The Wisdom of Uncle Robert

A week or two before I was to head off to Basic Training at Fort Benning, I got a call from my uncle, Robert. He's my Mom's youngest brother, and travel for his job had brought him to New York City. He wanted to get together, buy me dinner, and give me some advice about what I was about to take part in.

So we went to a nice deli style restaurant, and enjoyed a companionable meal. The talk ranged over quite a number of subjects, but as we came to dessert, the topic of Basic came up.

Robert had a number of good suggestions for making my time in training as smooth as I could, but the most interesting thing came about because of a flip answer on my part.

"Look," Robert said in his deep, somewhat intimidating tones, "There are some things you never want to do..."

"Never volunteer, right? I volunteered to get in, and that used up my quota?" I piped up.

"No, not at all." He said after a moment of thought, "You just have to be smart about what you do. Use your head. For instance, at the end of our course in Basic, my platoon had to make a twenty mile march. Right before we left, they asked for volunteers for a detail, so I raised my hand and nudged my closest pal to raise his. When we got called out, he asked me if I was crazy. I reminded him that everyone else was about to walk twenty miles, and asked him what they could have us do that was worse.

"Sure enough, we loaded a truck, and drove out to the end point of the march, where we set up everything for the breakfast the guys were gonna be served when they got finished with the march. Then we sat around for a couple of hours."

Smart guy, Robert is.

A Picture

I found a picture online this morning. Someone had chalked onto a paving stone, 'Real Life is Here'.

I've spent the last four hours trying to find out where the picture was taken, so I can go and see real life.

There She Is

I like animation. Enjoy Studio Ghibli, loved The Incredibles, and Akira, and I've seen enough of Spike and Mikes Festival of Animation to want to check out each new one I hear about.

So I was pretty happy, a couple of days ago, when my perusal of the Intarwebs brought me to the site of a little gem called 'There She Is'. Its' the story of what happens when bunny falls in love with a cat. Not a girl from Playboy and a beatnik, but a rabbit and a feline.

The animation itself is a deceptively simple, anime style. A little on the cutesy side, but that's not a strike against it, especially as the true depth of the story unfolds. The hero, Nabi the cat, and heroine, Doki the rabbit, are drawn in a quite basic style, and it speaks to the skill of the creator that each shade of emotion is readily apparent for both of them, and the world they inhabit.

The story starts of quite simply, with Doki becoming enamored of Nabi, and follows them from their first meeting, through Doki's pursuit and Nabi's acceptance, and then begins to show how the wider world responds to the realtionship of these two disparate types. Each of the four available chapters of their story gives increasing depth to both of the protagonists and the world they share, all while eschewing any dialogue in favor of action and appropriate music.

'There She Is' is a gem of story-telling. The fourth chapter ends on a bit of a cliffhanger, and the fifth is not, as I write, available, but I find myself checking the website daily to see if it has. I'd urge you to take a bit of time to watch one or two, and as none of the four currently viewable are more than six minutes long, it is more than worth the time to experience them.

There She Is
http://www.sambakza.net/amalloc/tteotta_main.htm

The Wisdom of Robert Heinlein

What did I want? I wanted the hurtling moons of Barsoom. I wanted Storisende and Poictesme, and Holmes shaking me awake to tell me, “The game’s afoot!” I wanted to float down the Mississippi on a raft and elude a mob in company with the Duke of Bilgewater and Lost Dauphin. I wanted Prester John, and Excalibur held by a moon-white arm out of a silent lake. I wanted to sail with Ulysses and with Tros of Samothrace and to eat the lotus in a land that seemed always afternoon. I wanted the feeling of romance and the sense of wonder I had known as a kid. I wanted the world to be the way they had promised me it was going to be, instead of the tawdry, lousy, fouled-up mess it is.
I had had one chance — for ten minutes yesterday afternoon. Helen of Troy, whatever your true name may be — and I had known it — and I had let it slip away. Maybe one chance is all you ever get.

— Robert A. Heinlein, Glory Road

The Wisdom of Theodore Geisel

"Don't cry because it's over,
smile because it happened."

Mugshot

I've never had a mugshot taken, thank god. I've done my share of stupid and even illegal stuff, it's true, but somehow I've always managed to make it away from whatever situation came up without having forced some roly-poly cop to take a picture of me. Once, believe it or not, I actually managed to avoid it by sprinting away as fast as I could, which, for those of you who know me and my attitude towards moving faster than a slow mosey, is something of a miracle.

So I suppose that it's bad form of me to get so much enjoyment out of The Smoking Gun's weekly mugshot round-up, or this site I just discovered...http://mugshotdujour.com/

I'm really hoping there isn't anything to this Karma concept...

Wake-Up Call

So, I got assigned to drive an LMTV from Camp Manhattan, right on the Euphrates, to the Combat Outpost we were setting up near Ar Ramadi. It was an easy run, but for some reason, we ended up having to stay the night. There were about four of us driving the trucks, and a Humvee with one of the sergeants in it. It was kind of a pain in the ass sleeping in the trucks, especially for a guy my size, but it was better than being back at Manhattan, where the rest of the platoon was undoubtedly being pimped out on random work assignments so Lt. Nelson could look good for the CO.

Anyway, the night went by uneventfully, and, come morning, I got woken up by Dyer, telling me that the cooks had breakfast up. I pulled my head back under the blanket. It was a toss-up which was gonna be worse, chow cooked in primitive conditions, or an MRE.

Not a minute later, a mortar landed in the middle of the Outpost. About fifteen meters away from my truck.

'Jesus Christ!', I thought. 'All right, I'm up, I'm up...'

I hope everyone had a nice Halloween

It seems like a lot of people enjoyed themselves. I have one friend that wore a perfect Ming the Merciless costume.

Me, I went as 'The guy what springs out of the bushes, kicks the kids and steals their candy, then runs away'. It was great. I even got a picture of myself on the news!

Some thoughts on McCain

http://pattonoswalt.com/index.cfm?page=spew&ID=90&mode=comments#post

Why I'll never have a kid...

There's only room in my life for one person that looks like a pile of uncooked bread dough.

And that's ME!

#2 is the International Space Station

Number 3 on the list of all time best places to fall down a flight of stairs: Hasbro's Nerf factory!

A Little Angel

Most years, as Halloween started to creep up, may parents would eventually recount the story of the Little Angel.

Seems like, back in the before time, in the long, long ago, before they had decided to get around to their purpose in life, namely, having and raising me, my parents were occupied with giving away candy, one dark All Hallows Eve. And, late on the aforementioned evening, when all candy had been disbursed to smiling, costumed cherubs, a final knock was heard at the door, just before the porch light was doused.

Not wishing to be rude, my parents opened the door, and were greeted with the sight of a young girl, decked out in the finery of one of the Lord's own servants, wings and all. The wide-eyed, solemn, and be-winged urchin spoke not, but simply held out the bag she carried, already filled with the sweet swag of a profitable evening.

Both my parents were nonplussed, but didn't want to send the hopeful youngster away empty-handed, fearing that such disappointment would lead inevitably to a life of dissolution, communism, and chicken-raping. So, thinking quickly, my father made haste to our kitchen, laid hands upon a bright red apple, and, returning to the front door, dropped the fruit into the still-open bag.

The little angel looked into the bag at the gift she had received, then spoke to my father.

"You broke my cookies, you dumb shit."

I'm an American

If I can't fix it, I need a bigger gun.

Heh

Dark, unsettling, malevolent, surprisingly thoughtful. Truly a comic for the 21st century.

http://www.asofterworld.com/index.php

I feel all warm and fuzzy now.

Where everybody knows your name.

It crossed my mind that I was ordering Chinese food too often today. The proof was in this exchange:

"Hi, I'd like to make an order for delivery?"

"You the guy down the street, right? You want Mongolian Beef again?"

My Word

http://eroticfalconry.com/Site/Home.html

Really?

Maybe, just maybe...

I think most people have heard about how UFO's have supposedly been abducting our cows. If you haven't heard of this phenomenon, congratulations, you are being much more productive with your time than I am. To bring you up to speed, aliens have been helping themselves to our large dairy creatures for quite some time. Unbelievable? The truth always is, my friend.

But what if these Space Brothers aren't just running away with free chuck steak? What if, open your mind real wide, and just ask yourself, what if the little gray dudes are trying to help? What if there's a war beyond the stars, with the Human-Gray Alliance opposed by the evil Bovine Imperium? Suppose this war came to our little planet ages ago, and was fought to a standstill? In the end, the Gray's died off and the cows lost their intelligence?

