evil nature

2008-09-04T00:49:00.000-07:00

The boy bounced freely from his roost atop the trike, striking the ground with gruff enthusiasm and a spankering of trust only to be thrust into a cold cruel trikeless world that knows no pity for for the ground and schooled class of glasslike leaches of desire and withering expectation of uniform atrocities that gleam like a dazzle-pinned reaper inside a triumphant catass trophy pawing at the sun when it knows full well the sun can take no more.

Leveraging a skyline tremor into a never rending level-headed louse-drive that parks in my braids suffocating the follicles that followed their folly fully into it's flatulent fruition - a park-and-ride suicide with rancid metrokane suffrage that tapes name-droppings to a whole new levelich can't easily be reached or refrigerated without vagrant variants being obtusely jolted from their neo-naptime kinder-gestapo milk-marches.

Emblematically emblazoned with lilly-white embalmatorium overtones undermining the lynchpin leprechaun taunting the rainbow headaches of my nimble uplifted leatherette soul.

Achey echoes arc in twisted piney wedg-shuttled lampstick artichoke leprosy two-fold twisted like bacon in my engendered handcuffing overstuffers.

Wind out tenderly for an intersplendant reafforming of glitteronomous fredglings that gather like lake moss and leaf frost in your intensely wicked grandpa beard of one-thousand-and-.5 lunches diseased by winter tragedies that criss-cross and slowly envelope and predestine our very shells of egg-sub-zestiness inversely like a mother-in-law with doorlike napkin-feelers stationed near the necks of louder dogs.

Michigan whisps like a tenderized beaten meatless elbow that brings up endless barfs of summer.

The Novel Novice Contemplates His Navel

2008-08-27T22:43:00.000-07:00

Once there was a man who desperately wished he could write a compelling semi-autobiography. He started wishing this beautiful wish at a very young age, in fact he started wishing at the earliest age anyone has ever started to wish, but nobody bothered to write it down or even take a photo.

When he was at school he wished this very same wish all day, every day. Everyone was so used to seeing him wish that they never really thought anything of it, but the wishing continued until he had wished further and longer than anyone who had ever lived.

Today at 94 years old it is possible that he could forever hold the world record for the longest wish except for one thing, at some point his wish seems to have degraded into more of a mental tick than an actual wish for anything and people stopped saying "shhhh, the man is wishing" and began saying, "dude's looking at his gut".

Even without the support he had gotten, and even with the slow turn the community was taking toward a constant buzz of scorn, he was writing his novel at exactly the same pace as always... nothing. Hadn't even started.

At the ripe old age of 94 - health and eyes in speedy remission - he finally asked for a pen. On that pen was written a slogan, "Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it". This was all the encouragement he needed to keep going in his quest. He happily dropped the pen and started wishing once again, now with more vigor and power than ever before. He wished for a bionic sailboat, a scarf made entirely of butterflies, a basket of concubines, and a rocket that could take him to the center of the earth. He wished for more things in his final hours than anyone had ever wished for in their entire lives and he died with the distinction of never having even the most vague and interpretable portions of even one wish come true.

Being so adept at this wishing game, it shouldn't be surprising to learn that this great wisher was also the only man to make a wish 7 days after his own death. The wish? He wished he had never been born.

Welcome to the wonderful world of dumb

2008-05-20T09:05:00.000-07:00

As I've mentioned before, I generally can't be bothered to rant about anything specific because it is easy to get bogged down in the details. So here is a simple little rant that doesn't get bogged down with information. Unjoy!

We all know that people are stupid. That's not to say that ALL people are stupid. Some are dead. But in general, it is very safe to assume that any random person you may chance to meet is stupid. Stupid people have inexhaustible storehouses of stupid advice. They enjoy beating you over the head with this advice. They like to start forums that waste everyones valuable time.

For example, you might wake up in a good mood one morning and forget that the world is stupid. You realize you could use some good old fashioned learnin' about something you feel dumb about, so you look it up on the Internet. Pretty soon you realize that only stupid people have posted on any resources. That's right, the 8 people in the planet who might know are sitting on the info and waiting for a profit. Everybody else is wasting your time.

I hope this information helps.

the bird

2008-05-01T08:13:00.000-07:00

yesterday while driving i saw the bird - the bluebird of happiness - as it bounced off the windshield of a neighboring vehicle. the bird looked not so much happy as surprised. i thought the bird might still be alive, so i swerved to miss it. in my rear view i saw a car spin 360 degrees and come to a stop. since i thought it would provide more time to gawk at the wounded bird, i stopped and pretended to care about the young woman in the car. for such occasions i always keep long stemmed roses on ice in the trunk. as i approached the young lady, i produced the flowers from behind my back. to my surprise, she had something for me as well - the bird. she explained that she spun her car so she could catch the bird in her open rear window.

then something terrible happened, she bit the bird in half. when i asked her why she did that, she said that she only did what i wasn't man enough to do. i asked why the bird had to die and she told me not to be such a girl. then i realized that i was just making all this crap up and i was really very secure in my masculinity which is why i can write such things.

needless to say (but i will) there never was a bluebird of happiness, it was actually blue because it was a blue word, and it was a bird because you can't be heard from one car to another. of course, after having been severed the blue was forgotten, but everyone saw plenty of red.

