day long, I had the bright idea of topping off with a brownie ala mode. Merry Christmas! Not so much later, and not at all surprisingly, during a rather intense dream in which I was training to be a ranch hand in a haunted town, I was awoken by a very sour stomach. As I rolled out of bed to look for an antacid, the room exploded in light and my leg buckled under me.

It was all that I could do to keep from screaming. I tossed back and forth on the bed, sweating furiously and mewling like a sick cat. I woke up my wife, and through clenched teeth managed to bark out, "Sorry."

Earlier, I had watched a show on Discovery about a couple of scientists investigating extremely toxic jellyfish in northern Australia. Inevitably, they were both stung. The program cut to the scientists in the hospital, writhing in pain, unable to keep their legs or arms still. They performed a ceasless dance in an attempt to find a position, any position, that would offer a fleeting respite from the pain.

I thought about this as I began to pray under my breath for Jesus, sweet Jesus to please kill me now.

Eventually, through sheer will, I managed to pull myself into a standing position. The pain began to subside, and soon I was able to move enough to shuffle my feet. I had heard that potassium helps with cramping, so I hobbled into the kitchen in search of a banana. It was about this time that my sour stomach found itself able to compete with my slowly easing thigh for my miserable attention. I leaned against the counter with a peeled banana in my hand, wondering which fate would be worse.

With a nod to Solomon, I ate half of the banana.

Later, I placed my hand on my thigh, just above and behind my knee. The muscle was still so tightly coiled that a palm-breadth length of my leg was only as big around as my forearm. It was if I were wearing an invisible corset or tourniquet.

Yesterday, my wife told me to drink some orange juice and finish the banana. The orange juice is supposed to help, as well.

I never got around to it.

How quickly we forget and adjust.

But I'm still afriad to go to sleep.

Freeform Friday, The Xmas Post

2005-12-23T11:32:00.000-08:00

Being nearly ~~Christmas~~ ~~The Holidays~~ ~~Winter Break~~ ~~Fuck... uhhh. Oh, hell~~ Christmas, my thoughts were drawn, of course, to the Immaculate Conception.

Or rather, what the Church might be like if it were designed by Rube Goldberg. Starting with a bowling ball falling on a frying pan to pull a rope...

It became neccessary for Christ not only to have been born of a virgin, but he must also be untainted by original sin. However, it would seem that he couldn't be the only one born without orignal sin, or he wouldn't be fully human. And "fully God, mostly human" didn't translate into good ad slogans. Speaking of which, if we could only figure out how to transubstantiate without the trans fats, we'd be onto something. "Now fullyGod! Heart healthy Kosher brain food! Add a sip of blood for an important part of this complete breakfast!"

Anyhow, so's Little Big Guy can be fully human, someone else needs to also have been untainted by those wacky Adam and Eve kids. And what better choice than Mom? Princess Maria of Alderan.

So it becomes important to institute a policy of Immaculate Conception, in which Mary is personally exempted by the grace of God to be fit to carry His Son-self. Which is a chicken and egg issue, because she is chosen because of her purity, but pure because of her having been chosen.

Because it's too damn simple to be amazed at a mere virgin birth.

...which cuts the string that drops the anvil on the button that Poof! knocks up a virgin.

Merry day before the eve.

Freeform Friday, early edition

2005-12-23T01:14:00.000-08:00

And quite early at that.

I noticed a Porsche in my work parking lot today, parked where an SUV usually sits. I speak occasionally to the woman who's spot that is. I imagined that I would say "Wow. Porsche. Nice." But I wouldn't feel it. Humorously, a radio personality just yesterday was talking about disliking Porsches. He stated that any man that owns one is either gay, closested, or doesn't yet know that they are gay. PC aside, I chuckled under my breath. I thought of the few people that I've known that have owned a Porsche. Check, check and check.

On the other hand, I could just be jealous of the lifestyle which affords one to blow off child-support payments in order to purchase a gas-insatiable roadster to impress future ex-wives.

But I have no bitterness.

She was gone before I had a chance to comment. That was probably for the best, given my mood and recent thoughts on the vehicle. But where, I wondered, was the SUV? I'm proud to say that I couldn't tell you if it was a Hummer or a Bejeezus X-Mark 010. But I kept thinking, "God, I hate it when my husband takes out the tank. I can't see around corners in this itty bitty Porsche!"

Somewhere my Honda and my plastic mini-van are weeping. Peace be with you, utilitarian vehicles. The patron saint of consumerism is nigh born. Hail Rudoph.

Which reminds me, for some reason, that we received a beautiful hand-made Christmas card from our oldest today. The day-care people took a great picture of our son, and pasted it above the requisite "love and xmas" handwriting. I'm dubious that my 2 year-old actually wrote, much less dictated, the note. Sweet, none the less. But the picture appears to have been taken at an opium den. My son's eyes are half-mast, and drool is pooled in the cleft of his collar bone. I'm thinking I should stop by unanounced occasionally. I know that child-care providers need a little time to themselves, but perhaps The Horse is a tad strong?

The upshot is that my little man is halfway to Sherlock Holmes. That is, he can't play the violin, and he's apparently addicted to smack. I'm working daily on the misogyny and pet-like feelings for fellow humans. We'll lick 'em yet, Baskervillians.

Off subject, my toilet tank has recently been sporting a skirt of condensation. I keep telling myself that it must be awefully cold outside, and awefully warm inside. But, c'mon, I live in California. The coldest it gets around here is maybe 15 degrees F. On a spectacularly cold day. And since it's raining, it hasn't been much below 50. So if there are any Bob Villas out there, what the fuck is up with my toilet?

Off/on subject, when I was a freshman in Highschool, I used to ride my bike a mile or so to my friends house. We would then walk the few blocks to school. For a week or two, it was just over 15 degrees F (Squishi - that's friggin' cold). I remember my hands litterally not working until about 2nd period. It took most of my strength to {crack.. crack} disengage my fingers from the handlebars. I understand that some areas sell "gloves". We don't have these in Sunny CA.

And you people in Colorado, pshaw. You're prepared. I know it gets colder. My sisters love to tell me about their wet hair breaking in the wind while waiting for the bus. Suckers.

But we weren't. It was damn cold. All we could wear at the time were weaved ponchos and penny loafers. And our pants were pegged, so our ankles became arthritic. I hold Tubbs personally responsible. Only because I can't remember Don Johnson's Miami Vice moniker. What an asshole.

My parents used to live in Idaho. They tell me that I have no idea what cold is. Strangely, my father worked for the Navy. Landlocked or no, Admiral Rickover knew where to build bases.

My father tells a great story about meeting Rickover. I'd tell it here, but I couldn't possibly do it justice. He is one personality that lives in the minds of every nuclear officer of that era. Is it strange to wish that I could have been interviewed by such an unmitigated asshole?

And speaking of characters, what happened to the Warner Brother cartoons? I remember this being a stock staple growing up. These cartoons were made from the 30's through the 60's, as far as I know, and were played constantly when I was a kid. Now that I have kids, I'm often up early enough to watch Saturday morning cartoons. But it's all Yu-gi-oh! and Pok-e-mon. I don't even know what the fuck that means.

Where's the "puddy tat?", the "Wyle E. Coyote, Super Genius?", "Hoo-hoo!! Daffy?" To quote arm-pit hair diva, Where have all the cowboys gone?

And what happened to arm-pit hair? When I was young and stupid, and did I mention young (and stupid?), we played a game in Germany called "Mann oder Frau?" We would sit in the train platforms in the summer and watch the legs go by. Without looking above the waist, we would try to identify men or women based on leg hair. Surprisingly, there is little natural difference.

And I ain't a child of the 60's, but c'mon, tell me the truth. You don't think a little underarm hair is sexy? No? I suppose you like clinical clean-room sex, as well. Some Honda robot pulls a rubber onto your schwantz, then lowers you toward a perfectly washed and shorn female.

Wow. Nothing sexier than antispeptic romance. "I'm done, honey. Would you like to spray with Lysol?"

"You're what? I was watching The View."

Any wonder "3rd World" countries reproduce at an embaressingly faster rate? If absolutely nothing else, I bet they know, and can smell what is truly sexy.

"Tutanka," asshole.

Oh, sweet, sweet Jesus, no.

2005-12-22T23:48:00.000-08:00

Or, BUSHISM VI - The Final Chapter
(Now without audioblogger!)

It would be impossible to grade these, so I'll just post them chronologically, as they appeared in my calendar (it would appear that they were waiting for December to pull out the big guns):

"The legislature's job is to write law. It's the executive branch's job to interpret law."
-Austin, Texas; November 22, 2000

"I was raised in the West. The west of Texas. It's pretty close to California. In more ways than Washington, D.C., is close to California."
-Los Angeles; as quoted by the LA Times; April 8, 2000

"I am mindful of the difference between the executive branch and the legislative branch. I assured all four of these leaders that I know the difference, and the difference is they pass the laws and I execute them."
-Washington, D.C.; December 18, 2000

"Natural gas is hemispheric. I like to call it hemispheric in nature because it is a product that we can find in our neighborhoods."
Austin, Texas; December 20, 2000

So remember kids, "Render unto Caeser that which is hemispheric." And, "Bush interprets the law closer to California than you think."

A brief dream XIV

2005-12-22T09:22:00.000-08:00

Last night I dreamed that Robyn dragged me to a black-market craft fair. Initially I didn't understand why it was black market - it appeared simply to be wood carvings and metal work. She found the gift that she was looking for, and approached the stall.

Lou Ferrigno was manning the stall. Robyn introduced me as Peter Parker. Lou gave me a strange look and then exploded in laughter. "I like it!" he said, as he lead me to a bar. "Get my friend Peter here a drink!"

We all got to know eachother over a few beers. At one point Lou told me that I should have an apostophied nickname, like a boxer. "Tookie," I suggested. He didn't find it amusing; Robyn just shook her head.

We took an elevator to a sercret warehouse which was nearly pitch black. That is, if you tried to focus on something it was completely dark, but in your periphery you could almost make out shapes and movement. We had a sense of forboding, and decided that perhaps this gift was not worth the price.

Later, Lou joined us for Christmas at my parents house. Introducing him to my mother, I asked, "Should I call you Lou, or Mr. Ferrigno, or what?"

He said, "Call me Steve."

Phoning it in

2005-12-18T00:55:00.000-08:00

Thank God that I've kept a few posts as drafts, so that I can spend 20 seconds online and make it seem like I'm actually keeping up with my duties. This is the penultimate draft, to be followed only by That which may never be named or spoken of here, which will probably eventually be both spoken of and named.

So:

We need to lose the sax solo
Or, Two songs about horses that I dig.

My Lovely Horse

My lovely horse,
running through the field,
Where are you going
with your fetlocks blowing
in the wind?
I want to shower you with sugarlumps,
And ride you over fences,
Polish your hooves every single day,
And bring you to the horse dentist.

My lovely horse,
You're a pony no more,
Running around with a man
on your back,
Like a train in the night
Like a train in the night.

The Stallion, Part II

For hither not, I am the stallion
Come fear, come love, I am the stallion
You know that I am the stallion, mang
I am, I am the stallion, mang
You know that I am the stallion, mang
I live, I walk, I am the stallion, mang
Hair-throng goo-tongue, stallion mang
A 2 S-T-A-L-L-I-O-N
I am the stallion, mang
1: I can drink
2: I get groomed
3: I go for a walk
I am the stallion, mang
You know that I am the stallion, mang
Deaner! Deaner! Dude!
Where can you be? Come hither
Who are you? The stallion
What's goin' on?
Who are you, Deaner?
I am, I am the stallion
You are the stallion
A-B-C-D-E-F-G-H-I-J-K-L-M-N-O-P-Q-S-S-T-A-L-L-I-O-N
I am the stallion, mang
I can feel what I like to see in you and me and the stallion
I can play, I get to take the water because I am the stallion
O-P-L-G-H-M-F-S-T-A-L-L-I-O-N
Stallion, mang
Stallion, mang
Stallion, mang
I am the stallion
Wild stallion
Wild stallion
Goodbye
Stallion
Stallion
Goodbye
Stallion! Stallion! Stallion! Stallion! Stallion!
Stallion, mang
Whenever forth you come hither, when I can see the wind,
I shall too ride upon the stallion
I shall too lick the palm of the stallion,
Whilst I drink the hair from the stallion, man
I am the stallion

Alien...? Where?

2005-12-14T23:53:00.000-08:00

I have not had time to respond to specific emails or comments, recently. But I hope to put to rest the pressing issue of the granite-born alien. Now.

If you still don't see it, that's okay. I hear that Captain Kangaroo, Mr. Rodgers and Bill O'Reilly all have treats for your virgin eyes.

What is this... 'brother'?

2005-12-14T23:40:00.000-08:00

15 minutes of fame knocking a gift horse in the bush

2005-12-13T11:07:00.000-08:00

Update 12/19/05 --- Certain references and persons have been ~~removed~~ changed per request.

Hi KOM,

I'm working with Dr. ~~Karl Schink~~ on the book ~~Super Z's~~, to be released next year by ~~Seabird Pudd'n'~~, and one of the sections deals with sleep laughing. I'm looking for personal stories about it and came across a recent blog post of yours where you mentioned that you sleep-laugh. Any interest in being quoted in the book? If so, I'm looking for a couple of paragraphs about your experiences-- are they always related to dreams? Do you usually remember why you're laughing? When/how often does it happen? Etc.

Thanks for considering it!

Regards,

~~Julia Glazed~~
Editor-in-chief, ~~http://www.writtenstuff/~~
Author of ~~Patty Get Your Gun~~! and many other books.
See ~~Julia~~'s books at ~~http://www.juliaglazed.com/~~

I can just imagine...

"KOM, who doesn't want to share his real name for fear of the 'twisty ear things', among many other concerns, has agreed to share a brief description of sleep laughing."

"Well, ~~Julia~~, its like this. I crack me up. I'm the funniest person I know, but only in my head. The things I think about, well, you couldn't... wouldn't... shouldn't understand."

"Thank you, KOM. It's been a revelation to speak with you. Now on to Cynthia Marisa, who claims to see the Virgin at night..."

But I guess I could tell people I'd been published. That would be cool.

Because before racist, misogynist and bastard, I'm a braggart first.

Have a cigar

2005-12-10T13:19:00.000-08:00

UPDATE 12/10/05, 8:46pm -------------

Make that 8lbs, 12oz. KOM's brain no worky goody after a day or two without sleep.

I'd also like to share a brief anecdote. The nurse who left the OR to share the news with our remaining family members was actually asked about the hair color, not the sex of the new arrival.