But every once in a while, a genius among cows is born. One which possesses at least a little of the psychic powers that allowed its stellar cow brothers to subjugate an entire galaxy under their mind-controlling hooves. And the Gray midgets who keep watch over us until we're ready to rejoin the Alliance sweep down, and remove this threat from our midst.

Make me feel better about liking steak, y'know?

International Relations

I think, during my year in Iraq, I saw the moment that Iraqi/American relations hit their peak when I saw a small kid approach the barbed wire fence my platoon was working on and say to Sgt. Cota, "Hey! Hey, you give me water, I let you freaky-freak my sister!"

The "You Die" Line

There are any number of things I liked about working for the circus, but I've never told anyone about the little spark of joy I always felt when the "You Die" Line was mentioned.

The circus isn't a safe place, at all, at all. There are many possible ways to hurt yourself when putting up or taking down a circus tent, any number of things to get cut by or fall off of, and that doesn't even take into account the deranged quality of your co-workers. Or the elephants.

But most of the accidents that could happen would be rather mundane, really. Tripping over all the things that would be laying around, taking a wrong step and twisting an ankle, having a finger pinched by something heavy and suchlike. But being inside the "You Die" Line when an accident occurred meant that, you would, indeed, die, and that your death would go down in circus legend.

The Line only existed for about 20 minutes during the course of loading in or out. This would be during the course of raising or lowering the multi-ton metal masts that supported both the tent canvas and the light array. Nothing else happened while this was going on, as only about four guys were really involved in the process, but none of the rest of us could do our things until the masts were set. 98% of the crew would just be watching and waiting, and, like me, hoping just a little that the worst would happen. It would have been a hell of a thing to see.

The "You Die" Line was just that, the demarcation circle at which, should you be within it's boundaries when the wheels came off, you would be reduced to a sack of bloody pulp and bone splinters. Short of being on the grenade range during basic training, it was as close as I'd ever come to being near such singular possible mayhem.

I couldn't tell you why, but the very idea of the "You Die" Line Makes me smile, just a little, every time I think of it.

Basic Graduation

I didn’t have to wear the dress uniform for my graduation from Basic Training, which I am quite thankful for. My company, Alpha 2/58, were inducted into the Infantry on a hot day in April, 2004, and most of the company was forced to stand at attention on the parade ground while the ceremony took place, sweating under the unforgiving sun while dressed in dark green.

I sweated, too. But I and the rest of the Infantry Squad were dressed in camouflage BDU’s, wearing pseudo-ghillie suits and camo face paint, and carrying weapons. We had a full squad, with two SAW gunners, two Grenadiers, two Riflemen carrying anti-tank weapons, and a squad leader. We spent all day running around in full battle gear, and it was glorious.

None of us got to see the start of the demonstration we were putting on, because the nine of us were stuffed into the back of a Bradley Fighting Vehicle, waiting and perspiring. We knew there was going to be loud music, and that some smoke grenades were going to be fired off, after which the Bradley would be raced across the open graduation lot. When it skidded to a stop, the rear deck would drop and we would exit the vehicle as quickly as possible. I’m sure a skilled Mechanized Squad soldier would have found our performance laughable, but it wowed the crowd when we hit the ground running. I had been stuffed into the most forward corner of the squad area, farthest from the door, and was the last man out. I managed to make it through the various bits of metal that all seemed to be at shin-damaging height, and kept myself from doing a face-plant on the lowered deck, although just barely. Down the deck, sprint a short distance to the grassy area and to the end of the line of my squad mates, hit the ground with weapon pointed towards the grandstand filled with our assorted families and well-wishers, and fired off my twenty rounds as fast as I could. Not to worry, they were all blanks.

The up, onto our feet, weapons at the ready, scanning back and forth while walking forward at the ready, as if we were on patrol. There was a voice on the loudspeaker, but the only words any of us heard were, “Infantry Squad!”, which was our cue to stop patrolling and run full tilt to the muster line, all the while sounding a might roar.

Hit the muster line and fall back into patrol stance, scanning back and forth through our weapon’s sights, until we received the order to come to attention at port arms.

Each member of the Squad was introduced, by their position, and each stepped forward and held out the weapon they carried as the loudspeaker reeled of the litany of duties and armaments each one was tasked with. I hear “Rifleman”, and step forward, holding out my M-16 rifle when it is announced, then doing an about-face to give the crowd a view of the anti-tank weapon I have strapped to my back. Then, again on cue, I step forward, back onto the muster line, and execute another about-face so that I’m in line with the rest of the Squad.

Another command comes, and the Squad performs a bayonet strike, and draws back up into the patrol stance again. The Bradley roars in and drops the back deck again, and we back towards the vehicle in the combat stance. Except for the Squad Leader, Sgt. Pickett, I’m the last man in. The Bradley normally carries six fully armed soldiers, and were stuffing nine in, so when my turn comes, I barrel up the ramp at full speed, hitting the press of bodies hard to make room for the Sergeant and myself in the small area. The Sergeant is right on my heels, and the groans caused by my impact double as the deck closes, forcing the already cramped Squad to squeeze even closer together. I hear various imprecations heaped upon my person, and laugh even harder.

My family was there that day, all of them, along with some very beloved friends. But it was being in the Infantry Squad that took my graduation from being special to being spectacular.

I need some input on this...

Do you think it would improve and/or clarify the Bible if, after every description of a miracle, you added the phrase, "Do I need to mention we were really drunk?"

Just another day in Basic

Basic Training is hard. That's a cliche, I know, but it's a cliche for a reason, because it's nothing but the unvarnished truth. The Drills do all kinds of things to you, and order you to do other things you're not sure that you are capable of. It's part of the process of teaching a recruit to be tough enough to make a decent soldier, teaching a recruit the things that very well might keep him alive in dangerous places, during evil times. I'd do all of it again, if I had to. I wouldn't be happy about it, but I'd stick it out, and do my best, without experiencing much dread.

Except for the niggling thought that I'd once again have to go through the Gas Chamber.

It's called the Gas Chamber for the very simple reason that it's the room in which you and your fellow recruits are exposed to CS Gas, a generally non-lethal riot control agent. This is done for two reasons, near as I can figure: One, to show the recruits that the Protective Mask they are issued will indeed protect them from gas attacks, and Two, to show the recruit what happens when you're not protected.

The first part is easy. The Drills call out the warning that a gas attack has commenced, and the recruits struggle to don the disturbingly S+M style mask in the nine seconds we've been told we might have before feeling the effects of the gas. Then your platoon is marched into a small, one room, airtight building, where two of the Drill's have fired up some of the actual gas, and let it build to a nice, painful level. You spend a few moments just breathing through the mask, noticing a strange tang to the air, but nothing particularly bad. Then you're told to pull the mask away from your face, breaking the seal to your skin and letting just a bit of the gas in.

You know you're in trouble from the first whiff. By the time you're told to completely remove your mask, you already know that you really, really don't want to. But you do, because you know that if you refuse, the mask will still come off, probably at the hands of the Drills, and nobody wants to be that guy.

That first whiff was bad, but getting it full on is like experiencing Satan's Halitosis. The gas crawls into your eyes, up your nose, and down your throat. It's like inhaling razors into your lungs and Tabasco into your nose while pouring sand into your eyes. Your eyes pour out tears and clamp shut, which doesn't help at all, your nose begins to run, and you cough hard enough that you think some lung might come out.

It's all you can do to stand there, trying to breathe and not breathe at the same time, waiting out the time until the Drill's open the doors and let you stumble, red eyed and hacking, into the clean air outside. I honestly don't know how long we were required to wait, because all I could think was 'Oh god, this shit is gonna kill me." Later, one of the other guys in the platoon told me that from what he could see, I handled the exposure pretty well, but at the time, it was all I could do not to break for the door, and to hell with what the Drills would say. I managed to hold out, though. Just barely, but I did it.

Johnson broke, though. He was headed for the door pretty quick after the mask's were removed, and when one of the Drills grabbed Johnson by the back of the Load-Bearing Vest he was wearing, Johnson hit the snaps on that thing and motored right out the door, leaving the Drill with an empty vest clutched in his hand.

Somewhere between a minute and a century later, the doors were opened, although the only way you could tell was by the fact that a brighter light was now swimming through your tears. Stumbling, tears pouring and snot running, you get into the light and are pushed away from the door, to walk up and down a dirt road. You walk until the hacking cough subsides, and your eyes dry, and there's no more snot to wipe away. You spend the rest of the day slowly getting your sense of smell back, and trading quips about how bad it was with the other recruits.

And, if your like me and my platoon-mates, and happen to be the duty platoon that week, you have to go back into that god damn room at the end of the day and hose it off, to eliminate as much of the residual gas as possible.