Nimble Happy Sunshine Flowers

2008-04-29T16:47:00.000-07:00

“Aren’t bunnies the best?” “Sure are.” “We are bunnies.” Thus went the conversations of Bunny Land. Each day scores of happy bunny topics were broached by the BCI or Bunny Chief Inquisitors.

The job of the BCI was one of great responsibility. It required poise, confidence, fluency in 64 languages, degrees in the interdisciplinary fields of both Chemical Engineer-leading and Chemical Cheerleading, and no history of fur matting.

Although not required, it was expected that the BCI candidate would have a good working knowledge of hair care products. Since almost every bunny in the world has been used for chemical or cheerleading testing, they generally know what hair care products burn their eyes. This universality of training in bunny society is one of the primary reasons that it isn’t even mentioned on the forms.

Bunnies of note have often speculated as to whether a bunny could achieve such a high-ranking position as BCI without having a comprehensive hair care research background and if so, what would happen. The consensus of opinion at the last HRS (Hopping Rodent Summit) was that it would have no positive or negative effect on the duties of the BCI. But the real question remained unanswered, “Could it happen? Could a bunny be elected with no hair product experience?”

The following is a paid advertisement:

Yes, there is nothing more enjoyable than acquiring your very own fluffy, cuddly bunny. As we all know, bunnies are the answer to all of our woes. They are happy, bouncy, quiet, and their poop is round. These are the key factors that have made bunnies such valuable members of almost every family in America. It doesn’t hurt that they wiggle their damn noses when they nibble on clover! I swear, some people have literally died from cute attacks after watching bunnies hop around and nibble on sprouts. This is why the bunny has been featured on the news so often recently. It seems a bit harsh to compare the cuteness of the bunny to the venom of a cobra, but at least they qualified it by making it clear that the comparison was to a spitting cobra. I get the spitting cobra analogy on one level anyway, a spitting cobra can blind its prey from several feet away and a bunny can blind its prey with cuteness from up to 80 yards away. So in that sense, I have to concede that bunnies are more dangerous. However, in most cases I still have to say that the comparisons are unfair.

Get one today!!! A bunny, not a cobra!!!

Ghost Doll

2008-04-26T19:21:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time there was a little girl named Ghost Doll. She was made of glass and fire, and was allergic to killer bullets. But once while waltzing to the soup store, she stepped into the middle of a bulletin board landslide that scraped her out to sea. When she finally stopped barfing shards of lemon pie, she realized that she metaphorically wasn't in Kansas anymore. She also redundantly had never been in Kansas before, at least twice. She paradoxically had ALSO never been to Kansas anymore.

After she had finally finished pondering the realizations of not having been in Kansas, she began to wonder what she should already know, and why wondering this might do her any good, when the answers were bound to be wrapped in mysterious ramblings from an impersonal narration by a former NFL hall-of-famer if they could get him, which they couldn't. But he had turned down so many opportunities that opportunity finally got bored and stopped knocking him on the head and instead tried the kneecaps and landed him like a ton of fish after he stopped bathing because he couldn't afford soup and was dyslexic in a funny (but not derogatory) way.

Opportunity knocks, not mocks. One of the new slogans opportunity had printed for tee-shirts of inverted destiny that it had printed up on aluminum feather garlands that filter through our transparent minds with greased knots weaved within our tangled strangled consciousness creating a shovel-slapped plethora of life-giving crimson fluid for the counterpoint to our intensity of inverse nuances.

Well, of all her friends Ghost Doll's best friend in the whole universe was a girl named Tuna Scooper, and they would laugh and play, even though they were only each other's imaginary friends. But they themselves were in each other's parallel universes, so they would spend their days explaining to the other imaginary friends that in the world to which they belonged they weren't real. But the other imaginary friends treated them as outcasts due in part to the fact that a decree had been written that allowed mice to be used as lies for a decade and four pennies. But still nothing came of it.

But, oh, how they would laugh and play and dissolve crickets and aluminum handbags and western style handkerchiefs which they used to sun themselves on the family gizzard pick and scream about how uptight holidays spawned by cancer are.

Those were the days we all recalled with trite contrition spoon fed like a baby mermaid glittering in the mundane & noxious oceans of our prefab bliss.

Understanding Nudity

2008-04-25T21:36:00.000-07:00

We don't choose to be nude. We're born that way.

Words such as these may make some people uncomfortable. But it is a fact that we are all nude at one time or another, and in fact we are unclothed to some degree at all times, so "partial nudity" should not be a shocking thing to see. If it is seen, it is generally seen with the naked eye, because binoculars and video cameras will often convince the somewhat nude person to cover up.

Now I want to make it perfectly clear that I do not condone nudity, nor do I revel in it. I am merely admitting that I have been nude at times. It's nothing to be ashamed of... unless you're nude in front of other people, which is disgusting.

There are however, many people who actually apply to themselves the label "nudist", as if they can really be summed up in such a generic term, and who am I to say that they can't?