Robyn and I are Golden in the eyes of both sets of grandparents for providing the first red-headed grandchild. I guess everyone was wondering if lightning would strike twice.

The nurse said, and I verified with the family so that I may quote, "It's a sort of a non-descript brown color - like his father's beard."

In case any of you were wondering, my beard is beautiful, thank you very much.

--------------------------- 8:56pm

You can all start ignoring the baby countdown on Robyn's blog - our family has grown by 1/3 today.

2:10am - Baby boy, 20", 9 8lbs, 12oz.

That's 9 8 and 3/4 pounds three weeks early

Mommy and baby are doing great. I'm with little man until he wakes up, then it's back to the hospital to meet his little brother.

Don't anybody write anything interesting for a couple weeks - I don't know if I'm going to be able to keep up with the blogging for a while.

Aar has spoken - he wants your children

2005-12-08T10:09:00.000-08:00

They're coming out of the woodwork, again.

Moral, upstanding, conservative and most importantly christian citizens are calling for Tookie's head.

What would Jesus do? I think that the Bible makes it pretty clear that Jesus would be first in line to administer the lethal injection: "Let he who did not read the New Testament cast the first stone at her," John 8:7. Or, adjusted for the vernacular of his time "Why you all standing around? Someone put a cap in that bitch ass."

As we all remember from bible school, Jesus is a bloodthirsty bogeyman that appears once a year, disguised as a clucking rabbit. The baby Jesus we associate with Christmas is actually Budha. No shit, but I digress. When the Were-rabbit isn't busy hiding aborted chicken fetuses, He is on a mission to personally "send scum to hell". As He states in the book of Robertson, "Look, I didn't die on the cross to save murderes, pedophiles or pot heads. Why's everyone always hanging this peace crap on Me? Cluck."

Thank Dad that we finally got our collective asses out of the stone age and reinstated the death penalty. Jesus is hungry, and He requires our goverment-sponsored sacrifices to sustain His mighty rage.

I hate being with the "Kill a queer for Christ" crowd. But I guess that like a stopped clock they can sometimes be right, even if for the wrong reason.

Mr. Williams deserves nothing less than the ultimate punishment. Murders aside, I believe that he needs to die for founding the Crips. That he has helped a few individuals quit gangs is a noble start, but simply does not atone for the misery that he has caused. Not by a long shot.

By the way, quit telling me that he has been nominated for a Nobel. My fucking pet rock has been nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize. Just last week I nominated my asshole for managing to restrain itself from shitting on some "Tookie's good people" protesters.

I've re-written this closing paragraph 15 times, and I can't find a way to end without sounding cavalier about supporting the end of a life. So I'm not really going to try. I'm not generally a hater, but some people need to be exterminated. And if anyone deserves it, Mr. Williams does. So light him up, and do it today. I'm tired of listening to this crap. Besides, I might be missing more important news. Are Brit-Brit and K-Fed still together?

Mount Rushdeath

2005-12-07T23:44:00.000-08:00

It was beautiful, and the insects appeared to play us our song, the trees seemed to bow, the rocks, even, to rise at our approach.

I took a picture of our Honeymoon in paradise, little suspecting the horror that awaited.

Behold, the breathtaking Yosemite valley:

One comes to the top of Glacier Point by a narrow, twisting, treacherous road. But the view is spectacular. The tears of awe could fill oceans.

If only they'd known.

I submit to you the pea in our mattress, the new clothes of our emperor, the bear of our Honeymoon:

Like an ancient-day Mt. Rushmore, the Alien has already left his mark on our pristine landscape. Notice the beady eyes and block-a-chock teeth.

This queen in stone must be obliterated.

But reader, the horror does not end here. Submitted further - the foil to my simple paranoia, the mac of alien cheese, the toe-curl to the Rushdeath orgasm:

"What the fuck are you?", it seems to growl. Mirror lake reflects only the white-hot body of a scorpion and the echoing laughs of special operation soldiers. Half Dome itself has sacrificed its face to not have to view the unholy visage of our overlords.

I learned an interesting fact while visiting the museums around the Yosemite Valley. Yosemite means "sometimes they kill."

Mostly they come at night. Mostly.

A brief dream XIII

2005-12-06T12:27:00.000-08:00

I know I've been posting a lot of dreams lately, but this one is weird even by my standards.

Last night I dreamed that Cartman from South Park had kidnapped my cat in a ploy to force me to help him free a wondrous, wish granting substance from a tree.

He was afraid to stick his hand into the hollow of the tree because there might be "icky" things inside.

We had to wait for nightfall to retrieve the substance, so we held vigil in front of a house several blocks away. At one point I had to urinate, so I went behind the house to piss in the bushes. A deer approached and spoke to me in a very heavy native american accent*. He told me that no one was home, then wished me a nice day before running off.

As the sky darkened, we walked to the tree. Inside was not a substance, as such, but a demon. For the rest of the dream I was able to see through his eyes and experience his thoughts. He was particularly vain, and dismissed most people out of hand. Interestingly, he spent quite a bit of time reading the minds of dogs.

Cartman held a "wishing" party and invited over his friends. The demon stated matter of factly that he would twist any of our wishes to cause more harm than good, so no one volunteered a desire. Instead, the demon walked around making random comments to people.

One woman had made an off-hand remark about not being able to stand the smell of garbage. The demon looked at her and said, "But your husband becomes excited by the smell of decay. Does that make you feel like less of a woman?"

* I know, I don't know what "native american accent" is supposed to mean, either. That's just what I remember thinking.

Pure Gold

2005-12-05T21:19:00.000-08:00

I have seen the future, and it is funny.

I was introduced to I Wrote This When I Was Drunk (proudly linked for some time to your right) by Diva Working Mum long, long ago. Or as I prefer to think of it, "The Haiku Days".

Recently, Paul of the Violent Farmers asked for words that rhyme with Nipple for use in a new song. Those suggestions were catalogued in the comments, and the result is the sterling "As of Yet Unnamed" to-be-classic that can be read here.

The line that sold me?

They're long not large if you get my gist
Like the index finger on a midget's fist

My insignificant contribution?

Milk dribble.

My mother would be so proud.

Go check out his blog and dive into the archives. There's gold in them thar hills.

The Big 3-0

2005-12-05T10:02:00.000-08:00

When I think of Jack London, several images come to mind: childhood adventure stories, books about dogs, overly long and dramatic descriptions of mundane things, wide open wilderness, freedom and its price...

I don't think of Oakland.

But that's where the gods put Jack London Square. I had to do a little research to figure out why. 30 Google-seconds later, I learned that he was raised in Oakland. I had always associated him with San Francisco. Or Alaska. Or the ocean. But Oakland? Home of Al Davis and the Black Hole? Land of the snot-colored A's? The adoptive city of Tupac?

O-town, bitch!
D.Jay Lundin Squizzle.

I'm so street I bleed asphalt.

Jack London Square is the home of Yoshi's, a sushi restaurant and jazz club. Because, like London, when I think authentic sushi and great jazz, Oakland is always the first city that comes to mind.

Yoshi's was featuring Taj Mahal, and that's where the wife, a few friends and I spent Friday evening. I had first seen Taj Mahal perform at a concert 10 or so years ago. There were some great performers, including Blues Traveler, but Taj Mahal made such an impression on me that I remember little else of the show. I immediately went out and bought a cheap 'best of' album, and it's one of my favorite discs to this day.

The seating in the jazz club was quite intimate. While we were seated on the side near a wall, we were only 3 rows back from the stage - close enough that we could easily hear his off-mic musical direction.

If the Taj Mahal trio comes to your area, I would highly recommend checking them out. If you're already a fan, you don't need me to tell you. If you've never heard of him, give him a chance. It's not like buying tickets to the Rolling Stones - you don't have to decide between good seating and your children's education.

Did that last paragraph sound like a book review on Reading Rainbow to anyone else?

Anyhow - Happy birthday, Robyn! I hope you enjoyed the show.

Nature abhors a vacuum shark... and dog

2005-12-02T15:21:00.000-08:00

Last month I was terrified by the python who ruptured after eating an alligator.

Now, more proof that we left the oceans millenia ago for a reason, and should never go back.

(Insert favorite Goldfish crackers jingle here)

Dog eat dog, you say? Fair enough. How about Squirrel eat dog?

I guess it's not so safe on land, either. Kansas, Arkansas, Russia, the ocean... I'm running out of places to hide. If you need me, I'll be under my monster-proof cotten sheets.

The LP Erector Set

2005-11-30T23:37:00.000-08:00

I've bitched from time to time about the notes I keep.

One would think, were one I, and were one actually paying any kind of attention to the shit that spews from my fingers to the blogosphere, that one would take better notes. But alas, one has not yet learned.

But just so you understand what I have to work with, I give you the gilded Tome of LP (scrap x.23 of Y pile):

{Sigh}

Yep, Jerkin' the Vamp. That was the last item not crossed off the list.

What does that mean? Am I admitting something?

I implore you to believe me that I have no idea. I'm mostly sure that I don't mean jerking off a vampire. I'm also pretty sure that Mr. Jerk has nothing to do with it. Sometimes I think that I would give my left arm to remember the meanings of all of the "notes" that I've left myself.

And not just because the right arm is the jerkin' tool.

By the by, I've just noticed that the discerning reader may finally catch the "punch line" to a particularly lame ball of wax that I posted to The Blogger Cooler.

And now, for dramatic flair, I end this post thusly:

Finis.

What goes up, must... LP

2005-11-30T23:02:00.000-08:00

Fuck!

I lost the lottery again. I mean, what are the odds?

But one person who has visited Li'l' ol' LP has won the lottery! Not that they'll ever know, and not that they're going to see dime one.

Tonight's LP winner was from 24.37.173.#, Montral, Canada. S/he was directed by my good friend Mr. Commentator to this little piece of the blogosphere. S/he spent exactly 0.000 seconds viewing LP, which is just about the government recommended limit.

Please give it up for our 10,000th visitor. Know that one ten-thousandth of a second was not enough to trigger the balloons.

Seriously, though. I was sure I'd win this time.

A brief dream XII

2005-11-30T15:16:00.000-08:00

Last night I dreamed that we were celebrating my mother's birthday in the 'party room' of the restaurant at which I used to work. I was sick with regret for having asked our server, "You're still here?"

My mother decided to stand up and read to us from her several "Odes To Captain Picard".

Later, I discovered that my car had been stolen by an ex girlfriend.

WISMO

2005-11-29T13:56:00.000-08:00

Me?

I've been sitting around, mostly. Chewing ice. You know.

The four day weekend turned vomitous and magically became a five day weekend. And now I'm nose to the grindstone, trying to catch up with a week's worth of work.

Rather, I would be, if I weren't typing this and chewing on ice.

Tryptophan

2005-11-24T23:41:00.000-08:00

Let's face it - Thanks Giving is far and away the best holiday of the year. It's like Christmas without the stress, and without having to store your toddler in a cardboard box for a few months becuase you don' t have enough money left to pay for day care.

And let's not forget football.

Family. Check.
Turkey. Check.
Football. Check.

Until recently, I thought that Johnny Appleseed was apocryphal. To find out otherwise was really a sucker-punch to my belief system. So if native Americans and heavily-buckled puritans really spent a feast or two together prior to a bitter winter, more power to them. I prefer my myths to have a grain of truth, anyway.

I'm going to be vague this holiday litany, but no less heartfelt:

I'm thankful for my my family.
I'm thankful that I'm here, not there.
I'm thankful that it's coming, but hasn't happened.
I'm thankful for a few more years.
I'm thankful for the accident of my birth in this country.
I'm thankful for all of you, meatspace and cyber.

Shit, this list could go on forever. There's a scene in the movie Dogma where the protagonist has a chance to speak to God and begins, "Thanks for.... everything."

That sounds just about right.

A brief dream XI

2005-11-23T09:04:00.000-08:00

Last night I dreamed that a Michael Jackson "sex" tape had been leaked.

It began with him ordering his entourage to hire dozens of prostitutes. After these ladies had fallen asleep in his mansion, he crept around like Nosferatu smelling their hair.

In the morning he refused to pay them.

BASIC Valentine con queso

2005-11-22T23:18:00.000-08:00

START:
RANDOMIZE TIMER

I$="love you!"
Am$="in love with you!"

Main:
PRINT "I ";i$

PRINT"I am ";am$

GOSUB SAPPYSHIT

QUERY:
PRINT "So soon, my love?"
PRINT "(y/N)"
querry:
lk$ = INKEY$
IF lk$ = "y" THEN GOTO END
IF lk$ = "" THEN GOTO QUERY
IF lk$ = "n" THEN GOTO START
GOTO QUERY

SAPPYSHIT:
PRINT "Tu es mi burrito grande. Con ventajas."
PRINT ""
PRINT "You have to go? Already?"
RETURN

END:
PRINT "Via con Dios, mi Amiga."
PRINT ""
PRINT "Would anyone like to teach me to speak Spanish, before I start sounding like Muu-Muu?"

STOP

Where's the beef?*

2005-11-21T16:16:00.000-08:00

I think I've mentioned before that I sometimes wake myself and/or my wife by laughing in my sleep. I don't think it happened this morning, but I still awoke in the early AM hours with a smile on my face.

I had been dreaming about blogging about Sharon Stone tripping on the staircase of her private jet while walking toward a runway press-conference. I coined the word 'tarmactic' to describe her 'fantastic tarmac' tumble. Yeah, for some reason I thought it was pretty damn clever when I was asleep. I'll be filing this under 'A' for Absolutely no bearing on anything - and Apropos.

Despite the fact that this comedic well was obviously dry, I just ran a google-image search for "Gerald Ford Trip". I was presented, predictably, by pictures of a guy named Gerald taking trips in a Ford. So I tried "Chevy Chase Pratfall" and received a much less obvious, though somewhat related, result.

Damn Google.

Did I mean traumatic? Yeah, maybe I did.

All of this, of course, was a preamble to a post that I no longer have the time or interest to begin, much less finish. Basically, it was "What's up with R. Kelly?, v.1.5 - A midget?"

* This post is certified 100% filler, and is not to be considered safe for human consumption.

Post-coital puppet shame

2005-11-18T23:49:00.000-08:00

I caught this scene live, on my shower floor.

Is it just me, or does Octopus need a cigarette? Or eight?

Squeel, CA.

2005-11-18T00:04:00.000-08:00

We got ditched.

You try following a colorblind maniac from Big Sur to Napa. Red, green, yellow... all the same. There can be only one.