Return to Dreamtime

I took my last hit of weed about seven months ago, now. It's had a couple of benefits, including less money wasted and a slightly improved ability to get things done, but the most enjoyable has been a return of regular dreaming to my sleep cycle.

I don't think weed keeps you from dreaming, but it does keep you, or at least keep me, from remembering them in the morning, and being, well, I suppose 'fully engaged' with the dreams would be the best way to describe it. I might have only fragmentary memories of the dreams, but I do know I was involved in what can only be called 'weird shit' while I was asleep.

I never really missed having fully experienced dreams, while I was using. But now that Morpheus' Technicolor Wonderland is again open to me almost every night, it's turned into a pretty good reason to not smoke again.

Dreams are just fun. Fun while they're happening, fun the next morning, when you go into the whole 'what the hell was that about' part of the experience, fun to recount to others, just like any other god-you-won't-believe-what-happened-to-me experience. Fun all around.

Why, last night, was I on the roof of a skyscraper that was being attacked by, well, something large? Why, after dropping a cartoonish dynamite bomb down it's throat, and having the subsequent explosion cause the building we were on to lean against it's neighbor, did I stop my headlong flight down the second building's stairs to look in on a small comic shop, where I met a short-haired blond girl? A girl who was so enchanted by my calling her cute, that she left a rambling, and very cute, message on my cellphone. Why, on the subsequent date that instantly began, did we see Michael J. Fox, and a guy who was in Blade 3?

Who knows? Hell, who cares? Not me. I just enjoyed myself.

Now I'm gonna go take a nap.

One good way to find out the limits of your lung capacity

Try sprinting as far as you can while singing 'The Hills are Alive', from the Sound Of Music, as loud as you can. It's a humbling experience.

Wisdom for the Ages

'Beware thy hindquarters from gunblasting.' - Benjamin Franklin

Band names

The Little Engine that Could Have Molested You
Read Along with Art Garfunkel
Abe Lincoln Died for Your Sins
Spider-Man Died for Your Sins
Avenging Geek-Boy
Multiple Entendre
Slow Boat to Mundo Fine
The All-Male Amazons
Henry Kissenger Dance Explosion
The Dumb Ones
Donner Party BBQ
B Funky B Cool
2 Funky 2 Cool
2 Funky B Cool
B Funky 2 Cool
Dirty Sanchez and the Rusty Trombones
Generalissimo Francisco Franco and his Fun-Loving Fascists
Scum Monkey
Scumbitch Troll
Angry Sock Puppets of the World, Unite!
We Have Nothing to Lose but Our Minds
Dirt Nap
Deep Space Mime
Kicked by an Angel
Dingoes Ate my Grandma
Monkey Wrench of the Gods
The Podiatrists
Electric Pagoda
Steam Punk
Lampshade Aura
My Parents Never Liked Me
Probed by an Alien
Fantastic Lemon
Psalm 420
St. Thomas, Swimming Instructor
Book of Tobit
The Rock, The Chain, The Lightning
The Amazing Dr. Thing and his Thang
Shopping Cart of Dooooom!
Rhymes w/Orange
Baby-Punching Daddies

Any other suggestions?

Story while polishing boots

Many a year ago, before the crazy house, or the Army, or the circus, or New York, I bought me a pair of combat boots. Why? Who can say? In those bygone times, the salad days if you will, I was prone to such flights of fancy. A young man does these things.

One evening shortly afterwards, I made my way some miles to the home of my parents, to get free food. And enjoy their company. Of course. Anyway, I brought my new boots along, and asked my sainted father if he would show me the proper way to apply a shine to such a style of footlery. My father, bless his fine heart, was sanguine that his long-gone expertise as a young Cockney bootblack would return to him anon, and that said expertise could be imparted to his youngest scion, namely, me.

And so pere et fils laid hands upon the necessary rags and polish, and commenced to apply much elbow grease to the pristine leather, in hopes of achieving a sheen in which one could confidently comb one's coif, or trim one's nose-hair, with supreme confidence. As our labors were undertaken, my father was moved to reminisce about some of the more interesting aspects of his long-gone time in the Basic Training which our esteemed Armed Forces require of all young men engaged to become soldiers.

So a story emerged, detailing how each callow recruit was outfitted with two sets of combat boots; one set to be worn, and the other to repose in glistening perfection beneath the bunk of each citizen-soldier, with one pair alternating with the other in a day of use and a day of rest.

My father detailed, also, how some of the gentlemen in question sought to avoid the daily necessity of removing the marks of use from the hardy leather in which they had been shod, by the simple expedient of keeping one pair of boots in constant use while merely dusting the finely polished specimens of their footwear each morning. By doing so, each such individual managed to husband a little more of their never-copious free time.

The tale continued, however, with the description of the day in which each young man was ordered to fall in for formation with both pairs of boots, one to be worn, while the other was to hang about the neck of each individual. All of the smart young men who had kept one finely shined pair of boots untouched by the rigors of time in the field naturally wore this pair of boots around their necks, while having the besmirched pair, in which they had labored for weeks and were well broken-in, on their feet. So, there was some consternation expressed in the ranks, when the fine sergeants in charge of these proto-soldiers ordered the men to take off the boots on their feet, and replace them with the pair which hung from their necks. Many of the young men were now wearing their well-shined boots for the first time, causing some slight groans of worry.

Following the twenty-mile hike which followed, the groans were more than slight. Boots made for hard working soldiers are notoriously punishing on one's feet when they are first being worn, and walking long distances in such a pair before they are well broken-in is, as you might guess, not recommended.

And so my father and I shared a gentle laugh at the folly of these men, recalled many years later in the soft light of my parents kitchen. This story led me to ask my esteemed pater if he had been caught in such folly.

Poppo related to me how he had been apprised of such a possibility, amongst other possible traps laid for the nascent soldier, by his own father, a career military man himself, who had risen to the rank of Lt. Colonel in his time. My father also received a weekly letter from his own patriarch, with name and rank of my grandfather listed in clear, large writing upon it; as such, it was understood, though never stated, that the command structure under which my father labored knew that there was someone of rank, somewhere at large in the Army, who had a very clear interest in the well-being of then-Private Lee.

Truly, I am heir to a noble lineage.

Me and my Moobs

ABC recently announced that they will be starting to film a new round of their venerable 'After-School Special' series, and I'm getting ready by prepping a script I've been working on for the last few years. It's called 'Me and my Moobs'.

The story follows a young man named Clarence, unpopular at school because he's overweight. One day, after being taunted by the 'cool' kids, he hears two voices telling him to cheer up. To his surprise, Clarence finds that his man-boobs, or 'moobs' as the kids to day call them, have begun speaking to him! Calling themselves 'Lefty', and 'Righty', the vociferous and amusing moobs lead Clarence on a journey of self-discovery and burgeoning self-confidence, showing him that even the 'cool' kids aren't sure of themselves. The moobs help Clarence by prompting him in tough situations, using voices only he can hear.

There are times when Clarence fears for his sanity.

The wackiness culminates at the school dance, which Clarence is attending with Thelma, the prettiest girl at school. But Clarence suddenly discovers that he's on his own, as his increased confidence has kept him from overeating, meaning that 'Righty' and 'Lefty' have become too small to be helpful. Clarence manages to make it through, and ends up telling Thelma about how him moobs had helped him over the last few weeks, and how he'd been scared without them, but now knew he could make it on his own. Thelma is proud of Clarence, but tells him that, secretly, she'd always thought he was cute as a big guy.

This leads Clarence to ask, "Wanna go get some cheesecake?", after which he and Thelma head to a diner while the credits roll.

God, I can almost taste the Emmy!

"Demons shall rend your flesh"

Just to round out the week in style:

http://weirdfortunecookies.com/

Enjoy!

I give up. Let's just go ahead and call this 'Random Link Week', shall we?

Say, do you want to take over the world? Have the leaders of the free world grovelling at your feet? Show that 'super-agent', the one that looks like the guy who used to beat you up in high-school, exactly who's boss now?

Sure, we all do.

But have you considered the actual logistics of it all. In our daydreams, it's all hunky-dory, a piece of cake; after all, your Magma Detonator is almost finished, out there in the garage, and once it is, who's to stop you?

C'mon, use your head! World domination is just about the threat of massive destruction if your petty whims aren't catered too, it's also about style! You can't call the President and demand huge sums of money while wearing a bathrobe and eating Fruit-Loops! Nobody's going to take a super-villain based in suburban Portland seriously, no matter how powerful his Earthquake Machine might be! You need to show them you mean business! You gotta have a lair, henchmen in matching outfits that you can randomly murder to make a point, a slinky assistant, robots, lasers, all kinds of stuff that says, "Kneel before Zod!" in no uncertain terms!

But where can you get all of these things? I'm glad you asked! VillainSource.com is here to help!

Lairs, traps, henchperson gear, small, medium, and heavy arms, super weapons and powers, doomsday devices, VillainSource.com has it all! Whatever you need, provided in one convenient website, and designed and built by such respected names as Scaramanga and No S.A., Evil on a Budget Inc., the Arctic Nazi Consortium, Syko-Systems Inc., and The Sharper Image. Anything and everything you need, all with convenient and obvious self-destruct mechanisms.

VillainSource.com, the successor site to VillainSupply.com, is open and ready for business. Run by the always helpful Preserved Brain of Josef Mengele, these fine homicidal maniacs are ready to help you, yes, you, TAKE OVER THE WORLD! BWAH-hahahahahahahahah.....

http://villainsource.com/ -Don't be a wuss!

This thing is killin' me...

I started this entry last month, and just finished it today, and the blog insists on publishing it on the day I did the first draft... So I gotta link to it... Gonna go lay down now...

http://carterlee.blogspot.com/2008/04/intelligent-design.html

Click the link!

Hands down, one of the greatest documents ever created by the hand of man.

http://www.nelsonrocks.org/disclaimer.html?Active=1

I can rap!

It ain't about the bitches and the ho's
but those who chose
to oppose
the same old status quo
to strike a blow
for the average joe
to give hope
to the average mope
to give scope
to the average dope
to give 'em the key
to something transcendent
put a song in their heart
that can't be ended
lift up their soul
and help 'em to mend it
for you see
that's the key
to all artistry
you can say I'm wrong
but that's just me...

Dad and the Dome

People really can surprise you, especially those you think you know best. I just recently found out a good friend of mine, an old circus pal, is a Republican. I don't hold it against her, not at all, these things do happen, however inexplicable they may be.

Take my father, for instance. One of the smartest cats I know, always has a tidbit of information I've never heard before, still thinking clearly and cogently about deep things even into his 70's. When I was a young un', and not yet hipped to my Dad's wily ways, he managed to put a sense of wonder into my brother and me that still lingers, just by walking about 60-70 feet.

The family was on a visit to Washington, DC, where Dad had spent a good few years growing up and working his first jobs, most notably at the Pentagon (the world's largest office building). So the visit was a return to old haunt for him, and he showed my mother, my brother Eric, and me not only all of the expected sights, but a number of little things that most people would pass by all unaware.

The cool trick came when we visited the capitol dome. This was back when the hoi-polloi were allowed to simply wander through the building at will. We looked at the paintings, the statues, the frescoes, and the amazing frieze that runs around the rotunda, and enjoyed the odd open feeling that comes from being inside such a huge covered space uncluttered by supports and pillars. After a bit, Dad pulled Eric and I over to a painting, god knows which one.

"I want you guys to look at this picture," he said, "Because there's something wrong with it, and I want to see if you can spot it."

So Eric and I scrutinized the painting, searching it closely, trying to divine what the error might be. After a minute or two of this, Dad spoke up.

"Don't see it, huh? Well, that's all right turn around and look at this."

We turned towards Dad's voice, which had seemed to come from right behind us. But, lo and behold, he was clear across the rotunda. Our faces, all covered in surprise, must have been clear even at the distance he stood from us.

"What's wrong?" Dad spoke innocently, and still it seemed like his voice came from someone within arms reach, not a good stones throw away.

He explained it to us, after he got done enjoying our bewildered expressions. The huge dome acted as an acoustic reflector, carrying sound, clear and unmuted, from one end of the dome to another, as long as you were in the right spots. There are plaques on the floor, showing where some of the famous early legislators had had their desks, and Dad showed us where one crafty politico had his workspace situated so that it stood in the sweet spot to listen in on the plotting of a rival group that gathered on the other side of the dome.

That is still one of the neatest things I've ever seen. Thanks, Dad.

Shame

The way my feelings of shame cling to me never fails to surprise me. Like barnacles on a ship, they seem to crust onto me, constantly slowing me down and inhibiting my attempts to move.

Twenty-three years ago, in middle school, for about a week, I'd sneak over to where the littler kids left their lunches in the hall while they were on the playground, and I'd steal candy from their lunch bags. Twenty-three years, and it still comes up with the rest of the tornado of shameful moments from my life, whenever part of my mind feels like the rest needs a good ass-kicking. One voice among many, saying "Of course you're worthless, you have been since you stole candy from the other kids."

And since this voice was in my own head, it hasn't been until recently that I've thought to doubt what it says. In a way it's always been right. Stealing from the other kids was a thing to be ashamed of. But why does it still have power over me, after so long?

Steam

At the Circus, when it's time for the tent to come down, the tent comes down. I can only remember two or three times in the year or more I travelled with the show that weather did more than slow down the work. January's in New York could get cold enough that work might stop for a couple of hours, or a day, and when we were setting up in Boston near the Atlantic, the wind was strong enough that, when the tent was unrolled and then lowered to have the seams joined, it would lift the tent fast, and a couple of people got thrown around pretty good.

But mostly, things like rain and wind and cold just slowed the process down, and not much at that. You'd look around on a cold night, everybody running around in t-shirts, and realize why everybody was working so hard: if you slowed down, you were gonna freeze to death. As long as you were working hard enough, you were warm enough.

The coolest times, though, were when the air was just cool enough, and you were just warm enough, that steam would start to rise. You'd see something up at the top of your field of vision, and flick your eyes up, in case it was something falling, and you'd just catch sight of it. Then you'd take a moment and look around, and see that everyone, while scurrying around doing the thousand and one jobs that taking down a circus tent involves, had a halo around their heads, rising from the top of their skulls. Steam would be rising, just a couple of inches above sweat-soaked hair, then vanishing. On everyone.

Then you'd put your head down and get back to work, because your sweat would start getting cold, and you didn't want to freeze to death.

Intelligent Design

There's a phenomenon that occurs when less technologically advanced cultures are forced to deal with higher technology cultures. The best known cases have occurred in the southwest Pacific area following World War 2, with the sudden appearance of English, French, Russian, German, Australian, Japanese, and American material goods as part of the war efforts of the various counties, among the Melanesian and Micronesian islanders. Having little or no understanding of western-style mass production, or the engineering principles that allow metal planes to fly and metal ships to float, the locals often adopted the belief that the cargo they saw arriving by ship and plane was intended for them, and was taken, by mistake or through malice, by the armies that were passing through when the cargo appeared.


They locals will form something known as a 'cargo cult'. The cult will usually involve a syncretic union between whatever god the foreigners worshiped and the local chief god, and have the cultists attempting to use the methods they observed the foreigners using for calling the cargo to them. To that end, the locals will set up mock airstrips that mimic the ones built by the engineering companies, mock radios made from local materials, and the staging of Armed Forces-style drills and marches. If these rituals are observed assiduously enough, surely the gods and ancestors of the locals would re-route the cargo back to them.


Richard Feynman used the term 'Cargo Cult science' in a commencement address at Caltech in 1974, in reference to work that seemed sound but that lacked "a kind of scientific integrity, a principle of scientific thought that corresponds to a kind of utter honesty". One of the first things a scientist must do is avoid fooling themselves, Feynman said.


"We've learned from experience that the truth will come out. Other experimenters will repeat your experiment and find out whether you were wrong or right. Nature's phenomena will agree or they'll disagree with your theory. And, although you may gain some temporary fame and excitement, you will not gain a good reputation as a scientist if you haven't tried to be very careful in this kind of work. And it's this type of integrity, this kind of care not to fool yourself, that is missing to a large extent in much of the research in cargo cult science."


And so we come to Intelligent Design. Intelligent Design appears to be, at it's core, an attempt to redefine science itself to allow a theistic, or god centered, explanation for the presence of life on our world. And while Intelligent Design has been carefully crafted to appear to meet the standards of the scientific method and rational thought, all of the careful verbiage exist for one purpose, and one purpose only: as an attempt to get people to ignore the fact that it is based on the untestable thesis that a deity consciously put together all life according to a plan.


The key there is 'untestable thesis'. If an idea cannot be tested, and if that test cannot be repeated by others working in similar conditions, it is not, and cannot, be science. But the proponents of Intelligent Design, like the Cargo cultists of the south Pacific, truly believe that if they follow the forms and recite the words, this small fact can be ignored. It doesn't matter that there are no planes coming with cargo, and it doesn't matter if your thesis cannot be tested. What matters is that you believe, fervently, without question, because if you do, one day you will be rewarded with cargo. The cargo might be manufactured goods, it might be acceptance by the scientific community, but it will come as surely as the sun rises.