And we were not that one.

So we pulled into the little town of Squeel, CA. They spell it "Soquel", but we know the score. Well, we know it now.

No covert feeling screamed "Children of the Corn". As a matter of fact, nothing overt sent the same message. It was a different kind of horror. Come to think of it, I don't remember seeing any kids at all. "Adults of the Corn". Squeel. Soquel. Whatever.

It was scary.

We pulled off the highway to get a bite to eat. This is nearly always a bad idea. But we were young, invincible and hung-over. Who could have guessed at the Muu-muued horror that would await?

We settled at a hole-in-the-wall "Mexican" taqueria. There were perhaps 3 tables in the whole establishment - we took the four-top.

The woman who emerged, as if by some oily magic, can not properly be described. A puff of smoke, a greasy squeese through each of our legs and then poof, she was ready to take our order. A shock of yellow tangles and an aqua muu-muu leaned far too close to the table and asked "Have yoooou decided?"

Scotty ordered first.

"I'd like the burrito and rice combo plate, please."

"Uno slingback con beanos EEEE tortillalito reeso!"

We all looked at eachother. Better not to make a scene, we decided.

Robyn ordered next.

"The vegetarian burrito, please."

"Vegemitisimo tortillazima shuma con vegetiso, por favor."

At this point, we were pulled, as if by a black hole, to the face of the woman behind the counter ostensibly filling the orders. It was not the woman herself, but her hyper-exagerated eye-rolls that caused the distortion in space time.

"Si, Puta!"

"What??"

"No comprende. Con queso, eh?"

Mike ordered. I think it went without too much of a hitch. Except for when he asked for extra cheese.

"Muy cheeso!" She barked.

I ordered last. "I'll have the relleno lunch with black beans."

"Real-eno con bean-o negro!" she screamed over her shoulder before oozing away as quickly as she'd appeared.

As we waited, we noticed two things. The cook had daggers in her eyes whenever she looked at Muu-muu, and the people outside were crossing the street to avoid walking directly in front of the taqueria.

Our uncomfortable boredom was finally broken by the bravest man in Squeel. He marched through the open door, and rapped his knuckles on the counter. In Spanish, he ordered a glass of the milky liquid that stood on the counter like a gun slinger demanding a whiskey.

"You no drink-o outside-o," chided Muu-muu.

Dude grabbed his drink, then walked to the door and held one leg over the threshold.

"No! No drinko outside-o!! NO DRINK-O! Leche de Viva ONLY INSIDE-O!"

Dude paused to wink at us, then stepped outside to speak with his friends.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!" Muu-muu was livid, and charged like a lame sauropod after him.

Before the drama could properly conclude, the cook with hate in here eyes signaled that the first part of our meal was ready. Muu-muu twirled back in, tasmanian-devil style, plastic chairs and unbolted tables flying. She threw the first meal in front of Robyn, then dissapeared.

This in fact was my meal, but given the presentation I wouldn't be able to hold it against anyone. The rest of our "food" soon followed.

But Muu-muu wouldn't hand me my plate. She was too large to fit around the cramped table, and not nimble enough to slide it in front of me.

"I can take it," I said.

"No, it's too caliente!" she said, once again butchering her child-like grasp of the language.

"I've worked in a restaurant for 5 years... I can handle it."

"NOOOO!! No food-o tu burn-o!" she screamed back, and morphed into a slick eel, compressing her considerable mass into a single appendage and slamming the luke-warm platter in front of me.

I didn't look at anyone else's food, because I was tragically tansfixed with my "relleno".

I love rellenos. I try one nearly everywhere I go. Some are excellent, some are ok. Some are bad. Only one has been Squeel.

My Squeel relleno was a turd stuffed with american cheese and wrapped in a limp tortilla. At this time I was still a bachelor and was used to, shall we say, unique combinations. But my heart and my stomach both "ran for the border" and took refuge in my balls. It was truly awfull.

I don't remember anything after this point until we stopped for gas some time later. Stretching our legs, we all looked at ourselves and asked "Did that just happen?"

Well, it did, or it didn't. We've never been able to find "Squeel" on the map.

If you're ever driving in the southern wilds of the Bay Area, and see a town called Squeel, Soquel, or any permutation of those letters, I suggest that you drive right on. If you must stop, I suggest that you take a piss in the bushes and get right the hell back on the highway.

If you must eat, I suggest that you go anywhere but a hole-in-the-wall "mexican" restaurant. Unless you'd like to meet Muu-muu and the vampire cook. They have milky liquid and damp tortillas. And they hunger.

I should have related this for Halloween. The children of the Squeel will not soon be forgotten.

Evolution of a Thanksgiving poem

2005-11-17T16:14:00.000-08:00

I have reason to believe that Chuck Yaeger stole my bicycle. The fish told me.
I don't trust my fish, but I trust Chuck Yeager less. I can throw my fish pretty far.

I believe that Chuck
Yeager stole my bicycle.
The fish told me so.

I don't trust the fish,
I trust Yeager even less
I can throw fish far.

????Yeager ????????????????? ?????????????, ??????????Yeager ? ??????????????????????

I where the chuck Yeager steals my bicycle believe. The fish so informed to me. I the fish, do not rely on the Yeager which is relied on less than me. As for me it can throw the fish directly.

While I'm still in this mood...

2005-11-16T16:03:00.000-08:00

LP Presents: The Parents of the Year Award

I just finished reading a very distressing article about Australia's first Wrongful Life lawsuit.

It seems that Alexia Harrington, 24, is suing a Dr. Paul Stephens, because "[h]is negligence resulted in the birth of a child who is 'profoundly disabled.'"

Alexia was born deaf, blind, spastic and retarded.

Alexia's mother matter of factly states that had she known of the possibility of birth defects resulting from Rubella, she would have had an abortion.

Wow. What an amazing thing to tell your kid. "If we'd known you were going to be a burden, we would have ripped you out before you could inconvenience us." Well, apparently it's put the zap on Alexia's head. Sur-fucking-prise.

If you don't think that you should be on Earth, shouldn't you kill yourself? And if you won't kill youself, isn't that an implicit statement that it is better to be alive, regardless?

Oh yeah. She's deaf, blind, spastic and retarded. She isn't suing anybody. Her parents are. The suit is under Alexia's name, because the statute of limitations has expired on her parents filing. How fucking sick is that? To have your daughter file a motion against her own existence?

I pray that I'm never in the position to even have to think about those kinds of choices. Perhaps I am simply not qualified to pass judgement on someone who is in a far more difficult situation than I.

Or perhaps her parents are just fucking monsters.

Melancholy in the land of LP

2005-11-16T00:33:00.000-08:00

I'm sad.

Not weepy sad, more like nap-time sad.

Frustrated, I guess one would say.

I've spent a good deal of time this evening reading political blogs. That is my mistake, I know. I shouldn't expect any consolation. Why I do this to myself, I don't know. Since I was just 18, I've flipped the radio between far-right radio and far-left radio. I do the same now, but with blogs and news sites.

I've always tried to find the synthesis between the two. The middle ground that isn't hype or spin or bullshit.

Since my brief stint in college, I'd always considered myself a Hegelian. Two faces of the same coin, usw.

But now all that I hear, read or experience is hate. If both sides are hate, what is the middle? Sadly, the answer is hate. Dialectics require opposites. There are no opposites in politics - just different ways to hate eachother.

Perhaps I'm comparing the wrong things. Perhaps politics long ago reached a synthesis that I'd never realized until now.

In fact, I'm pretty sure that's correct.

So, peace. At last. What a beautiful Orwelli-Bradburian pillow that leaves.

I leave only the softest tears on this pillow. For tomorrow, I must account for my emotions.

...Mr. Man just woke up with a terrible cough, and I'm reminded that everything above is absolute grade-A bullshit. Nothing matters, nothing, except for the children. I put him back down, and I think that he will sleep again. He sleeps on a pillow without tears, without fears, without accountability.

For now.

The end of innocence

2005-11-13T23:15:00.000-08:00

Dear Daddy Woo-Woo,

I've broken promise after promise to you. It breaks my heart, but the only way to keep you safe, to keep you innocent is to stow you in a box in the closet. I know that you're there, and that's enough.

Incidentally, I've heard that they made a drink for you. How banal. And you know that I don't care for hefeweizen.

"Squeek?" you ask? Yes, sadly, there is more on my soul than cocktails. I was just trying to buy time. You know that. You've always known.

Yes, today I broke one of the last promises to myself. The seal has been busted wide open, and only kill-bots and leathery-winged demons will be dragging my sorry hide from this mortal coil. Today I...

{Squeek, squeek}

Ok, Woo-Woo. I'm not going to pull any more punches.

Woa! Did you see that? A thing just happened! Right here! Do you want to talk about... that?

{Squeek!}

Ok, my first, favorite and furry friend. Today I activated a cell phone.

I know, I know. It was up there with "never do heroin" and "refrain from buggering animals that can kick back." I never meant to hurt you. Or us.

You see, the woman that replaced you as my soul mate, my confidant, asked me to do it. Stop it, you know that you were only my childhood guide. We've both known that you would finally outlive your usefulness. We both knew. Didn't we?

{SQUEEK!}

Get ahold of youself, Woo-Woo. We talked about marrying this woman. We squeeked at length about her future potential. You were the one that told me to take the plunge! I can't let you back out now. I've kept my end of the bargain -- you're still here, aren't you?

No, Woo-Woo. It's a disposable phone. Prepaid minutes, late 80's-style clip-art graphics. My microwave has more on-board RAM. As we discussed, it's only for emergencies. And there is only one emergency for which it will be activated.

{Squeek?}

Yes, Woo-Woo. The new arrival. The soon, too, too soon, baby. That phone will live with me, day and night. Just in case, for any reason, my wife is not with me.

Yes, I know, I'm separated from a land line perhaps 1 hour a day. But it's in those commuting minutes that anything can happen. I want to be able to turn the Honda around like a stock car racer and accelerate toward birth. If need be.

Yes, you're also right. The last time that I borrowed her cell phone, for the same reason, it almost caused an accident. As you know, I was driving down the highway when the unexpected and unusually loud ring-tone caused me to swerve in and out of on-coming traffic for the better part of a minute. And that wasn't even a false alarm - it was my sister asking me why my wife didn't have her cell phone on her.

Woo-Woo, I tell you that it's different. I only have a few pre-paid minutes, and I won't give the number to anyone but the wife. I will not be calling home to check on the status of the crock pot. This is not a joke.

{Squeeeeek}

Yes, it's all a big ball of bologna. There are legitimate reasons why I now own a cell phone, but they can never make up for the reasons that I've always stated that I never would. But it's all for you, Daddy Woo-Woo. So that you'll have another child to play with. Another child to... It's all for you, Daddy Woo-Woo.

Hasn't it always been? Haven't I always provided? Haven't I always agreed?

What won't I do for your sewed leather eyes and apple-embossed apron?

I've given you the children, Woo-Woo. All that I have. Can't I keep the cell phone? Just this one thing?

Please?

Woo-Woo?

Bushism V

2005-11-12T01:17:00.000-08:00

Because the poor are already reaching the stars:

South Carolina Republican debates; February 15, 2000.

Friday come and me wan' go home

2005-11-11T14:40:00.000-08:00

Today I have:

Driven to the bank to get documents notarized.

Driven to another bank to make a deposit.

Driven to the post office to pick up the mail.

Finally realized that it's Veteran's Day.

--- Update 11/11, 4:15pm

...Read yet another disgusting tirade by schlock cock Bill O'Reilly. SF Gate has a pretty amusing take on his 'No Spin Zone' comments here.

I just want to say that I can think of no better way to honor the lives of our soldiers than by offering the terrorists to blow up one of our most important cities. As Sean Hannity would say, "Bill, you're a great American."

This post was funded by Taxpayers for KOM

2005-11-09T08:54:00.000-08:00

Fucking Warren Beatty wouldn't stop calling me. I've been forced to screen all of my calls for the last couple of weeks. Still, he left a message every day.

BEEP "Hey guy," {wink, tooth sparkle} (what, you're answering machine doesn't record these details?) "I just want to talk about the issues concerning Californ..." BEEP.

Not to be outdone, Schwarzenegger took precious time out of his skirt chasing to leave similar messages. Really, the only difference was that his issues concerned Kall-EE-for-knee-ah. I'm not sure where that is, but it sounds Polynesian.

It's like I've got my own paparazzi of celebrities. Bizarro-paparazzi. Bizparazazipa.... whatever. The only way I knew that I hadn't died and gone to hell was that Barbara Streisand wasn't leaving me messages. I have a weird image of her running hell's cafeteria, so it wouldn't surprise me if she were also in charge of Ma-Hell.

Speaking of celebrity endorsements, am I the only one who thinks that sending Bush to Virginia made about as much sense as sending Skeletor?

"Hey guy," (yes, this is how all celebrities start sentences). "Ack ACK ack! Wahahaha! Vote for Kilgore, pathetic fool!"

Actually, seeing that typed out makes me think more of a Muppet General Zod. "Bow down, wakawakawaka!"

I think it's finally over, at least for another couple of years. Beatty and Begley, Jr. can walk arm in arm into the sunset, knowing that they helped annoy millions. I, for one, won't be surprised as I get dropped like a dog-headed booty call come morning, now that I've blown my voting wad. And I sure as hell won't miss the messages.

On as serious note, one very good thing came out of this whole carnival. 8 of the 9 Dover, PA school-board members who tried to shoe-horn 'intelligent design' into the curriculum were sacked. The remaining member was not up for re-election. You have no idea how far this goes toward restoring my faith in Americans.

Now we just have to do something about Kansas. Time to start making some calls. "Hey guy," I'll begin.

Men or ideologists?

2005-11-08T12:12:00.000-08:00

I took a break from my current obsession, Ratchet: Deadlocked, to sit in on the second half of K-19: Widow Maker.

Already I have too many asides. First: Simply coincidence that both items have titles broken by a colon? Second: I'm such a little bitch about movies - I always tell my wife that I'm not interested, but barring "How Stella Fried Green Ya-ya Pants", I'll usually sit though anything put in front of me. Of course, it helped that cable was out tonight. Which leads to, Third: I've had to listen to the radio all night for updates on the California special election. It's not like I'm missing an episode of Lost or something - why'd cable go out tonight?

K-19 got me to thinking about the War on Terrorism. Rather, the people who are fighting it. On both sides.

The History Channel makes a Holiday Season living by rolling out the stories about wartime Christmas truces, soldiers helping the enemy, chocolates for German children, etc. It never struck me before that this appears to be a European foible. I say appears, because I'm sadly not well versed in world-wide history.