This is all pointless, of course. Belief and faith might be able to change the hearts of men, but they cannot alter the physical laws under which we live. That the cult of Intelligent Design believe their theory, and don't believe in the Theory of Evolution, matters not at all. But these are people of faith, and have been told all their lives that faith can move mountains. And they are all the more misguided because they are not entirely wrong. It does take a lot of faith to move a hunk of rock the size of a mountain, but it also takes a huge amount of hard knowledge and skill, working with forces that can't be appeased or bargained with, but must be dealt with as they are. Faith alone doesn't do the job.

The most troublesome thing, too me, is that there is no inherent divide between the theistic and scientific approach to the development of life. It's true, the idea of a supreme being creating the universe we know can't be tested, but there is no particular reason a person cannot have both a faith in such a being's existence and an acceptance of the truth we have discovered for ourselves. To my mind, nothing shows the truly incredible nature of the supreme being more than the wonders we have observed in a reality that stretches from the tiniest particle to the entirety of the universe, and from today back into the incomprehensible depths of the past. What an amazing being this must be, to have made such a place!

It's true, you can't reconcile the story of Genesis with the theory of Evolution, and this seems to be the great sticking point for most serious Christians. It's not an attitude I can understand, myself, as it paints a picture of God as being rather small minded, and a bit petty. You risk his wrath if you take the stories in this one particular book as anything other than the literal truth.

And so the debate, which is not about the primacy of man of God, but about the truth of one story, and not a particularly original one at that, rages on. One side is forced into atheism and agnosticism, and the other into zealotry and hatred.

And the cargo cult of Intelligent Design stumbles on, making us all smaller with its Calvinist insistence that the man who thinks for himself rises too high, and usurps God's prerogatives.

Such a sad thing.

Mom Story #3: She's quick, I tell ya...

A good number of years ago, when my family was living in the wilds of Massachusetts, it was decided by the powers that be, otherwise known as my mother, that simplification was the order of the day. And so we embarked upon that grand suburban tradition, the garage sale.

A grand success it was, too. Near the end of the day, as my father haggled with another of the waning stream of customers, Mom and I enjoyed a brief respite from our day of mercantile endeavors. As was sat talking of this and that, a question occurred to me.

"Mom," I said, innocently, "What are you and Dad gonna do, once I leave and it's just the two of you?"

She didn't miss a beat. "Walk around naked."

She's a cool lady, no doubt.

The horror... the horror...

I don't remember when it first began.

I don't remember the first time I caught sight of a painted grin in the midst of a crowd. The first time I noticed that the crowd at a ball game had a few too many fright wigs dotted amongst the spectators, or spotted a polka-dotted shirt worn with a business suit. I remember thinking it odd, though, that baggy pants would become so popular with so many different social groups. Even when I saw three of them in the space of less than an hour, each with sad face and damned eyes not hidden, but accentuated, by their pancake makeup, their weary hands twisting tubes of air into ghastly shapes to be handed listlessly to random passersby, each of whom found themselves caught suddenly in a bitter depression; even then, I didn't realize the truth.

Once it became obvious, it was much too late, of course. Once those of us still unaffected began to mutter about the changes (Models walking the runway in floppy shoes; The President appearing at a press conference with two bright red circles on her cheeks, a bent top hat, and one tooth blacked out), the battle was already lost, and they had taken over.

The streets were filled with dour, dead-eyed harlequins, knocking one another over with ladders, spraying seltzer into each other's pants, and landing their pratfalls with a thud that reminded one of a dead body falling to the floor. The gutters were filled with the detritus of pies flung into faces, and confetti from buckets that should have been filled with water.

The soul of our civilization gasped and choked under the unholy assault. From our hiding places, those few that remained could hear the constant, soul-crushing call of the never-ending calliope, each note just off enough to kill sleep and work itself into a tired brain, until finally, the end came. Time and again, the mind of one of us would finally crumble under the assault, and they would change. Skin would whiten, lips would redden, shoes and pants would enlarge, and finally, some flimsy pretext would cause them to fall backwards, landing with feet raised and legs splayed. I swear you could hear the soul of the person crack, and when they arose, they would follow the sound of the organ, and take their place in the carnival of the damned that our world had become.

Some worlds end in fire. Some end in ice. Our world met it's end in the cruelest way imaginable. Our world ended in...

The Clownocalypse.

Male Intuition

I heard a girl once ask why guys didn't have their own version of female intuition. Well, maybe I did, maybe I didn't. It's hard to recall, as there was a lot of alcohol involved. What the hell, for the sake of this piece, I'll claim someone said it to me, once upon a blue moon.

Ahywho.

Thing is, guys do have their own kind of intuition. Actually, it's like counter-intuition. Guys have a little voice inside them that constantly urges them to do very, very stupid things.

It's the voice a guy hears when he decides it might be fun to wrestle an alligator, just for the hell of it. And because his friends are calling him a pussy. And he's been drinking.

It's the voice a guy hears that tells him that if he gets on a skateboard, builds up some speed, rides this curving structure up until he runs out of wall, and then tries some kind weird acrobatic move, after which he will theoretically be able to land safely, it would be 'cool'. Or, worse still, 'hardcore'.

In case you didn't know, the word 'hardcore', when used by, well, any male, is synonymous with the word 'dangerous'. And the words 'intensely stupid'. It's a way of letting other know that they really should watch whatever this muttonhead is trying to do, as it will likely kill him, and will definitely make a funny story for others.

This is the same little voice that convinces guys that every girl they meet wants them. Nuns, a pal's mom, angry butch lesbians, it doesn't matter. The voice says, 'They need you, you, to straighten them out. Don't deny them your essence. It would be cruel.

This is the voice that whispers, 'If she were awake, she'd say yes. You're fine. Go ahead.'

Believe it or not, male intuition makes most men even stupider than they are normally. Like some kind of genetic herd-thinning instinct, a way to improve the breed as a whole.

And produce really funny YouTube videos. I could watch those all day.

All day, I tells ya.

Mom Story #2: Uh, my bad...

So, I was travelling with the circus. This was back around the turn of the century, of course. Out on the road, footloose and fancy-free, hanging with the clowns and the elephants and the rest of the weirdos that make up a circus. Just rolling form town to town, ingesting various substances, drinking at bars, and engaging in the daily Russian roulette that was eating in the chow trailer. It was glorious.

Anyway, one day, an off day when we didn't have the show going, it occurred to be that I should probably call my parents, just to check in and see how they were doing.

"It's about time!" My mother greeted my call with less enthusiasm than I'd expected.

"Geez," I said, a bit hurt, "it hasn't been that long."

"FOUR MONTHS!", came the rather loud reply.

Really? Dammit.....

Just a thought

Life sometimes overwhelms me.

There are so many nuances to living in our world as a responsible person. So many things one should know so that it's possible to go to sleep at night with the thought that you've at least tried your best to your best. The upcoming election, the War in Iraq and the place of America in the world, finding ways to live that do the least amount of damage to our only home. Eating in a healthful manner, making sure that those you love are taken care of to the best of your ability, trying to help others when and where you can. Knowing enough to be a responsible citizen. Making sure you pay your bills, and trying to prepare for the future. Trying to find ways to leave this world a better place than it was when you started. Taking care of yourself well enough that all of the other things are possible, and tending to your own happiness.

I don't think any reasonable person can look at the scope of what is required to be a good and responsible person, citizen, or friend, without being a bit taken aback at how much there all is.

Perhaps that's why we're all short-sighted sometimes, why we limit our view to only what is close and immediate.

Maybe that's why I like online comic strips so much.

An announcement to my three readers

If my small cadre of readers would take a moment and look in the comments of my last entry, 'Taste the Yellow', they'll see that two comments were left in regards to it. It's actually only one comment, posted twice, but I thought it deserved a rebuttal from yours truly.

The comment reads, in its entirety, 'What the heck is synesthesia?' The comment was also posted by Anonymous. Now, I don't think it was the Youtube group that has declared war on Scientology, and I don't know that it was one of you, dear readers, although I am looking Blake appraisingly, but I would like to pass something on to the person who took the time to comment.

Find a dictionary.

A bitchy response, I'll admit. Nevertheless, I stand by it.

I can almost hear the type of statement my response will evoke. "Find a dictionary? What, you mean haul myself off my avoirdupois (look it up, dammit!), walk across the room, and open a book? What am I, Amish? This is the digital age, buddy! I oughta get my learnin' like I get my porn! With very little effort! And no pants!

"Hell, they oughta mix the two! Call it 'porno-cation', or 'edu-nography' or somethin'! Hell, if they'd had that in my day, I'da made it past fifth grade! Hell, I'da been early every day!

"With no pants!"

Taste the yellow!

I was eating breakfast this morning, and an odd question occurred to me: What does yellow taste like?