I wondered if this could be easily explained by cultural connectedness. The Allies and the Axis (Japan excluded), both came from a similar background that can be traced back to before the fall of Rome. It would make sense that our holidays as well as our world-view are similar. Why not celebrate Christmas with the enemy? Maybe play a little soccer before the cease-fire ends? They may not always have understood eachother's language, but they shared the common tradition.

Then I wondered specifically about Japan during WWII. Was it simply a lack of cultural cohesion that made the fight so bitter? Is it just a relic of propaganda that makes us think mostly of the Divine Wind, or of their civilians throwing themselves off the cliffs of Iwo Jima rather than be captured?

As an aside, I remember doing a report in 5th grade in which I interviewed my parents about WWII. They were born between 1939 and 1940, and didn't remember much about the war. But I asked them about any stigma with learning foreign languages at this time, and they both remember nothing negative about studying German. Granted, it's long been a language in which the highest sciences have been explored. And even today, how many rural schools are teaching Japanese is America? Still, it struck me that even the dirty Krauts were worth studying, while the sneaky Japs, much less than having anything to teach us, were specifically ignored by all but Military language schools.

I decided that I believed it was in fact more about the ideology of the combatants, than the cultural ties. Although, to be honest, it could easily be argued that the ideology is the cultural difference. But for the sake of simplicity, we'll keep the thoughts separate.

If that same History Channel is to be trusted, the Japanese believed that the Emperor was a deity, or may as well have been. To die for the cause is the highest honor, the greatest reward. Surrendering represents the basest level of cowardice and purpose. While the American may have fought for intangibles like 'freedom', they were really fighting to stay alive; to return to their family and sweethearts. While I won't deny this simple desire to their Japanese counterparts, I believe that the intangible was in fact foremost in their minds. 'Duty', 'Honor', even 'Bushido'.

Still, even the Emperor eventually recognized that the needs of his people outweighed imperialistic design. Complete surrender was finally granted, and we can now enjoy Hello Kitty, inexpensive transistor radios and sushi while still being American.

Islamic terrorists, or at least the ones pulling the strings, don't seem to give a shit. With no specific nation or people for which to be accountable, these leaders can send wave after wave of cannon fodder against the enemy. And the fodder, who willingly die for the cause, are completely taken in with the ideology.

Is that too broad? Can we imagine GI's and Mujahadeen playing soccer together during Ramadan? Can we imagine that, man to man, they can look eachother in the eyes and disagree, but respect the others' situation? Or are we fighting not men, but ideology? Can the two be separated?

'Cuz you know you wanted to know

2005-11-07T16:15:00.000-08:00

Many Bothan spies died to bring us this information.

I would also recommend the side-article discussing the Implausibility of the Death Star's Trash Compactor, care of McSweeney's.

This post has been bought to you in lieu of a rant about Terrel Owens. You may thank me later.

K.O.M., Superstar.

2005-11-05T22:46:00.000-08:00

Just who the hell do you think you are?

Or, as my favorite David Cross send off states it: "Check this shit ow-ow-out!"

Li'l' ol' LP has gone global. We're infecting pages that have always been, heretofore, verboten. And the first stop on the journey is the Yawning Anus. And if I can make it there, I can make it anywhere.

It's up to you, L.P., New York!

The suffering was unending. Loverboy, Falco and I seem to be the only ones to have escaped the YA torture. I think this might be why he toys with me still. Falco is dead, and Loverboy is fading. It's only a matter of time, now.

My last shout can be read here.

KOM's time machine

2005-11-04T15:33:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow I went to the store. Yesterday I will try to remembered to remind myself to have gone to the store, today. But it is tomorrow again, already. Right now, I needed to keep straight what day it was when I will be remembering to reminded myself.

To have befucken, this will be hard.

A complete waste of time III

2005-11-04T10:26:00.000-08:00

...Now with commentary!

Yet another glimpse into the search engine keywords that lead unwary visitors to li'l ol' LP

how to suck dick
I guess this one was inevitable.

women's children suck dick
Interestingly, I've learned that most people are the children of women.

Mary "whales blood" "banana leaf"
"Nick Cave fan" "Doubleplusgood"

"beans,beans magical fruit"
The magical fruit. Dumb- pfffft. Excuse me. -ass.

how to make a pipe out of a pencap
Why would you want to do that? Now if you have a bell pepper and a straw...

how to make a poor man's weed pipe
Damn stoners. What were we just talking about?

what does eselsbohrung mean
This made me laugh and laugh. The Google translation is priceless.

paige hemmis nose job
Thanks, Nilo.

"you make my teeth sweat"
That pretty much speaks for itself.

sponge bob fucking pic
Finally, a litmus test for the severly disturbed.

the bird is the word lyrics
Wow, this one's squeaky clean. What gives?

hot albino chick
After some reflection, I say "why the fuck not?"

Retraction

2005-11-04T09:09:00.000-08:00

When I woke up this morning, my first thought was that I really didn't like the direction that the last post was headed.

I don't like how it was phrased, and I don't believe that I was as clear about what I was presenting as I had intended. Besides which, it's a whole barrel of monkeys (scorpions?) that I'm not really prepared to deal with.

So to keep things democratic, I've removed the comments feature from both this and the previous post. If anyone did leave a comment, I apologize for copping out.

Li'l' ol' LP will return to her regularly scheduled program after a short nap.

Religion Q&A

2005-11-03T12:05:00.000-08:00

People, I'm at a loss.

I would dare to state that the simple majority of the folks that bless me with comments consider themselves religious. Not simply spiritual, but religious.

Yet short of nailing the King of the Jews to the cross myself, I have lambasted, satorized and blasphemed against our favorite savior; still, I get positive comments about my philosophy and world view.

What I'd like to do is get a better sense of you, my reader, through a Q and A. This time, however, I'd like to keep things on a relatively metaphysical plane. Tell me what you believe and why, then in the comments ask me to either counter or support your viewpoint.

Just a few ground rules:

1) No bashers. I'm not interested in attacks.

2) No circuitous questions. For example "Could God make a rock so big that He couldn't lift it?"

3) No stick-in-the-mud's. If you're willing to ask, please be willing to hear.

4) When the comments open, please agree or disagree in a civil manner. We all see things different. That's the spice of life. But if there are any questions about #4, please see # 1.

So, there it is. Ask me anything. Your dialogue is our understanding, and understanding can't be bad.

I plan on keeping this topic open for a week or so. There will be a link in the sidebar for any late-commers.

Fasting on Mount Terrible Two

2005-11-01T21:57:00.000-08:00

Mr. Man and I had a strong disagreement tonight.

We are trying to teach Little Guy about manners, and he is usually quite receptive. "Please," we say, and he repeats "peez!" But this evening, shortly after he came home, he wanted a refill of his milk. First Mommy asked him if he could please take the cup over to daddy (I was in the kitchen, near the refridgerator). Little man had a meltdown and disappeared behind the couch. I finally grabbed the cup and filled it with milk. I said "Say please," and he responded "No, no."

I emptied and refilled the dishwasher, all the time offering him his coveted milk if only he would say "please." "No, no." was the invariable reply, if he would even grace me with a response.

"Come, now, little guy, just say "please", and I'll get your milk."

"No, no."

In a flash, it occurred to me that I was Satan tempting Jesus on the mountain. "Hungry? Just say the word and make the stones into milk."

"No, no."

"Well, if you're hungry, throw yourself up into your high chair so that I can feed you."

"No, no."

"Okay, tell you what. All the milk of the Kingdoms of the world, I will give you if you will just say 'please'"

"No, no, no!"

So I put the milk back into the fridge, and Little Man was disconsolate.

Upon further reflection, I've read a couple of things into this exchange. First, I think that I get the idea of "God the Father". It's one thing to read as a son, quite another to read as a dad. I know that he isn't going to starve to death if I refuse the milk. And I would never hold something that he really needs, even out of spite.

But, and God Himself has asked me to relay this message, stop asking The I Am for a bicycle, or a red wagon, or a Barbie, or to catch the winning touchdown. He will provide what you need, not what you want.

He also asked me to tell you that you may, in fact, catch the winning touchdown. This was not by His hand, so he would prefer it if you didn't give him credit. He has imbued you with certain gifts, and he expects you to utilize these gifts. Enjoy and have fun. But remember to give Him praise for all things, not just the minor victories.

Did you remember to praise Him when your last dental checkup showed no new cavities? Did you praise Him when your soufle didn't fall? Did you praise Him when your Blogger post published correctly, and was not lost to the Ether? Yeah, again, minor victories. You've got some work to do.

I prefer to pray once per day, usually when I'm falling asleep. I ask, "Lord, please do not let anything bad happen to my family. If it must, please give me the strength to exact horrific pain upon anyone involved in my misery. Then let me kill myself. Please bless my parents, my kitties, and my household."

I'm not kidding.

Second, it seems to me that Satan is playing the stereotypical parental role. And that is a little disturbing.

He seems to say "Look, you know how to do it, just do it!" I say this nearly every day to Little Man. I am not your servant, figure it out!

We wish to provide our offspring with the best tools that we can provide. Listen to me, listen to us, we know best.

Parents, oh parents, We are Legion.

Jesus seems as petulant as a 2 year-old. Breaking the Sabbath, beating the money exchangers, hanging out with the prostitutes and tax collectors. We wouldn't wish this upon our enemy's kids!

Faith in Jesus is like faith in a 2 year-old. It's difficult, it shows little return, and it causes many headaches. But if you can stick it out, ostensibly, the reward is as great, or better, than watching your own Little Man become a Big Man. Or, that's what I've been told.

You see, I'm still agnostic.

Apropos

2005-11-01T10:57:00.000-08:00

Some day's I'm overflowing with ideas for li'l' ol' LP, and other days I am completely dry. On the full days, I tend to write things like "rubber band double dildo toilet crying" on a scrap of paper, hoping that it will jog my memory later. On the dry days, I just stare at the scavenger hunt list, and shake my head.

Today is definately a dry day. But last night I dreamed about posting the following:

APROPOS

Of course, he could be in the pro-life crowd and the pun still works, but given the heat that his cohort has gotten for being gay, I'm guessing that they're all a little more left-leaning.

And yes, this was much, much funnier when I was asleep.

Guilt and the Gridiron

2005-10-30T21:45:00.000-08:00

There is a commercial for a satellite TV service in which a boy runs to his father and jumps on the couch asking "Can you read me a story?" The father looks around for a second and the crestfallen boy says "Oh, football."

The father says, "Nevermind, I can freeze time!" {Snap} TV action is paused. {Snap} TV action is resumed. "Do it again, daddy!" squeals the kid, book forgotten.

While watching the commercial, my wife said something to the effect of, "Oh, god forbid that he spend some time with his son!"

I replied, off hand, "That's the pain of every child."

The wife looked at me with her brows furrowed, then did an uncanny Spock peak with one of her eyebrows. She stared at me for a moment, then let it go.

When I was but a little guy, I walked into the living room where my dad was watching football on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. After playing for a while at the foot of the couch, I remember looking at him and saying, "I can't wait for football to be over, so that I can have you back."

He looked at me as if in pain, a sight I've never since witnessed. He didn't say anything for a few moments, and I jumped on to the couch and snuggled next to him, happy to watch the game, if it meant that I could be with him.

He couldn't 'freeze time', and he didn't have to. We just watched the rest of the game together.

The pain of every child is in realizing that their parents, even their world, exists outside of themselves alone. There is a time when one first groks that the Me-liospheric model has long since been retired.

It would seem that the pain of every adult is remembering that moment. Moreso, in experiencing it again through the eyes of the young.

This Should Work

2005-10-29T02:36:00.000-07:00

I finally friggin' remember!

The Golden Paper Clip goes to This Girl I Used To Know, if only because she questioned my notes.

The rubber band reference was supposed to be a completely different post. It was about my friend, and a dark day in 20/20 hindsight stupidity.

He had a good sized bag of rubber bands, and we had spent all afternoon linking one after the other until the chain was at least 20 feet long.

The next logical step, of course, was to stretch the chain as far as we could. My friend stood stationary as I walked up the sidewalk, one house after another, sometimes testing the tautness. It was inevitable what happened next: the chain snapped, and 150 feet of overstretched rubberband accelerated at warp speed toward my friend's scrotum.

It would have been much funnier on America's Home Videos. As I understand it, one can not go wrong with a testicular impact gag.

Anyhow, said friend has just started a blog. Please check it out.

I'm a little concerned, because Technorati, etc., will eventually lead back to li'l' ol' LP. The internet is full of Hanzel und Gretel crumbs. But this guy is one of by oldest, best friends, so annonymity be damned. It's not like I'm running for ~~Emporer~~ President! Viva la Work!

The land of Nod, on the east of Eden

2005-10-29T01:41:00.000-07:00

I'm not Catholic, but I believe in Purgatory.

I believe it because I fear it.

And I know what I fear.

The Talking Heads say Heaven is a place where nothing ever happens. I don't entirely disagree. But I believe Purgatory is a place where nothing ever happens. Well, not quite nothing.

My idea of nothingness and waiting is that, once parsed, you are assigned a song that you don't really remember. For example, the theme song to T.J. Hooker. Or perhaps an obscure America or Grand Funk Railroad B-side. Something that you haven't heard in years, if ever.

Then you are asked to transpose the entire song note for note, lyric for lyric. If Manfred Mann's Earth Band sings "wrapped up like a douche", you will have to understand that it's "duece".

Once per year, and only once per year, you are allowed to take your findings to the Curator. He will either allow you to pass, or fail you, again, to another year of trying to piece together a forgotten memory.

He will not let you know how close you are, or if a musical phrase or lyric is correct. Only yes or no.

And you will toil nearly forever. Finally, due to the logic of infinite monkeys, and infinite typewriters, you may finally escape. Rather, be reassigned. And you may finally be forwarded to Heaven.

A place where nothing ever happens.

KOMtasticalicious

2005-10-26T23:45:00.000-07:00

Not all of my written garbage is stored as computer drafts. A fair amount can be found on post-its and general stickies all over the KOM-cave.

I had in mind a post that was going to blow your little cotton socks off your mis-shapen toes. Unfortunately, based on the notes that I wrote, I have no freaking idea what I was supposed to document.

So it's time, once again, for the Golden Paper-Clip award. This hallowed award is, uhh, awarded to whoever can make sense of the following notes. Understand, there is no prize for creativity - this is strictly based on the proper interpretation of the following notes.

You want a prize? Ok. Whoever reads these clues and can tell me what the fuck I was going to write about may take over li'l ol' LP for a moment, and be 'googlefied' in their own time on my dime. Err, Google's dime. Whatever.

(Yellow pad notes, no date, no direction)

Steve Winwood.

Genius?

Rubber Band.

Toilet. Crying.

Trujillo?

That's all you get. Genius or absurdity? I'd venture both.

No, really, I'd venture neither.

Really, though, I don't venture.

A brief dream X

2005-10-26T14:58:00.000-07:00

Last night I dreamed that I was on the Island from Lost, trying to process I-9's for all the survivors. As you can imagine, this was not a pleasant task.

Casting ivory before swine

2005-10-24T14:29:00.000-07:00

If I really wanted to be free, I would live by my own hand. I would run through the forest and the plains, hundreds of miles without fences.

I might cautiously sneak into towns to mate, but I would be gone long before the sun came up.

I would probably step on a nail and die next to a secluded stream. Or perhaps I would be eviscerated by a mountain lion. I might just slip and break both of my legs, breathing my last in the same spot that I landed.

No thank you. I'll happily trade boundless freedom for shelter and security. Or the illusion of such, anyway. And everyone who is reading this, or even could read this, has made the same decision.

So I was startled to hear a woman's shrill voice as I walked across the parking lot in front of a Safeway. "Do you want to save the elephants? From the circuses?"

"Sir?"

"Sir!?"

"Excuse me, Sir!"

Okay, let's play.

"What."

"Do you want to help save the circus elephants?"

"From what?"

"From the circuses! The trainers! They are kept in tiny cages all of their lives and beaten."

"How do they train?"

"What do you mean?"

"How do they train the elephants to do tricks inside of their tiny cages?"

"Well, they let them out to train."

"I see. And what would you do with these elephants?"

"Do?"

"Maybe I'm missing your point. What is it that you would want me to do?"

"Boycott the circus!"

"Let's just say that every man, woman and child in the US boycotted elephants. What would happen?"

"The circuses would go out of business!"

"Right. And what happens to the elephants?"

"They would be... taken in."

"By whom?"

"By... I don't know, but someone would do something!"

"I see. And if 'someone' did 'something', what would that be?"

"They would be returned to their natural habitat where they could be free!"

At this point I'm afraid that I was forced to kick the woman in the throat. For any Anonymous's out there, I'm not only racist but a rabid misogynist.

Let them back into nature. Unbe-fucking-lievable. "Okay, Mr. third generation housed and fed pachyderm... here's your new digs. Dinner? No, nature will provide for you! Water? Uhh, I don't know. It's probably around here somewhere. Hey, you're the elephant. Don't you know this stuff? See ya. Oh, by the way, don't get sick. Ciao!"

But as I was pounding her head into the pavement over and over, I began to feel bad. After all, she apparently meant well. She just hasn't really thought it through. Is it her fault that she's a mindless puppet? It's like talking with a Mormon missionary. I swear to god that they are only taught "Jesus loves you, and fags are bad", then kicked out the door and bussed to my neighborhood. They are completely incapable of having a philosophical discussion. I don't mean that they just repeat the 3 talking posts that they've been taught (which they do), but they are not trained in their own fucking book! Seriously, I don't think that I've ever met a missionary that has read the damn thing. And god forbid that they've cracked a bible open. Why the hell are these people sent to teach me about religion? They are like door-to-door salespeople that don't know what's in their own product box. Fuck, it's maddening.

But I digress.

The day after Wilma's landfall she asked me if I wanted to save the elephants. From the circus. She was unconscious now, but I leaned over her body and whispered into her ear:

"No."

Sometime is too much

2005-10-23T22:58:00.000-07:00

I think my eye's been leaking.

I was watching some show this evening, 60/60, 20 Minutes... whatever. They were talking about musical savants. One of these prodigies was blind as well as being mentally retarded. I mean than in a very clinical sense: he is unable to buckle his seatbelt, unable to tie his shoes, unable, even, to button his shirt.

But he remembers every song that he has ever heard, and is able to play it upon request on a piano.

As the segment was cut, the interviewer asked "can you hold up 3 fingers?" He held up all ten, stretched taught, and responded "I don't know how to do that."

Asked shortly thereafter if he could play "The girl from Ipanema", he went straight into song.

And this is what got me. They asked if he could interpret musical phrases as if done by another talent. Bach became perhaps too complex when asked to be interpreted as Mozart. Perhaps too regimented and baroque when asked to be interpret as "Russian". But it was organic, and real and, TV to be trusted, in the moment and beautiful. Not that he didn't miss some notes, not that it was Carnegie-ready, but it was immediate and incredible.

I had stood, mid living-room with my hand on my hip, watching the segment. Very shortly into the performance, I was forced to step outside. Ostensibly for a cigarette, but honestly because I was emotionally overwhelmed.

My mother tells a story from when I was a little tike. I was watching "Close Encounters" at the foot of the TV in my parent's bedroom as they were getting ready for bed. After the famous musical encounter, when the aliens opened the hatch and showed themselves, my mother tells me that I cried uncontrollably. Not from fear, but from awe. Something about the scene had touched a part of my mind that wasn't tied to want or need. It was pure wonder, and I cried.

One night a few years ago, my wife and I were driving to a friend's house. I was trying to explain that I had never really thought about the role of firefighters or police as positive institutions. While I had little thought about firefighters, I actively disliked police. Not that I hadn't met some pretty cool cops in my youthful indiscretions, but I always considered them a barely-contained gestapo, existent only to give me tickets or bum my high.

It struck me like a bolt of lightning, after 9/11, that they had their purpose. The men in blue have the authority to tell you where to go, how to get there, and if you should stay there. The same people that I'd always considered to have some social defect in peace-time were the only ones who could direct the populace when absolutely necessary.

I tried to tell my wife that while I was still wary of cops and their totalarian power, I finally understood their purpose. The same characteristics that I've always hated and feared in the blue-clad autocrats could in fact be used for the social good. There can be times and reasons for their existence. I became overwhelmed at the realization and cried right there in the car.

The same awe has been repeated on more than one occasion: The moment my wife said "yes" to the proposal; when I saw her march down the isle; when in the middle of all havoc and hell I was handed the forceps to cut the umbilical cord...

Humans are damned by their own existence. As said in Contact, "You're capable of such beautiful dreams and such horrible nightmares." It's a wonderful thing when we can be shocked out of our usual routine, and can be hurt or enlightened by the simple thoughts and actions around us. It's in those brief moments when we are taken out of ourselves that I believe we are closer to whatever we choose to believe as God.

And it is in Awe, when all other emotions fail, that we are, finally, Human.

Perrier Eleison

2005-10-23T16:59:00.000-07:00

Because I've already blasphemed by calling you Pellegrino.

;)

2005-10-21T23:24:00.000-07:00

Emoticon, how I loathe thee. Let me count the ways.

On second thought, after so many months teaching a toddler to count, I'm not sure that I can count much beyond ten. So let me just tell you why I hate them.

I've gotten into "trouble" at least twice here in the blogosphere for not adding a winking devil troll to the end of a sentence. Why? Because written text is impersonal and lacks the social cues that would smooth over spoken word.

I call bullshit on that.

Emoticons exist because the first FIDOnet users were geeks, not communicators. To be honest, I'm a bit surprised they could parse the heavy atmosphere of autism to even see the need for better stating static emotion.

This was funny! :) I ironically called you a dipshit! ;) You make me sad. :( Wh-what? :O I'm pissed. >:| I like boobs. (o)(o) Have a flower! @-/--

I hate emoticons because the mock me. They make me realize that I am not talented enough to convey a written thought without an understood human response. In other words, emoticons make me write less effectively.

They are a crutch.

It's so much easier to write "You are an unmitigated whore ;)", than to try to turn a phrase that conveys the same message.

Damn you, emoticon. You had makes I stupider.

(o)(o)

Shake it like a polaroid picture.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch

2005-10-21T22:50:00.000-07:00

We had a wicked windstorm a couple of months ago. Hello wind, goodbye fence:

I believe that my beautiful wife covered this a while ago.

Santa sprinkled some love dust, and now we have a new fence and a retaining wall:

How fucking cool is that? At this rate, we might have some grass before the end of the decade.

KOM is a big fat racist

2005-10-20T10:59:00.000-07:00

I've also noticed that KOM is as likely as not to refer to himself in the 3rd person.

I received an interesting comment on one of my recent posts. Anonymous states, simply, "you sound like a big fat racist." I was torn about responding to this comment. You know, the whole 'acknowledge them and the terrorists win' scenario. But I've also been thinking a lot about comments made by Stephen Jackson regarding the NBA dress code. So I guess it's time for LP's monthly race-inspired post.

Anonymous, who incidentally left her IP address and location, came to LP through a Blogger search for the term "asian woman". This lead her to the post titled "Autumn dreaming", linked above.

This post begins with me describing two women that I saw in a bank. One of them happened to be Asian, the other white. Why did I mention this? I mean, it wasn't really necessary to the story. By way of an answer, I will re-submit the post in its entirety, all possible offending material removed.

All-seasons inclusive, non-sexual fantasizing

I was in a place. I noticed two earth natives. One of them smiled.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

I like sweats.

Hmm. This didn't turn out as I had hoped - that's actually a pretty funny post. Well, good enough for these pages, anyway. My point was supposed to be that description is necessary to the immersion of the tale. All verbs and no adjectives make Jack a dull story.

I stated that I assumed that the Asian woman (heretofore 'younger woman' to avoid typing "Asian woman" and "white woman" over and over in a post about racism) was the older woman's care provider. Why? Because she was handling the older woman's accounts, and was clearly not blood related. Could she have been a daughter-in-law? Why the heck not. That's why I wrote "assumed". It could have been any number of scenarios. Yet, regardless of the relationship, she was providing the older woman a service. That counts as a 'care provider', right? Besides, is there a stereotype that I've missed about Asian care-givers? If I had written that I assumed the younger woman was responsible for the older woman's laundry, then I think Anonymous would have had more of a point. It would have been stereotypical and taken completely out of context.

I also stated that I assumed that the younger woman was bilking the older woman. Again, is this a stereotype that I've missed? Are Asians known by everyone but me to be predatory cheats? Or have we come so far in Bleeding Heart Land that only white males are capable of doing negative things? Why did I assume that the older woman was being bilked? Because I would have done it. While meant in jest, I think it's pretty clear that I was projecting my own psyche onto the younger woman.

So, Anonymous, I submit that if anyone is racist here, it's you, in that race matters to you in more than an incidental fashion. I was just describing the situation - you are the one with the hang-ups. Don't lay 'em on me.

Moving to the NBA.

Has everyone lost their fucking minds? Why is there even debate about the dress code? It's racist to ban wearing chains or pendants outside of clothing while "on the clock"?

When did racism stop being about civil rights and become the bogeyman of every person who doesn't like a situation? Didn't get your white-ass into college? Blame the native American who "stole" your scholarship. Didn't get the job as a hostess? Could it be because you don't speak English? A dress code at work? Must be the man trying to stamp out your culture.

I'm not even going to bring up the McDonalds uniform argument. It's too obvious.

What I see are a bunch of spoiled brats that get paid ridiculously well to play a game, yet cry foul when they are required to present themselves as the league sees fit.

Jason Richardson states "You still wear a suit, you still could be a crook. You see all what happened with Enron and Martha Stewart. Just because you dress a certain way doesn't mean you're that way."

That's truish, in and of itself. Don't judge a book by it's cover, and all that. Except that it completely misses the point. Will requiring the players to dress a certain way help the league? I don't know, and I couldn't possibly give less of a fuck. But theirs is not to wonder why, theirs is to but play and... well, not die. Get paid a lot, I guess. Once they own the league, they can set their own rules (and lord knows that the players make enough money that they could buy it.) In the meantime, when management says "jump shot", they should say "how high?"

Says Jackson, "I love wearing my jewelry. But I love my job. I love playing basketball more than I love getting fined and getting suspended."

Amen.

And if I'm wrong, maybe I am a big fat racist.

Conversational vortex

2005-10-19T16:15:00.000-07:00

My boss isn't a bad guy, but for some reason we are unable to communicate. I don't know if other people know what he's talking about and the fault is mine, or if he lives in constant frustration over the 'stupidity' of others. This exchange took place about an hour ago, and is very nearly verbatim.

{Ring}

"Hello?"

"I need you to do me a favor." (this always bothers me. As long as I get paid, I do what you want. Don't call it a favor.)

"What do you need."

"Our insurance is X, right?"

"Which insurance?"

"Our insurance."

"Vehicle insurance? Workers comp? Medical? Gener--"

"--Vehicle insurance."

"Yes, X is our vehicle insurance."

"Is the policy number ########?"

"No. It's ########"

"And that's for Y, right?"

"No... that's for carrier X."

"Then I need you to make a copy of all of our insurance ID's. I'll need two copies. One for me, one as a back-up for your records, and one each for shops A and B."

"So, you need 4 copies?"

"No, {frustrated exhale} two. One for both shops."

"Ok-"

"-And one for me. And another copy for your records."

"So-"

"-Two. Total. Two total copies."

{Click}

And did you want pickles on that?

Kal-el Cage had best tread lightly

2005-10-18T13:59:00.000-07:00

I watched the second half of Superman II over the weekend, and have been trying to deal with it since. I wanted to blog about some issues I had with the movie, but I haven't been able to marshall my thoughts on the subject. It was just so...

...something.

And then, like a ray of a red Sun's light, I beheld the glory that is General Zod 2008. I was skeptical of Christopher Walken's candidacy, and with good reason. But Zod '08 appears to be the real deal.

I just have one question. What is he a general of?

KOM gets a new pipe

2005-10-17T23:30:00.000-07:00

Indulge me one more "pot post". I don't promise that it will be the last, and after 10 years of starting every story with "Ok, we were sooo baked...", it's a hard habit to break. But I'll try.

My friends and I used to drive to Berkeley nearly every weekend. We'd get high, shop for deals in the LP bargain bins, check out the head shops and then dine at Spanger's. It was something to do.

My girlfriend and I had purchased a pipe at one of the head shops. It was really, really cool. It was one of those pipes covered in that playdough-like material that bakes on hard. It was covered in a mushroom dominated happy valley scene.

The happy valley soon disintegrated - literally. The clay cracked and broke off after just a week or two of use. I was infuriated. Which at the time meant something like "Man, I should, like, say something or something. I mean, I should talk to them, man."