No, Mom, I'm not ingesting things I shouldn't, I was merely glancing at the top of my single serving bowl of Corn Pops. There, under the bright red logo, was the phrase, "Big Yellow Taste!"

What the hell?

What kind of a motto is that? Is Kellogg going to start marketing Corn Pops to people suffering from synesthesia? Y'know, "Corn Pops, the cereal that tastes yellow, feels lemon, and smells G-Sharp Major!"

And it begs the question of how they can know that it tastes yellow. What kind of tests is this cereal put through to make sure that no batch goes out tasting too green?

Given that the Corn Pops I was eating didn't really taste like, well, anything, I suppose you could make a case that it was true. You can't taste a color, not without a major neurological disorder, anyway, so saying that the Pops tasted yellow could be correct.

It is odd, though.

Mom Story #1

My Mom and Dad went on a cruise, while I was living in New York. My Aunt Betty, Dad's sister, and her husband, Stan, were having an anniversary, or something, and they had all of their children, and spouses, and grandchildren, and my parents, join them as guest stars in their own personal Love Boat. By all accounts, a great time was had by all. I wouldn't know. I wasn't invited.

Bitter? Don't be silly. I laugh in the face of bitterness, and chuckle condescendingly at sadness.

Anyway, about a week after my parents got done seeing what Gopher is really like, I got a box in the mail. My mother, sweetheart that she is, had picked up a shirt for me during her travels. It was a nice shirt, too. Light brown, with a loose weave to the fabric that made it great for summer, which was raging humidly about the city at the time.

There was one small problem, however. This shirt, so nice in other ways, had a pocket on the left breast, on which had been inflicted the words 'KEY WEST', in oh-so-bright sparkles. This is what happens when your mother chooses clothes for you based on what she would want to wear.

I looked at the shirt, pondering. I really did like it, other than the eyesore of a pocket. Inspecting the shirt, I found that the weave was loose enough that I could get to the thread used to attach the pocket without damaging the rest of the shirt.

So I cut the thing off.

I spent about a half an hour, carefully finding each point of attachment, making sure I was cutting the right threads, slowly excising the overly happy pocket from the quiet goodness of it's home garment. When I was done, it was apparent, upon semi-close inspection, that there had been a pocket attached, but it wasn't too obvious, and looked like it would fade as the loose weave was exposed to washing. Even if it didn't, it was a small defect, and I could explain it away simply by saying to any who asked, "Hey, it's an imperfect world. Sometimes, pockets come off. Whatcha gonna do, eh?"

Felling quite happy with my new, slightly altered gift, I wore it to work that very day. Upon arriving home again, I made a quick call to my parents, making sure to thank them for the shirt, and expressing my happiness with it, telling my mother I was wearing it at that very moment. It was all skittles and beer, until I mentioned that I'd had to remove the pocket to make the shirt wearable. Then I asked Mom why she had bought something with such a gaudy embellishment. There was a brief silence on the other end of the line.

"Um, none of the shirts had any writing on them." She said in a quiet, hurt voice. "I had them put that on. It cost extra."

Oh, Christ... Life ain't fair...

Who wants to shoot a clown in the face?

A new reality show, this fall on Fox.

Just a thought...

Much tragedy could have been averted if the Big Bad Wolf had simply been honest with himself about his fascination with crossdressing.

An Action News 5 In Depth Report

Good evening. On tonight's 'Eye on the Family' segment, we will be looking at a very important question: are your children using illegal drugs?

The answer is yes. Yes they are.

If you have children between the ages of 3 and 27, and they are not currently in your sight, they are getting high right now. If they are in your sight, they got high while you couldn't see them. Or, possibly, they got high while you were watching me and not them.

They might be smoking Marijuana or Crack, the might be shooting Heroin, they could be huffing gas, or paint thinner, or nail-polish remover, they could be eating your wife's lipstick or your husband's shoes, or they could simply be breathing too deeply to give themselves an incredibly dangerous 'Oxygen high'. But, somehow, your children ARE getting high.

You have only yourself to blame. It was you who sent your children out into the real world, to school and playdates, where other children could introduce them to the wonders of Mescaline. You, who were so easily fooled into believing that Little Jimmy from across the street isn't involved in manufacturing Crystal Meth and white slavery.

There is only one solution. There is only one way to keep your children and yourself safe from the taint of drug use, a taint that will inevitably lead your sons to knifing strangers, and your daughters selling themselves on the filthy streets.

But first, here's Jim Crandall with Sports! Jim, how'd the Cavs do tonight?

Mojo of the Blood Fire Apes!

The night hung over the city like a dead fish on a clothesline. Hot, damp air sidled up close and wrapped itself around me like a wet fur coat, which wouldn’t have been comfortable even if I didn’t have my own fur. But Primate City was lit up in all her neon glory, throwing cheap light up to the overhanging clouds, telling the vanished sun that she’d be fine if it never came back. I’d lived in the Big Banana all my life, but she never looked better to me than she did at night’s beginning. I didn’t even miss the daylight, anymore.

I took a last drag off my smoke and flicked the butt out the open window. The falling ember’s momentary arc joined the flashing lights of the city, adding it’s little glow to the dazzling array. As it disappeared into the shadow of the grubby alley below, I considered what the night might have in store for me. Sometime before dawn, I had to meet Crackers down at the stockyards, to pick up my ‘medicine’. I also had a bit of business to work out with Eddie Medium-Size, current boss of the Capuchin Brotherhood. I’d worked with Big Eddie, the old Capuchin boss, a couple of times, but Eddie Medium-Size didn’t have Big Eddie’s brains or flair for business. Cash is cash, though, so I might take a job from him.

I wasn’t worried about finding action tonight, though. I had that feeling, the old familiar one, down in the gut, that I wasn’t gonna be hanging around my office here in the Hominid Building all night, rhapsodizing about my city in the night. The fur on the back of my hands were tingling, and Sally, nestled in my shoulder holster, seemed restless. Something was up, tonight, and headed my way. So I sat back, and let it come.

There was a knock at the door. I smiled, a little. You learn to trust your feelings, as a PI, even more so than the average gorilla. I ran my tongue over my sharp canines and thought that you can bet the bank on your gut when you’re a…Vampire Gorilla, PI.

That Guy

I know it's time to shave my head when I turn into 'that guy'.

'That guy' was someone I have noticed, and ridiculed, fairly regularly throughout my life. You might not have noticed him yourself, but I assure you, he's there. He's a balding fellow, receding hairline, one who's pretty sure he's unobserved. He's the guy who takes advantage of his reflection in a store window or a lobby mirror and tries to quickly rearrange his thinning coif to somehow hide the fact that in the war of scalp and hair, hair is making a strategic retreat. He's looking for a bit of magic, that guy is, a way of folding or turning or entangling his locks so that not enough hair can hide too much skin.

There's no way to do it, of course, but he, that is I, keep trying, like a fat lady in 'slimming' spandex and a belly shirt. We can't help it, but that such magic exists is just one of those illusions we need to get through the day.

Fortunately for me, I also labor under the illusion that I have a well-shaped, and not at all egg-like, skull. This allows me to see shaving my head as a viable option. This is good, as I hate being 'that guy.'

Ah, yesterday

Remember yesterday? When today was tomorrow, and tomorrow was a couple of days from now? Yesterday, when a couple of days ago was yesterday, because yesterday was today? Last week was still last week, and next week was still next week, unless yesterday was the end of the week, so that next week was this week, and this week had suddenly become last week?

It's kind of a lateral move

I seem to have traded my addiction to weed for an addiction to BBQ-flavored Fritos.

Created by a kindred spirit...

Check it out:

http://www.kylebaker.com/www/multi/content2/GhostChimp.htm

Ghost Chimp, M.D., where have you been all my life? I mean, you're up there with Sgt. Gorilla, from DC's old WWII comics, and Detective Chimp, and Lancelot Link, Secret Chimp, and Rex Mantooth, Kung Fu Gorilla, and Super-Gorilla Grodd...and Sky-Ape...and Monsieur Mallah...and the Mod Gorilla Boss...

I need to lie down...

It really does boggle the mind

Here’s another entry to my ever growing list of really, really bad marketing ideas: Wild Eye caffeinated schnapps.
Caffeinated schnapps.
Caffeinated… schnapps.
CAFFEINATED SCHNAPPS!
The mind reels.

Patton Oswalt, one of my favorite comedians, has said that alcohol ads usually tell the saddest short stories you can imagine. The billboard for Wild Eye I caught sight of in Denver is, sadly, proof that he was correct. It was on Colfax Ave., in a good spot that made it visible for nearly a quarter of a mile. “Denver, here’s your wake up call!”, it blared, and can you guess what picture accompanied it? A pretty girl, you say? In cut-offs, on a bar stool, holding the neck of the thick, cylindrical bottle in a death grip, down near her groinitological region? With a knowing, ‘Come on big boy, you know you want it’ look on her face?