So the next time we went down to Berkeley, I carried the faulty purchase in my pocket and planned to give the Man a piece of my mind. First, of course, I had to gird my loins, so to speak, at Fat Slice. Is this good pizza, you ask? I couldn't tell you. I don't think I've ever eaten it.. ah.. not ravenous. Does good pizza give you the runs? Then it is the best!

Said loins girded and greased, I walked the few blocks down Telegraph to the head shop where the defective pipe had been purchased. I walked in, full of indignity, and said "This pipe's busted, man!"

The poor proprietor took the pipe in his hand, looked at it for half a second and then turned ghost white. "You have to get this out of here! Now!"

"Not until I get a refund, man!" I retorted.

"No, you don't understand. This has marijuana resin in it. I could be shut down! Get it out of here!"

"Uh. Uh, okay. Can I have a pen cap?"

"Wh-what?"

"To clean it, man. Sorry to stress you, man!"

The proprietor gave me the pointy pen cap off of a nearby bic and nearly kicked me out of the store.

I sat down on the sidewalk, reclining against the storefront. I had just started to pull the pipe apart when one of my friends found me. He was hanging out with a sketchy-looking guy in a green sweatshirt. "Dude, you got two bucks?" he asked me.

"Why?"

"Because Dirtnap here has two joints to sell me, if I can come up with a couple more dollars."

I squinted up into the sun, then lazily cast my gaze on 'Dirtnap'. "Cool sweatshirt, man. Yeah, I got a couple of bucks."

Dirtnap, friend and I smoked the first joint right there on the sidewalk, backs against the jittery proprietors store. Our new friend was telling us how the cops in Berkeley are cool, just when a cop turned the corner across the street. That dude could run fast, man!

The cop didn't pay us any mind, so friend and I finished the joint. I pulled a Zig-zag out of my pocket and scraped all of the resin that I could from the pipe, depositing the tarry goodness on the paper for later use. "Does this look clean to you, man?" I asked.

Friend was gone. He may have been gone for some time. I still picture myself, tongue sticking out at an angle, busily scraping and completely ignorant of the hundreds of people that passed me on that narrow sidewalk.

Finally satisfied, and with a pretty good haul of resin to boot, I walked back into the store. I again offered the pipe to the proprietor and stated "This pipe's busted, man!"

The poor man again looked at the pipe, and noticed that it was still covered in resin. "I can't have you in here!"

"But the pipe's defective, man!"

"Listen, take any replacement you want. Now. And get the fuck out of here and never come back."

"Wow! Cool, man. I like that one," (pointing). He grabbed it and threw it out the open door. "Get out!"

That night we dined on fresh seafood. I couldn't believe how lucky I was that the proprietor didn't even want the defective pipe in exchange! "It's not like it doesn't work or anything," I confided to my friend.

The Official 301st Post

2005-10-17T22:29:00.000-07:00

There was some jackass that posted #301 over the weekend. I removed it before too much harm was done. Well, harm was done, but I deleted it. We'll leave it at that.

Perhaps this is officially post # 303. Because I've deleted one other post as well. But I put a post up in its place. So the count still remains 301.

It's easy to forget how public a forum this (blogging) is. When I first started blogging, I made a promise to myself that I would post anything that I had bothered to write - unfinished or not. This lasted several moths until I started to use "drafts" as a notepad. Just one more promise to myself out the window. Then, a month or two ago, I had to remove a particularly whiny, needy post. Sometimes the things that are written in the wee hours of the morning should never see the light of day.

For example, a single line taken out of a draft that I've finally deleted, because it never bore fruit. Taken also completely out of any context that could redeem it:

I've never eaten while masturbating. Not yet.

Over the weekend, I posted something that really did not need to be said. Confusion about someone else, another blog, another situation.

It's difficult for me to realize that you all are real people. I tend to think that people go into "cold storage" when I'm not around.

So. Cryptic as it is, I end post #301. I hope that it will be a reminder to me about what is acceptable for me to post, and what is a needless commentary on another real person's blog.

Autumn dreaming

2005-10-14T14:11:00.000-07:00

I was waiting in line at the bank and watching a little old white lady in pink sweatpants who was standing with a much younger asian woman. I assumed that the asian woman was some kind of care provider. I also assumed that she was bilking the woman. Because I would, if I had access to a little old lady's bank account.

But as the ladies left the teller and walked past, the older woman caught my eye and smiled radiantly. I instantly realized that she knew that she was getting ripped off, and that she didn't care - because she gets to wear sweatpants anywhere she goes!

As near as I can figure, I need to either age another 40 years, or put on another 100 pounds before I get to wear sweats in public. Neither option is particularly appealing.

I guess I could pretend that I'm always jogging, or don a whistle and impersonate a highschool PE teacher. But I just want to be me - in sweats.

I'm going to sacrifice some chickens to the Casual god this weekend. If you get to work on Monday and all the men have exchanged their button-ups and ties for sports jerseys, you'll know that the sacrifice was pleasing. And you'll also know that I will be smiling radiantly, waiting in line at the bank in my sweatpants. Commando.

KOM needs

2005-10-14T14:08:00.000-07:00

This wasn't a meme as such, and it certainly wasn't directed at me. But the idea cracked me up, so I had to try it. Thanks to Sheri for the idea.

Two pages of my Google search for "KOM needs":

KOM needs a live account and black arrow

KOM needs two slashes

KOM needs a lot of tough love sometimes

KOM needs to shed public-sector image 2004

The current KOM *needs* 2.2.3

KOM needs an update

KOM needs frequent feedback from its valued customers

KOM needs us!!

All KOM needs to show is that there are other explanations that do not require God

KOM needs to get a leader of this

KOM needs adult dvd erotik store

Just think of all the washing and grooming a KOM needs - let alone how much one will eat!

KOM needs the protein

Jesus Christ, get out of my fucking head!

Do you know how to suck dick?

2005-10-13T23:10:00.000-07:00

Do you know how long it takes to drive from the Bay Area to Boulder, Colorado? I do. It takes almost exactly 24 hours.

We had driven 24 hours straight. East through California, through Nevada, past Salt Lake City and up into Wyoming, then finally back down into Colorado.

I only have a couple of thoughts about the intervening states. First, Nevada is mindnumbingly boring. And it's so much bigger than you can imagine. Second, I had no idea that waves crashed to shore against the Great Salt Lake. Who'da thunk it? That's one big fucking lake, I guess. The city looks like something out of a sci-fi movie - giant cliffs placed haphazardly next to a roiling sea. Jets fall out of the sky and skim the highway about 30 inches above the cars, then disappear through sea-foam and rock formations. In the middle of the fucking desert. Finally, Wyoming is also massive, but much more interesting. Interesting to look at, at least. My totally uneducated guess is that they have 1 resident per 500 square miles in that state. In their massive isolation they've also re-invented english. We stopped at a gas station that advertised Pop;Ice;Beer;Gas. All separated, as God intended, by semi-colons.

So.

Aaron and I were to meet a friend who was going to school in Boulder. The only thing that we knew was that he lived "on The Hill". I was under the impression that "The Hill" would be a bit like Telegraph in Berkeley. Initially it looked more like Main St. Disneyland.

At least there was, sort of, a hill. I would think that so close to the Rockies, natives would call a place a "Hill" in a facetious way, like a Texan might call his 100,000 acre ranch his "back yard". But irony seems to be lost on these people (must be the lack of oxygen). In a little bowl valley, nestled between towering, sheer cliffs, sits a little city with a tiny "hill". And as if named by Jebediah Springfield himself, the little city is aptly called Boulder. Down the road is "Stick", "Tumblweed" and "That Creek Where Johnny Took A Piss".

Because we were young and didn't worry about things like telephone numbers or addresses before going on a road trip, we simply parked the Festiva and began to look for Seth.

His last name makes the question of asking about Seth X sound something like "Do you know how to suck dick?" The jocks were not amused, and we were too tired to repeat ourselves. Imagine two grungy, bleary-eyed, long and oily haired fucks walking around town offering oral pleasure. The jocks were not amused, but the people who looked like us seemed happy to offer us drugs.

"What? Not stuff, man. Seth. Do you know how to suck dick?"

"I need money, man. Muh-nee. I don't need no help with that, you dig?"

What was I saying about Disneyland? Maybe it was a bit more like Telegraph.

I honestly do not remember how we found him. I'm sure that it's a story in itself. I mean somehow, knowing nothing except for the general neighborhood in which he lived, we ended up finding a non-descript guy in a smallish city.

I don't know if it was the same Seth that we were looking for, but he was a good guy and let sleep in his apartment.

That first night Aaron and I were too tired to sleep. We lay on the floor in the dark and moaned as our bodies tried to process 30 hours of wakefulness and 5 packs of cigarettes. Each. I think we finally slept after Seth went to work the next morning, and didn't wake up until the middle of the next day. Seth was already gone.

That's how we learned that he had a room mate. I believe her name is Kendra, but the details are fuzzy. While we were unsticking ourselves from the floor, Kendra walked in. She raised her eyebrows and put her hands on her hips as if to say "So, you can move. I was beginning to think that Seth had just purchased ugly furniture."

Very quickly the initial look of disgust was wiped away and she smiled, offering us something to eat. That offer amounted to ketchup or water. We both decided to have some water.

Seth called from work and told us to go down the hill to a video place and rent a VCR and a movie called "They Call Me Bruce?" Obviously he was already high. I don't remember what he did in Boulder, but based on experience I'm guessing that he sucked dick for pot.

Aaron and I had a respectable stash ourselves in the Festiva, if we only we could remember where we had parked it. We should have just worn a sandwich board advertising "Mug Us!" as we walked up and down the streets, a VCR under my arm, a bag with movies and goodies clutched in Aaron's hand.

Luckily we were not challenged, and we found the car unmolested, the pot unsmoked. Somehow we found our way back to Seth's house. Maybe it is more like Disneyland, afterall.

Laden with edible food, entertainment and other such goodies, we returned to home base. This is where the story becomes (more) muddled. We were supposed to stay for a night or two before continuing our journey to Memphis. We ended up staying at least one week. Although I'm pretty sure it was two. I think two weeks because I remember our friend in Memphis being non-plussed for our only staying half as long as we had spent in Boulder. And we must have spent at least a week in Memphis. Speaking of which, do you know how long it takes to drive from Boulder to Memphis? I do. Just about 30 hours. But watch out for Kentucky. That's where I started hallucinating. Maybe we should have scheduled more than one day between destinations.

If you've read this far, you might as well brew some tea and let me continue with the mental snapshots of Boulder that pass for my memory of this "layover".

They Call Me Bruce? was a sage choice. It is perhaps the dumbest movie that I've ever seen, but 3 joints later it is also one of the funniest things that I've ever seen. It's like that song, "we smoked two joints before we smoked two joints, and then we smoked two more", but then we watched the movie, then we smoked two more, then we watched it again, then we smoked two more, then we hit mute, put Ummagumma on the stereo and watched it again. It was spectacular. All of those people you knew in college that told you to watch The Wizard of Oz while listening to The Wall? Unimaginative losers, the lot.

In fact, I've only had a single more satisfying experience. In another town, another time, we were on shrooms and watched The Jetsons Meet the Flintstones while listening to Ween. Truly, you have never experienced utmost hilarity until you watch Barney talking to George about the flies on his dick.

At some point Seth received a care-package from his mom. It contained 4 gallon sized jugs of ketchup, several pounds of dried spaghetti, and a teaser sampling of Chef Boyardee. It all came in a huge box, and the delivery man was sweating from just carrying it to the door from his truck.

We attempted to make spaghetti for the four of us (don't forget about Kendra). They only had one pot, really just a sauce pan, so we crammed as many noodles in as possible. It took an hour for the mess to cook properly. This was a good thing, actually, because the "couch" was just a love-seat. Only two people could sit on it at a time. If you managed to get a seat on the couch, you stayed there until you started to pee your pants. The alternative was a 1960's aluminum dining room chair designed by Marquis de Sade. Or the floor. Why was the spaghetti fiasco a good thing? Because it made such a mess that it was possible to get either Seth or Kendra to stand up and correct the situation, at which time you could sometimes get a seat on the couch. "Move your meat, lose your seat," has always been the mantra in my household. It was doubly true in Boulder.

Kendra once tried to take her seat back. She started with the "I live here" line of guilt. Sorry, sister. Been there done that. We just laughed. Next she attempted the "But I'm a girl!" angle. While giving her points for advancing women's lib significantly - backwards - we just let her know that it was a natural progression of equal rights.

Well, equal rights be damned. She exacted her revenge at the dining room table, playing poker. We must have played for at least three days straight. My ass still hurts from sitting so long at the torture-chairs. None of us had money, so we played for bud. I think we came out ahead, because we stashed what we won, and smoked whatever we would have, anyway.

So passed two weeks. I think we must have eaten once or twice. We may have even left the apartment. But I don't remember.

Aaron and I decided to leave one morning while Seth was work. We had traveled with heavy snackage, and we had a Costco size pack of those cheese crackers with the peanut butter well and red "smearing stick" that we hadn't yet broken into.

So we lugged the pack from the Festiva back to the apartment and built a shrine, right at the top of the stairs in front of the living room. These snacks are basically rectangular cubes, so they stack nicely. We built what was originally supposed to be an altar, but eventually turned into the Ark of the Covenant. You know, the covenant betwixt Man and cheese-food? It worked pretty well, but it's hard to stack a convincing Seraphim out of crackers. All told, there must have been fifty or more pieces. I hope this helped supplement Seth's ketchup stock.

On top of the Ark we placed a single joint. To this day, I wonder if God didn't wipe it out like the swastika on the shipping crate in Raiders of the Lost Ark. Waawaaawaaawaaawaaa. Rats running, cockroaches scattering, the joint burning without burning, forever and ever amen. But my guess is that Seth just smoked it. Then went and plied his "trade" for more.

I didn't know Seth very well before the trip. He was a friendly acquaintance in highschool, maybe even a friend, but I'd never spent any real time with him. But since the visit, we've remained close. If he ever reads this, I'm just joking about the dick-sucking thing. Well, that he did it, not that his name sounds like it. He and I eventually became room mates back in California. Someday I'll have to tell you about the vending machine that we bought from one of his ex-girlfriends. But that's another story.

Aaron and I fired up the old Festiva and continued the journey East. If you're interested, I've already posted about our experience in Kansas. Maybe one day I'll get around to the week in Memphis.

How did we get to this?

2005-10-12T01:58:00.000-07:00

The following image has haunted me for the last 3 months.

I'm sure that any media-savvy person has seen worse... worse in the sense of violence and physical harm. Yet somehow this image taps into my greatest fears. Not to be outdone with flashy images of Americans being beheaded or Nazi death-pits, it speaks of simple despair.

It would be so easy to extrapolate from this; so easy to post about the civilian casualties here, the victims of natural disaster there. But this picture doesn't haunt me for political reasons. It doesn't haunt me because I could have done something.

It haunts me because it's terribly, terribly sad. It haunts me because the flip-side of every Mother Teresa is a Joseph Goebbels. Dukkha is not losing hot water during a shower. It's not Tivo erasing your favorite show. It's not even breaking up with your high-school sweetheart.

Dukkha is the image above. And I'll be damned before I have learned to accept it.

You make my teeth sweat

2005-10-12T00:36:00.000-07:00

And now, a musical interlude.

Click the image for the song

Your eyes are like stars,
Your teeth are like pearls.

The Wheel of Hunger

2005-10-11T23:59:00.000-07:00

Or, Why Mr. Man Thinks He Must Be Born of Nobility.

"That one was delightful, let's try another. Oh yes, delectible! Could the next be even better...?

"Oh, bother. I'm stuffed to the gills, if you will. Ha! May I now retire to the antechamber to watch another ripping episode of Baby Shakespear? I love the Bard nearly as much as teething crackers. Yet I can't seem to take more than five minutes at a time. I say, could you start the Teletubbies? Just the beginning, thank you, Jeeves, just the beginning..."

I also dream in MASH

2005-10-10T16:21:00.000-07:00

Last night I dreamt that I was Hawkeye from MASH. As the dream began, I was beginning to tell Father Mulcahy why I had been lead back to base by MP's.

The scene faded, and I had just picked up a new doctor from the airfield. We were driving my Festiva back to base. The new doctor (who's name I don't recall - we'll call him ND), began getting very agitated, and told me that he had been forced to enlist because his wife had caught him sucking his best friend's dick. He was sure that he couldn't handle being in the war, and was contemplating suicide.

We reached a checkpoint, and I decided to teach ND a lesson in letting go. Instead of slowing down, I smashed through the barricade and drove off as quickly as I could. There were several jeeps chasing us, and ND suddenly became very serious. While I was laughing and taking my hands off the wheel, he reached into his holster and withdrew his pistol.

The camera angle changed, and now the scene played from outside the passenger window. I could see ND holding the pistol to my head, telling me to fucking stop. I could see my pale face, streaked in sweat. I could smell the faint ammonia as the stain on my crotch spread. Even though I was watching myself, the fear was palpable.

I pulled over and was beaten by the guards, then handed off to military police to be taken back to base.

The scene faded back to Father Mulcahy and myself. I was trying to justify my actions to him, to try to make him understand why I had thought it was so important for ND to appreciate flying without a net. Mulcahy stopped me with a look and told me that while I had been in the barracks, ND shot himself.

Same planet, different worlds

2005-10-10T15:03:00.000-07:00

"I'll be the guinea pig of all the fun beauty things of God and stuff!"

I was trying to decipher the phrase above word by word. I got as far as 'fun beauty things' before I passed out.

While struggling back toward consciousness, the smallest spark of understanding took root. I think that this is what a Blonde Super Villain says moments before receiving the power that will ultimately destroy her. It's a triumphant baring of her wishes, hopes, very soul, before being ironically and satisfactorily cut down.

Think Shadrach, Meshach and Toht at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark. "It's beautiful!" cries Belloq, moments before his head explodes.

Think Dr. Strangelove's "Mein Fuhrer! I can walk!" just as the doomsday device is triggered.

Think Grand Moff Tarkin, smug in victory, ordering the Deathstar to fire mere seconds before being atomized.

I have only one piece of advice for our BSV: Don't look at it. Shut you eyes, Tara, and don't look at it, no matter what happens.

KOM's Fortune Cookie I

2005-10-09T21:59:00.000-07:00

It stings my eyes and pools at my feet. I slick my hair back with my left hand, and with my right hand I let the body slide away.

If anyone ever tells you that it's hard to eat a stick of butter, tell them that it is much more difficult to drink the blood of a living, kicking prostitute.

I smile red, my breath visible in the chill. "How much do I owe you?"

On Blogging

2005-10-08T00:46:00.000-07:00

Old man KOM struggles down the litter-cleared path. His cane probes for depressions in the sand, his astygmic eyes look back and forth for danger.

KOM is an old blogger. Old beyond his years. Old beyond his almost one year.

He knows that many have gone down this path, and he is truly appreciative. He looks at the mark in his palm and asks everyone around him to please, please, direct him to the floating circus.

But somehow KOM survives. The THX1138 police, the Logan's Run Enforcers... they are all out to lunch. And sometimes KOM thinks it's too bad.

He thinks that some of his best stories are behind him. He knows different, but still he wonders. Blogging is a young man's game. A young woman's game. A young blogger's game.

"We were so high!" Heard it, move on.

"I fucked some chick" Heard it, move on.

"I, uh, hate my job?" Oh god have we heard it. Move the fuck on.

KOM thinks that perhaps he should introduce furious masturbation fridays? Stools that look like famous people Wednesdays? When did the music stop and I find myslef utterly alone Mondays?

KOM notes that we have a lurker, gentle reader. One of KOM's oldest, best friends has been given the URL, and he sees what we type. Say hello, everybody.

Blogging is a bitch-godess; say "cheese."

Fruitless searches and poetic nonsense

2005-10-06T14:44:00.000-07:00

I spent a good deal of time today scanning through the approximately 880,000 Google listings for haiku machine. I had to put the kibosh on the excercise when I'd looked at so many sites that I completely forgot what the hell I was trying to find.

The words have become meaningless. Hi-koo-mush-een. Koopa-trooper-pooper-scooper.

I took a long look into the reflection of my face staring back at me from the window. "Under what possible circumstances would you be searching for hiccup mocha?" it seemed to ask.

"Haiku machine," I angrily corrected, just as a co-worker was walking by my open door.

"Excuse me?" asked the startled co-worker.

"You heard me," I screamed, "HAIKUMACHINE! HAIKUMACHINE! HAIKUMACHINE!"

What I really said was "Nothing."

So that I can close this sad chapter in my life, I leave you the following, taken from a recent post and translated into Korean and back:

But with the last enemy him (we... The unpronounceable Hu lang when the silence regarding his name which is will be wrong as the this called, must do) in us in his house with him with after requesting our trains which it does will arrive until... He is letting us comfort.

Ho. Ly. Shit.

2005-10-06T11:21:00.000-07:00

"... and then the python burst open, partially exposing the lifeless alligator. Ok, kids, that's enough story for one night. Sweet dreams."

Fog

2005-10-06T00:13:00.000-07:00

We both came-to at the same moment, in the moonless dark.

We staggered to our feet in a thick, thick fog. We could have lifted ourselves on the haze.

In the near distance marched dozens of shapes. They slowly resolved into hundreds of hooded sweatshirts. Sweatshirts without faces.

We faced roughly north, and they were moving south. Silently they approached, silently they parted where we were shivering in our hypothermia and confusion.

Soon they passed, the fog filling quickly behind them.

To this day, we both remember this as being the single most bizarre incident of our young, stupid lives.

4 8 15 16 23 42

2005-10-05T23:03:00.000-07:00

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Update 10/13/05, 9:31pm

Thank you, internet strangers who have visited my little slice of the blogosphere via Yahoo's search directory, where as of the time-stamp above LP is listed at #5.

This little blurb is a joke. The math is real, but both mindless and meaningless. I suspect the number sequence is meaningless as well, but there are more interesting thought on the subject to be found nearly anywhere else. Spoiler: The joke is about Twin Peaks. Read on or move on - this ain't no library!

We now return you the the regularly scheduled post, already in progress...

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Not, I repeat not 32.

It's like one of those SAT sequences: What number comes next? Not that it matters so much what comes next (at least, not yet), but what is the relationship of the numbers.

4..8.. doubling... 16, 8x2 -1=15, 16x2=32. But not 32, right?

Okay, let's try again. 42-23=19, 19-4=15. Okay, we've found the missing number from before.

23-16=7, 15-7=8. Ah ha!

4-8-15-16-23-42=-100. Nice round negative figure, that. All negatives=-108. All positives, of course yield 108. 1+0+8=9.

4+9=13, 1+3=4. 8+9=17, 1+7=8. Hmm.

15+16=31, 3+1=4. 23+42=65, 6+5=11, 1+1=2. Doubling again, 2, 4, 8...

Let's dial Jenny! 8+6+7+5+3+0+9=38, 3+8=11, 1+1=2. 2, man, 2!

Yup, it's clear: Leland is Bob, and Bob killed Laura Palmer. Beware the owls.

I'm not fond of penile lesions

2005-10-03T23:41:00.000-07:00

I tell myself that I was a freshman, but it must have been when I was a sophomore.

I was still buying lunch at the cafeteria, which exposed me to ridicule. So it couldn't have been any later than when I was a sophomore.

That year, we had a single elective class that was broken up into three parts. Health, Computers and Drivers Ed.

Hold on now, you've got your drivers ed in my computer! No, you've got your computer in my drivers ed!

Yes, this mish-mash curriculum was the peanut-butter and pickle amaglamation that every pregnant woman desires. I was just an unwitting pawn to its power.

Ahh, drivers education... The erstwhile drafting teacher in the "arts" block did double duty. "Blood on the Highway", "Little Miss Rotten Crotch and the Drunken Prom", "Chip the Molesting Tractor Speeder" and "Highschool Beauty Snuff Film" were all part of my experience. Mr. Freaky liked also to tell us stories about how he lost his leg to gangrene. The leg that he walked on every day, the leg that had never been lost to gangrene. I remember two important facts from this class:

1) Don't piss off our "rural" friends. They are as likely to run over your leg with a tractor as wave hello.

2) IPDE. Identify, Predict, Decide, Execute. For example, if you are driving up a hill you should say to yourself "Over the next crest could be a clutch of alien eggs!" We have just Identified a possible issue. "I suppose that as soon as I drive into the clutch, the eggs will all activate, shooting gore and stomach-pulsing aliens to the four winds!" I've just Predicted a possible outcome. "I'm going to die, but I'm going to take out the next mother fucker that flashes me with high-beams!" I've just Decided what I should do, if this scenario unfolds. "YAAAAAAR!!!" This is my war cry and battle-hymn as I steer my car head-on into the next vehicle that happens to be on the same road. We call this "Execution."

Mr. Freaky would be so proud. Somehow, I passed driver's ed.

Computer class was next. I remember next to nothing about it. Apparently I passed this class as well. I'm sure the pot helped. Com-Pooh-ter. Cool.

Next came Health, AKA Horrifying Pictures of STD's.

Young KOM sat in the back row for a reason. His near-sightedness helped with the general diffusion of horrifying images. But the Health Nazi's were not to be dissuaded. The eventually help up 2'x4' posters of the most sickening shit you could imagine. Things that you can't even find on the web (and I've looked, if only to tie some sickening images to the links above).

Well, it was a hot day and we were stuck in a "trailer" classroom with no ventilation and no air. Strangely, the more of the posters that they showed me, the more I felt ill. Finally, the "instructor" noticed that I had turned green, and suggested that I may want to sit outside for a few minutes. I didn't hesitate, and managed not to throw up on the precious pictures on my way past the entire class and to the door.

I immediately collapsed into the grass and stretched, spread eagle, into my new-found nirvana. Birds flew overhead. I could hear the grass rustle.

Later, as I stood in line for a god damned slice of salami pizza, I heard people that I'd never conversed with whispering about my "episode". "No!", I yelled at them, it was hot in the back row! I was green and sweating from the heat, you bastards! It could have happened to anyone!

But it didn't. It happened to me.

On the upshoot, I've never had an STD. That may be much more due to luck than education, but whatever. I still imagine all of those smiling, sneering faces covered in warts, their genitals dripping and burning. And I smile.

MMMmmm. Cheese Zombie. Can I get some tartar sauce with that, Ms. Chlamydia?

Welcome, future drug addict

2005-10-03T16:21:00.000-07:00

Fuckerloaf? No, too yeasty.

Pizza Hut? No, I think it's been copyrighted.

Aglio E Olio? I should choose just one.

Struwwelpeter? Too Freddy.

Apple? Oh yeah.

Dildo? Might have to keep that one...

Gruntfart? Sounds like an orc.

Kellogg? Ooh. That's close!

Cornflake? No, getting cool again.

Kettle? Almost there...

Kal-El! Yes! That's it! I'm a fucking genius! I must be, because I'm a Coppola! And 'Apocalypse Now' isn't at all over rated!

Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! Apokolips! The next child may be called Darkseid!

I can't believe I thought about Apple for a minute...

I could blog all night... and I just might

2005-10-01T02:13:00.000-07:00

The wifey must have had a long day. She fell asleep shortly after Mr. Man went down. I had expected to watch a Netflix video, perhaps some TV. But without my better half to bounce stupid comments off of, TV really is boring.

Yeah, I know. But I tried that sentence several times trying to keep the preposition from the end of the phrase, and it was much, much more awkward. I mean "off of whom to bounce"? Who talks like that?

So anyway, tonight I'm your late-night host. Kom-vira. Without the boobs.

So let me segue without grace. Right now I want to speak of a matter close to my heart.

This keeps me up at night, and I often find myself thinking about it at the most inopportune times. How embarrassing it is to cry in front of clients. And how do you answer your son when he asks "Daddy, why does it make you cry every night when you stick the barrel of the gun in your mouth?"

Namely, why are there cream-cheese filled jalapeno poppers? What the bloody, bloody Christ is that all about?

"Sir, I'd like a jalapeno popper, but more mild, please."

"We could provide some cooling sauce. Or a glass of milk."

"No, trusty waiter. What I desire is a popper devoid of spice."

"Umm... we could just give you a piece of cheese."

"Hmm. Tasty, but boring. Do you have any more boring 'cheeses'?"

"We carry cream cheese, sir."

"Yuck. Maybe you should put it in a pepper and fry it."

"As you like, sir."

And the rest is just as Satan himself intended it.

Now, I don't claim that cheddar is authentic Mexican, but I'm also pretty sure that a "popper" is also not so authentico. So just put cheddar or jack in the damn thing and shut the fuck up!

Cream, cottage, velveta and "cheese food" are all examples of things that are not cheese. Just like a "Vienna sausage" is not a sausage. Just like a Pepsi is not a Coke.

Oh, God, I'm crying again. How embarrassing.