How ever did you know?

“You ever have one of those mornings where you roll out of someone else’s bed and know from the volume of vomit on their floor that it’s gonna be a hard day? What with your boss, and the kids, and the wife bitching about how you didn’t come home last night, you know you can’t face the day sober, but you can’t afford to be found sleeping on your desk in a pool of spit again? Brother, we got the sweet nectar you need, and a little something extra. For those times you need to be stumblin’ drunk, yet awake, there’s Wild Eye caffeinated schnapps! It offers the best of both worlds, and lets you be inebriated AND jittery at the same time. What better combination could there be for rush hour traffic than the twitchiness of caffeine overload mixed with liquor’s gift for making your small motor skills truly minimal? Wild Eye caffeinated schnapps will give you the energy to punch out a cop, and the impaired judgment needed to think it’s a good idea! Wild Eye, you can’t make the police chase last for three hours without it!”

Good lord, where’s Carrie Nation when you need her?

I'm sure this would make money.

Are you an old freak? A senior citizen who's into water sports, coprophilia, S+M, B+D, A+P? Do the other old people at church not understand your love of latex? Are they confused by your references the works of de Sade and Sacher-Masoch? Look aghast at your vast number of lovingly collected 'toys' and antique porn?

Then come to KinkyWrinkle.com! Where you're never too old to get your freak on! The place to meet oldsters just like you! The kind who could teach these kids today something about the proper use of a bullwhip and correct orgy etiquette! The kind who says a hard slap is the same as a loving caress! The kind who really want to punch the midget! The kinds who like their sex just the way you do: deviant!

Velma G., 81, of Teluca Lake says: "I met a hot slab of manhood the first time I went on! The moment he saw my burlap teddy, he could barely control himself. He all but dragged me into the coatroom of the bingo hall, took off my panties, unrolled my labia, blew the dust off of my clitoris, and went to town. 'Course, I broke a hip, but it was worth it!"

Vern H., 78, of Hybiscus adds: "All kinds of sweet honeys have flocked to me since they found out I can't get them pregnant, and they call me 'the Sandblaster'. That's because, when I come, only sand comes out! And they love it, yes, they do..."

If you're a MILF, a FILF, an AILF, an UILF, a GMILF, or a GFILF, KinkyWrinkle.com is the place for you! So unlock your 'Secret Drawer', blow the dust off of your rubber Gimp suit and strap-on, get online, and get off! Go for the gusto! Find the weird turn-on you were always too shy to ask your long-dead partner for! C'mon, you're gonna die soon! Get the lead out, you white-haired sack of raging hormones!

Never a dull moment...

Life in a VA hospital can be boring, but there are moments that more than make up for it. We’re housed pretty close together, and there come occasions that a normally laid-back individual suddenly loses his cool over something. Might be a neighbor slamming his drawers too loudly, might be someone making noise early in the morning, or hogging the TV, or just the result of whatever oddness landed that person in the VA in the first place. It’s these outbursts that give this place its spice.

I’m employed in a therapy job in the recreation center of the VA I’m currently living in. It’s a cool job, with decent co-workers and patrons. Mostly, it involves assigning people to computers and helping them find whatever they need online, with a lot of web-surfing in between. Not a place where a lot of drama occurs, usually.

But yesterday was a little different, apparently. I was the only person working at the time, and had to use the bathroom. I closed the door, and put up the ‘Back in 15 minutes’ sign, but I neglected at lock the door. And while I was…occupied, someone’s craziness came out.

Reports are inconclusive, but someone, for some reason, apparently locked themselves into the computer room and began gallivanting about shirtless. The mystery person might have been sans shirt, but did possess guts to spare, as the recreation area had a number of people in it and they couldn’t have known when I’d return. The internet here is closely controlled by a VA security program that is quite good at keeping pornography inaccessible, and everyone who frequents the computer room knows this, so we’re all a little confused as to why the doffing of clothing was necessary. No odd stains were found, nothing seems to have been stolen, and the person got away clean.

Maybe it was just one of those times when a person needs to be alone, shirtless, in a computer room. I doubt we’ll ever know.

I should stop eating oysters before bedtime

You know what I hate?

When you get hungry late at night, so you drive over to McDonalds, but when you walk in, you realize it's not a McDonalds, it's a crackhouse, so you figure 'What the hell, I'll buy some crack', but the dude selling it wants to haggle over the price, which takes, like, twenty minutes to set, and then he insists that he wants to be paid in Dutch Guilders or some damn thing, but then the cops raid the place, and you manage to make it out the back door and down the waterslide; then, as you're running down the street from the ruckus, you notice you forgot your pants, and while you're looking around with something to cover yourself with, so you won't shock the ladies when you get to your mother's tea party, Henry Kissinger and Mickey Mouse jump out of the bushes, and Kissinger's wearing a Bozo costume, and Mickey has a double-barreled over-and-under shotgun, and shoots you right in the goddamn face with a couple loads of double-aught buckshot.

That's what I hate.

I like Mashed Potatoes

It's like vanilla ice cream.

But made out of potatoes.

And with gravy.

Nothing wrong with that.

Brothers know the coolest tricks

I'd been visiting my brothers, Mark and Jeff, in Atlanta. As always I'd had a great time, probably more fun than the bro's did, given that I was 11 or 12, and they were 10 or 15 years older. It was kinda like hanging out with cool uncles. They didn't mind me staying up late watching TV, fed me a lot of junk food and took me to movies, did all of the cool stuff the parents wouldn't allow.

Our time, as with all good things, came to an end, and the three of us were driving down to the airport to catch my flight home. We were in Mark's boat of an Olds, which was appropriate, as it was pouring rain, the thick stuff that cuts visibility down quite a bit. The car dipped down under a bridge that had standing water, and, all of the sudden, the feel of the ride... changed.

It was like the car was floating, a sensation I enjoyed immensely, and the front of the car began wandering off to the right. Now, Mark claims that the car made several revolutions, but I only recall one. What we agree on is that the car did spin some number of times, and at a moment that the hood happened to be pointing in the correct direction, the tires got traction and we sped on our merry way.

Again, I was 11 or 12 years old, so I just assumed that what had just occurred was some kind of cool rain-driving trick that Mark broke out every once in a while. Y'know, something he was doing to send me off with some last minute fun. I suppose that when Mark looked back at me and said, 'Let's not mention this to Mom', I should have gotten an inkling that something unplanned had occurred, but I thought it was one of those brother things, like getting your first hit of weed, that was between us and didn't need to come to the parents attention.

It was about five years before I figured out how close to death we'd all come. I learned the term 'hydroplaning' and found out that a good number of people die when things like that happen. A great big 'Hmmmmmmm', indeed. I mentioned the incident to Mark, and he said he had been pretty scared through the whole thing. I'm actually glad I didn't know how scared I should have been, 'cause it seemed like an amusement park ride to me. Good times.

I did end up telling my mother about the hydroplaning when I was in my twenties. And, predictably, she threw what can best be described as a 'tizzy'. Given that it had been more than a decade, and my mother had spoken to all three of us multiple times in the intervening years, I didn't think freaking out was warranted, but, hey, she's a mom. It's what they do.

You should learn something new every day!

So, military school was not a lot of fun, but I did learn a couple of things there. For instance, if you get into a fight with an upperclassman, all you really have to do to win is not get your ass kicked. If the upperclassman doesn't beat you like a red-headed stepchild, he automatically looks like a pussy. There are times that living in a place with the general mentality of a pack of monkeys can be turned to your advantage.

During the Annual Federal Inspection that took place at the end of my last year their, I learned a new word.

I, and the guys in my section, had been waiting for most of the day for the inspectors to get to us, sitting around in full-dress uniform trying not to get wrinkled. We were one of the last sections inspected, but we finally got called to stand at attention outside the doors of our rooms, and the inspectors, who must have been pretty bored themselves, were making pretty quick work of us.

The Colonel who was leading the inspectors got to my room, and my roommate and I followed him in and stood at attention by our lockers. The Colonel glanced around our room, as exactly like the hundred other rooms at the school as we could make it, in a cursory fashion, looked briefly in our lockers, and was set to roll out when something caught his eye. His brow furrowed a little as he looked closer at the gap between my locker and a wall.

"Is that your nickel there?” the Colonel asked me.

"No, sir!" I continued without thinking, "You can have it if you want it!"

The Colonel looked at me closer, his eyes showing surprise. Behind him, I could see Colonel Horton, the head of the school, close his eyes and sigh silently.