Bushism IV

2005-10-01T01:19:00.000-07:00

Once more, from our "blue-collar" president:

Crawford, Texas; August 23, 2001

KOM's late take on a dead horse

2005-09-30T23:32:00.000-07:00

I found myself an eleven foot pole, so I'm going to touch this one.

Repeated yet again, Bill Bennett's statement:

"But I do know that it's true that if you wanted to reduce crime, you could -- if that were your sole purpose, you could abort every black baby in this country, and your crime rate would go down. That would be an impossible, ridiculous, and morally reprehensible thing to do, but your crime rate would go down. So these far-out, these far-reaching, extensive extrapolations are, I think, tricky."

I'm of two minds about this statement.

First, it's true. All other things being equal, if every "black baby" in this country were aborted, the crime rate would eventually go down if only because the number of possible perpetrators would also go down. This seems pretty straight forward.

On the other hand, Bennett is obviously a shit-stirring fuck. He chose a given race in this little exercise because he knew that it would be controversial. Any press is good press, you beady-eyed prick.

But on the other other hand, now I have to listen to Al Sharpton opine for the next week about how the Right is to a man racist, and that Bennett's argument is logically flawed. I'm no conservative apologist, but it does seem to be making a mountain out of a molehill. This is America, and like it or not, the Klu Klux fucking Klan has a right to walk down the middle of the street yelling that Jews are mud people. Honestly, so the fuck what if some radio talk-show host says shit? Do any of you honestly think that he's changing anyone's mind? If you agree with him, you already do. If you don't, this sure as hell isn't going to help shift your world-view.

On the other, other other hand, what if he had said, "If your sole purpose would be to reduce serial killers, you could abort every white child born in the US"? Would anyone argue this case? Would it even have been worth the blogosphere repeating once, if not ad nauseum? Logically, it's just as true as the statement that Bennett did make.

That point may not be quite as valid, because it specifies a crime. But the spirit of the argument is the same.

On the other, other, other other hand, I am left wondering if, in his statement, the "morally reprehensible" thing would be aborting "black bab[ies]", or abortion period. Something tells me that it's just abortion. And that is why we should be bending this guy over a hot fire and sodomizing him with a cross.

Kudos to you, Mr. Bennett. Before today I had no idea who you were. Now I have to live knowing that there is another crazy agitator out there living only to cause conflict.

Baby you can drive my car... 'cause I can't

2005-09-30T16:29:00.000-07:00

I stalled-out in traffic on a fairly steep hill yesterday. It happens. I quickly restarted the engine and continued the climb. I doubt the car behind me even noticed the lag. But I did.

Whenever I wasn't safely nestled into 3rd or higher, I would begin to think too hard about letting the clutch out and about any given speed I could maintain without dieseling. Soon enough I stalled again while running a work errand. I stalled again today.

I've also had trouble tying my shoes. Sometimes the devil that lives behind my eyeballs whispers "What are you doing?" When I begin to answer, I realize that I have no idea. Rabbit goes around the tree, down the hole... dynamites the duck? kisses the hunter?

Twice I've forgotten how to spell ~~shew~~ ~~shoo~~ ~~shue~~ shoe.

I have a theory about all of this. You see, I don't think that I know any of it - how to drive, how to spell, how to throw a baseball. It seems that at one time I knew, just not anymore. I must have practiced enough that my body just remembers what to do. As soon as I try to take my body off autopilot all hell breaks loose. My tongue sticks out the side of my mouth, sweat drips down my forehead and I knock over everything within arms reach. When my frustration level has maxed out, I try to grab something to throw against the wall; invariably said objects slips out of my grip and falls harmlessly to the floor.

At this point autopilot usually re-engages, and sometime later I find myself halfway to work, or eating a sandwhich, or doing laundry. I fall into the warm embrace of memorized routine and smile, drool pooling on my chin.

Religion is the opiate of the masses? Opium, perhaps? No, my friend, routine is humanity's binky.

23, 5, 5

2005-09-29T14:07:00.000-07:00

But eventually he (we have to call him Tiger... something abut his name being unpronounceable) had us come back with him to his house... he's putting us up until our train arrives.

Who's scruffy looking?

2005-09-29T13:44:00.000-07:00

Nasty secrets for voyeurs

2005-09-29T02:03:00.000-07:00

I never liked Family Circus. Not so much because I thought it was stupid (though I do), but because I was never down with Mom's ever-(every decade?) changing hairdo. So please understand how I could have missed the following:

I'm just waiting for the dot-trail of the rest of the family's escape.

Thank you, Planet Dan. And I. Marie, for the link to the link.

What an interesting smell

2005-09-29T00:55:00.000-07:00

I have a crazy cat, and she lives in my office.

She didn't used to be crazy. In fact, she was once the most lovable ball of fluff in the world. Well, actually cute and crazy are not at all mutually exclusive as evidenced by Tom Cruise. But I digress.

I think the change happened when she was still a kitten. All 20,000 of my pubescent nieces and nephews came over to our new apartment to check out the digs and see the new cat. As soon as she smelled the hormones, she ran under the end table. In many ways, she's never come back out.

Imagine a plush rattlesnake. That's Stanzi.

Her full name is Constanza Quake, and that may have been part of the problem. She was named after a particularly violent quake that occurred in Napa in 2000, right after we got her. Why Constanza? Because I'm a super dork. Might answer that one day. Next question...

I have a picture to prove that she was at least reasonable for a short time:

She must have been drunk on eggnog.

The real troubles began when another one of our cats, Sonja, joined the fray. She was a little bat-eared kitten, with a face only a mother could love. That mother is my wife, so we had to keep her.

In the picture above, you get the impression that they got along. But this otherwise sweet, cuddly cat, has it in for Stanzi. I can imagine how Stanzi sees her.

Scary.

Well, they hate eachother. Halloween cat, growling, hissing hate.

I finally had to install a pet door so that they could get away from eachother. Or at least fight outside. As referenced in the last link, this lead to a Lazarus-type experience.

I mean, I buried the damn girl, and she still came back. It was like Pet Cemetery. And yes, she came back even crazier than before.

So now she appears every 2-3 weeks, and looks angry. She wants in, but she doesn't want to be lead in. She claws your face off, then purrs and rubs your leg. Maybe she's bi-polar.

Why she doesn't just come in through the pet door I'll never understand. Oh yeah. It's because Sonja patrols the house perimeter like a fucking Nazi guard. "Ver are your papers, Fraulein?"

So now she lives in my office. Away from the other crazy cats. We've moved in a litter box and a food dish. She hangs out, reads the periodicals, bats the random piece of paper around. I've tried to let her out again. Now she's afraid to leave, because the rest of the house smells like other cats.

I have a crazy cat, and she lives in my office. Sometimes I think that the crazy is catching.

And what is that smell?

I blame Quimby

2005-09-28T16:17:00.000-07:00

Dammit. Why didn't anyone tell me that Don Adams had died?

There go my hopes for an Inspector Gadget update.

I'm going to hit the snooze alarm on this one. Someone wake me up when Chris Latta passes on.

Oh, and may heaven be a place where 99 wears nothing but high heels.

100 things

2005-09-27T00:40:00.000-07:00

Come, taste the vinegared wine that is KOM:

1. I have three cats.

2. I have one wife.

3. I have one son.

4. It would appear that I have a daughter on the way.

5. I taught myself BASIC.

6. Everything that I know about HTML (nothing), I taught myself.

7. My first computer was a TRS-80.

8. I love cheese.

9. Often my own farts make me want to gag.

10. Hotdogs make me lose control.

11. I play bass and guitar.

12. I taught a girlfriend how to play electric bass. She became the bass player for one of the most succesful, short-lived, local bands in the area.

13. I'm still a little bit bitter about this beacuse I'm a really good bass player. In fact, I came up with the bass lines for several of the band's most popular songs.

14. Green is my favorite color.

15. Blue was my favorite color while growing up.

16. I say "chupacabra" every cance I get.

17. My favorite card game is Hearts.

18. My favorite board game is Monopoly.

19. Except for chess.

20. I played football in highschool.

21. I played tennis in highschool.

22. I still run into my favorite highschool teacher, from time to time.

23. I learned German from my favorite teacher.

24. I went to Germany as an exchange student in 1992.

25. I went to Germany as a refugee in 1997.

26. I went back to Germany to escape from my ex-girlfriend.

27. It didn't help - but I thought it did. Same difference, I guess.

28. As a strange coincidence, I sought my ex-girlfriend out exactly one year, to the day, after she left me. When I approached her at her job, she turned ghost white. I was a completely different man, and she was a completely different woman.

29. The break-up with said girl nearly killed me.

30. I've never blogged about said girl, except in passing. Nearly 10 years later, the wounds are too fresh. One day, perhaps.

31. I don't like to talk on the telephone.

32. Although several jobs that I've held have chained me to the damn machine.

33. I abhor work above almost everything else.

34. Moving is the exception.

35. I wish that I could plow a field or wrestle a pig.

36. White collar work eats your soul.

37. Still, I hate my job.

38. I have many literary tastes, but I usually only read sci-fi written between the early 40's and the mid 60's.

39. But I just finished a recent book called Ilium. And I would recommend it.

40. I can count on one hand the women that I've loved.

41. But I can't count on the same hand the women that I've told that I've loved.

42. Yet, I don't like to think that I've lied.

43. I just never knew what love was. Until it was gone.

44. And so I've made peace with myself. If not with those other women.

45. But dare you judge me? With your unsuccessful relationships, as well?

46. Finally, I found the woman that I could be with.

47. I'd met my wife several times before we knew eachother.

48. The first time that I remember, my garage band and I were "hired" to play a birthday party that she had attended. As a clown.

49. The next time that I remember, it was a halloween party. I had come as as the Roto-rooter man (my sister had worked dispatch, and I had a generic blue shirt). She had come as the "world's best mom."

50. I came with a plunger in tow. When I saw her, several dozen "children" attached like so many monkeys to her outfit, I screamed "Abort! Abort!" and plunged her stomach.

51. It was many months later when I found out that she had recenty suffered a misscarriage.

52. Still ignorant of the terribly cruel truth, I saw her again at a Christmas party at the same location.

53. My friend threatened to kiss her.

54. I didn't really know that I was attracted to her until that moment.

55. We made love that same night.

56. Now we have too many "anniversaries". The first time we humped, our first date, the first time we said "love", when we got married... it's hard to keep track!

57. So I don't. But we got married September 28th. This I remember.

58. On our first date, we saw Ghost Busters, which was playing at the dollar theater. God, I love that movie.

59. I only know that fact because she told me.

60. My son was conceived shortly after we were married.

61. The Best Man and a Bride's Maid conceived the same night as our wedding.

62. Their son is a few months older than ours'.

63. I give to PBS.

64. To make them shut the fuck up, and continue to show the "Connections" show that I was watching.

65. One time, I sent an email to the wrong PBS station, extolling their programming. I didn't stop receiving requests for donations until I moved.

66. The SF Chron is a decent paper.

67. Their elite force of delivery helper monekys, however, are lacking.

68. I've been to Hawaii once. I forgot to put sunscreen on my feet during a catamaran trip.

69. I hate Hawaii.

70. I know that birds hate me. I know that they stalk me.

71. I hate birds.

72. I am circumcised.

73. I didn't have any say in this transaction.

74. My son is not. How the hell am I supposed to tell him how to clean his wee-wee?

75. I often stay up too late, doing things that I don't always remember.

76. I was born in this year.

77. Smoking is a habit as well as an obsession. I traded pot for nicotine. Who knows, next year I may be smoking rosemary.

78. I've smoked rosemary. I was really high, and we watched Nightmare On Elm Street. And smoked rosemary.

79. I try to hide my smoking from my son.

80. I found out when I was 13 that my own father smoked until I was 10.

81. He only smoked at work.

82. Despite his faults, my father is my hero.

83. My mother is slowly slipping into dementia. Perhaps Alzheimers. We don't know yet.

84. I've never discussed this with anyone besides my family.

85. I've inherited my ear from my mother. She is a professional musician. As was her father. I may go crazy before my time, but it will have been worth it to hear music.

86. My mother and I have relative pitch.

87. If you don't know the term, it means that we can extrapolate from any given tone. Perfect pitch implies that the listener can hear what a note should be, regardless of previous tones.

88. My interests ran in this vein until the age of 18. Since then my musical skills have atrophied. I can still play some guitar, much bass, but to what purpose?

89. I am naturally atracted to reheads. Experience has dulled the impulse. Considerably.

90. I love garlic, broccoli and spinach. In that order.

91. I'm the last to know about, or even celebrate, important family occasions. Yet family is the single most important thing in my life.

92. I think Jesus was a good guy.

93. But I don't believe that he was the son of God.

94. In fact, usually I am agnostic.

95. Unless I am sad or distraught.

96. I fully believe that things are much stranger than are "dreamt of in your philosophy."

97. I saw a black bear once. It was much smaller than my wife will tell you.

98. Chupacabra. And extra points to anyone who's read this far.

99. I am so excited that I will soon blog about my daughter(?). Regardless of the sex, I'm so happy (though wary) to do it all again!

100. Chupacabra.

Conspiracy

2005-09-26T13:49:00.000-07:00

The news of Sheehan's arrest bumped an article about China's crackdown on freedom of speech off the top of the MSNBC splash page.

I thought that this was an amusing coincidence, until I decided to blog about it. Then Blogger would not load for over an hour, and I kept getting telephone calls from someone who wouldn't speak.

Now I realize that it was a stalling technique for Blogger, and that G Men were on the phone, practicing some kind of intimidation.

I think that they're watching me through my monitor, and I found... something... in my chow mein.

Who's that at the door? Da, Comrades, I do not expect to return.

Mr. Picasso Head

2005-09-26T11:49:00.000-07:00

Superstar!

2005-09-23T16:03:00.000-07:00

I've been trying to ignore it, hoping that it will go away. But every time I see myself, it gets worse. I finally have the perfect hairstyle to go with my fashion sense.

The city turned off our water this morning for maintenance. I had counted on not being able to take a shower, but I hadn't reckoned on the epic struggle that I would wage with my hair. Actually, "epic" and "struggle" would imply that I at least had a chance. Truth be told, my hair reached down and bitch slapped me as soon as I reached for the comb. After causing me to bang my head into the wall several times, it slept with my wife and killed my paw.

I think I'm going to get a haircut this weekend. I'll ask for extra dull scissors -- I want it to hurt.

Down with them, up with us

2005-09-23T15:25:00.000-07:00

Sometimes it's nice to use a visual in lieu of a political rant.

Rant over.