"Son," The inspecting Colonel said, not unkindly, "Try not to be facetious, all right?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Do you know what 'don't be facetious' means?"

"No, sir!"

"It means don't be a wiseass."

"Yes, sir! I'll remember, sir!"

"Carry on." And the Colonel led everyone back out of the room.

See what I mean? Everyday, new things come up.

Baby steps to gettin' healthy

I used to eat 2, sometimes 3, sticks of butter every day.

Then the last doctor I talked to told me it was bad for me. I think 'You're gonna die in a couple of weeks' were his actual words.

So I cut out the butter.

Now I'm satisfied with just a tub of 'I can't believe it's not butter' every couple of days.

And, y'know, I really do have trouble believing it.

My chest hurts...

And it was going so well...

Ever suddenly discovered that something you thought was completely wrong, and found out that you were an asshole? I did.

I never ask women out. Look in most dictionary's and you'll see my picture next to the entry for 'gutless bastard'. I don't know why, but when I think of putting myself out there, I immediately find myself right back in ninth grade. I gain weight, I feel pimples cover my face, and my voice takes on this tone that makes the Squeaky-Voiced Teen from the Simpson's sound like Robert Mitchum. It's sad. Very sad. And emasculating.

But this one time, I did it. At work no less.

I was behind the counter, at a copy shop on a beautiful Wednesday, and she came in, looking to fax something. A little chatting, a couple of corny jokes, commiserating over the fact that her fax wouldn't go through, all in all a nice couple of minutes. She said her name was V (Thomas Pynchon stole that from me), and she was new in town. So on impulse, I mentioned that one night every week during the summer, there was a free movie in a park downtown. I went almost every week, and maybe she'd be interested in coming along...? And V said yes.

On the appointed day, I met V at the shop, and we caught the train uptown. We got there early to stake out a spot, grabbed some food from a local shop, and hung out, chatting, until it was dark enough for the movie to start. Good times. The conversation was smooth without any of the uncomfortable pauses that are the usual hallmarks of my dates, and our senses of humor seemed to mesh pretty well.

Right before the movie started, V said she was going to run to the public restroom so she wouldn't miss any of the show, and headed out into the gathering twilight.

She never came back.

The previews rolled, and then the movie itself began. Stalag 17, as I recall. Not my idea of a date movie, but it was free, I was poor, and sometimes you just don't get to choose. I sat there, people packed in on every side, growing more and more incensed as the time ticked by. Jesus, she must have secretly hated me! She'd even abandoned a lighter and half a pack of smokes. Just broke and ran. Well, fine, I fumed, fuck 'er. Bitch.

Anybody see where this is going?

I sat through the entire film. Didn't get any joy out of seeing Peter Graves get killed, needless to say. But screw it, I was going to see this film all the way through to the last credit.

After it was over, I headed out into the night. On impulse, I hit a payphone and checked my messages. If you think there was a message from V, you are incorrect.

There were two messages from her. The first explained that V hadn't kept track of where we were sitting, and couldn't find her way back. The second was left about twenty minutes later, and, in a disappointed tone of voice, V said that she kept getting yelled at to sit down, and was heading home. Guess she hadn't abandoned her cigarettes, after all.

I did call her then, but I don't seem to recall being very contrite, or apologizing at all, even. V was less than enthused, herself. And we never spoke again.

This all happened about five years ago. I swear to god, it didn't occur to me until about a month ago, I mean really hit me, that I should have gone looking for her. It never even crossed my mind, not once. Nor did being actively sorry, or explaining my thought process to her, maybe turning it into something we could laugh over. Not for five years.

My friends tell me I'm smart, but I know better. I look back on how I screwed up then, and how it took five years to figure out what I should have done, and I know the truth: I'm the King o' the Maroons.

One of those times

I tend to do pretty stupid things when I get angry. That's one of the main reasons I work hard to contain my anger. When I was just starting school, I was forever getting into trouble for bouncing blocks off of other children's heads, and suchlike.

This particular incident happened while I was in military school. My parent's enrolled me there about halfway through my freshman year of high school, after a run of failed classes. If you're interested in seeing what my school looked like, rent 'The Omen II'. I found it perversely appropriate that a film about the Anti-Christ was filmed at my school. To anyone considering military school for their child, I recommend taking a good long look at the monkey house of your local zoo. That's pretty much what your baby will experience, but with more weapons and less with the flinging of the feces. Mostly.

Anyway, it was near the end of my second year, and it had been a long one. The school was getting ready for the annual federal inspection, during which actual military fellows walked through the school for a few hours. I suppose they wanted to make sure no students were being beaten, or kept in cages and suchlike. The inspection, which occurred every year, involved a frenzy of cleaning, and added even more pressure to an atmosphere already tense with the need to get this shit over with, already, and get the hell out of school for the year.

My freakout came on a weeknight, a day or two before the inspectors arrived. I don't really remember what the catalyst was, but something, a fellow student tearing apart my carefully ordered locker, another stupid assignment by a section leader who hadn't gotten off his ass all day, a recalcitrant bed sheet, set me off, bigtime.

I'm a lover, not a fighter, and don't like getting hit, so instead of beating the crap out of whoever was responsible, my rage-maddened eye fell onto my bunk. It was a warm night in late spring, and my window was open, and how to dissipate my rage suddenly crystallized. The bunk had to go.

And go it did. I grabbed the mattress, knocked my startled roommate out of the way with it, and stuffed that son-of-a-bitch out the window, letting it fall the story down to the ground.

By the time I had the metal bunk frame about halfway out the window, my roomie's half frightened, half amused yelps had drawn a crowd. As I recall, most of them seemed rather amused, and some were cheering. When the raised window dropped down unexpectedly, one of them rushed past me and held it up, so that I could continue ejecting the frame unimpeded. By this time, I was a little winded, but the frame only needed a little work to send it dropping out of sight. I assume it made some noise when it landed, but everyone was yelling too loudly for me to hear.

My company commander came in. He looked at the open window, at the other babbling students, at the space where a bunk should have been, and then at my red, sweaty face.

"You threw your bed out the window?", he said, not even sounding surprised. I nodded.

"You freaking out?" As he said this, I saw him calculating how crazy this might get if I was truly going nuts. He could have taken me, no doubt, but nobody would have come out unhurt.

"Not any more.", I said, chest still heaving.

"Go get your bed. And don't do that again. Really."

So I went outside and carried the mattress and frame inside and back to my room.

I did feel a lot better.

Idea, and a bit more

So, I decided to try a new commercial venture. I'm going to market my own scent, for men and women.

It'll be made from a base of unrefined crude oil and choice, finely minced hobo, and each bottle will have just a splash of holy water, to make it Jesus-tastic. Christ-rific. Whatever.

It will be named, 'Stanque, by Carter'.

On a related note, I shared this particular idea, which is the beginning of a comedy bit, with my friend Sarah. She was quiet for a second, and then said, "The holy water... doesn't make sense."

My brain kinda locked up over that. The crude oil and diced homeless were perfectly fine, reasonable as can be, but the wheels came off with the holy water?

Confusion, thy name is Sarah.

Come with me on a little journey...

I'd like you to take just a second, and contemplate God. Doesn't matter which one, just pick one you like.

Now, take a second to contemplate the mystery of our existence, and the majesty of the universe in which we find ourselves. Try to capture the scope of it, from the smallest particles through the vast spaces that comprised most of the reality we call home. Include the wonder that is you, and the people you love, the ones you don't like, stretch back to consider all members of the family of man, and those that will follow us. Add in the uncountable number of other creatures that share our home, the variety of the plant and animal life, the beauty of the natural processes that make it possible, from the shift of tectonic plates to the growth of crystals. Consider time itself, stretching billions of years both in front and behind us. Contrast our smallness and beauty. Savor it for a moment. Really try to picture it all, the whole of existence in it's nearly infinite variety.

Now turn your mind back towards the concept of a creator. Picture the being capable of beginning, and, if you have certain beliefs, guiding to this very day everything that we know is, was, and shall be. A being (Male, Female, Black Lady with a Marmoset, what have you) of power and insight that we can hardly dream of. All-knowing, all-loving, all powerful, and everywhere. Omniscient, omnibenevolent, omnipotent, omnipresent. Imagine this being looking down upon their creation, picking out the spot that is our galaxy, the mote that is our solar system, the speck that is our lovely little planet.

Now picture that being becoming angry, saying "Fucking fags!"

Does that make sense to you?

Sigh...

So, I got new shoes for Christmas. Two pairs. Now I have an alternative to my squeaky boots.

But the new shoes, they squeak as well.

I think I need to come to grips with the fact that I may have squeaky feet.

The Virgin Mary, She weeps.