Also, many people live their daily lives with little or nothing to wear, and yet they wouldn't generally be thought of as nudists but rather, as lazy, poor, itchy, burned over 80% of their bodies, too fat right now, sun bathing, getting a full body waxing in preparation for a nude photo spread that they were tricked into believing was actually required by the government to pre-screen potential organ donors, taking a bath or shower, deciding what to wear or "other".

I'm sure there was some reason I started writing this... trying to be clever, sorry it didn't work.

The Non-Gay Man Chain of Friendship

2008-02-27T08:57:00.000-08:00

I once had a friend tell me that if he was a woman he would marry me. At first I found this "compliment" a bit disturbing for a few reasons which I won't bore you with.

It was not long after that revelation that he was telling me about a good friend of his who was going to visit. He described how they were a great complement to each other's personalities and that if he (the visiting friend) was a woman, he would marry him.

After I heard this, I started to wonder why in one friendship he was the woman and in the other he was the man. I didn't bother to ask, but still I wondered.

All the facts having been considered, I believe that it was just a way of defining each friends status in the relationship where gender was taking the place of a more socially acceptable ranking system. It was sort of like when I called another guy "Jennifer" because he didn't know how to string ethernet cable through a suspended ceiling. I was indicating his "little girliness" at stringing cable. Just a note to everyone who wonders, you don't push it, you roll it in a loose ball and throw it.

Some people have a family structure that they assign friends to, a mother, father, children and sometimes even extended family members. They relate to these people as having these same family roles in their friendships.

Personally, I've often found it a bit disconcerting when when someone would call me "friend" and then even more so when I was referred to as "best friend", so when "husband" was implied I was quite a bit taken aback. But I'm not really *too* disturbed by people making overtures of friendship anymore. I've gone from being fed-Up with People, to being tolerant of their seemingly haphazard methods of defining relationships.

So, I do have friends, and I am married to an actual woman, so hopefully that will preclude any possibility of marriage to a non-gay man-wife.

Brainy Computer Not Such a Smartypants

2008-01-26T07:25:00.000-08:00

While reading an MSNBC article about Britain's Fastest Supercomputer HECToR, I was shocked to see the inverse synergy that was portrayed in the article:

"With the power of 12,000 desktop PCs, the mammoth machine called HECToR is the country's fastest computer and one of the most powerful in Europe.

It can make 63 million calculations each second, allowing scientists to conduct research into everything from climate change to new medicines."

My old Mac G5 is 1000 times faster than Britain's fastest supercomputer? They really got ripped off! They could have just bought a Pentium II 300 and had two extra megaflops. I guess that having the power of 12,000 desktop simply refers to the fact that they have a redundant array of e-machines aftermarket power supplies which as we all know, are far better than the originals, and Britain wouldn't want their floppy drive to get corrupted during a reboot!

Now, I'm not the type of person to believe everything I read, but what type of technology writer could possibly make such a mistake? Interestingly, the person who posted this article on MSNBC had taken it from the Reuters feed, which at the time I'm writing this says the same thing.

http://uk.reuters.com/article/technologyNews/idUKL1154155020080114

Of course, we know that the worlds fastest computer is Japan's MDGRAPE-3 @ 1 petafllop, followed by the BlueGene at Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory in California @ 478.2 teraflops. Of course the BlueGene is considered the the world's fastest because it is not in Japan. This helps us to understand why a computer that is far slower than everything I use on a daily basis can be the fastest in Britain, it's that pesky high pound vs. dollar value which must reach a balance somewhere. This balance is struck in the amount of processing power allocated to other countries. That is why Japan's supercomputer doesn't exist even though it is so fast, and why Britain's is so fast even though it is so slow.

Now, I will clear up the mistakes made in the Reuters feed, which should have read as follows: With 12,000 redundant aftermarket e-machines power supplies, the mammoth machine called HECToR is the country's fastest computer and one of the most powerful in Europe due in part to the surprising stability of the Euro.

It can make 63 million calculations each second, allowing scientists to check e-mail, run DOS programs, and play tetris.

I guess what I'm trying to say here is, don't believe everything you read, because, not only is it poorly written, it's wrong.

Legend of the Vomelette

2008-01-22T06:49:00.000-08:00

Dale Perkins - retired hotel inspector - enjoyed nothing more than an extended stay at a bed and breakfast. He liked the casual atmosphere and the idea of waking up and having a meal with new friends almost every day. Indeed, it is the rare guest that is entirely standoffish at such an establishment. But Mr. Perkins had an odd and secret hobby, he was in search of the world's most obscenely disgusting naturally occurring omelette.

Being a hotel inspector, he had come close many times, but it always seemed forced. Hotel employees are often treated with little respect and will at times be tempted to add a little something special to a meal. He didn't want to find the worst omelette that could ever be made. A bad or even deadly omelette could be produced by anybody if they were upset enough. He simply wanted to observe in the wild, the worst omelette that could be found, free of malice or animus. Poetically, he wrote in his journal of "an omelette born of good but bent on evil".

There were times when the monotony of the search got to him, and while not directly saying, "make me a disgusting omelette", he would occasionally garnish his order with the words "add your own special touch" or "do something unexpected with it" or "do something crazy" or even "feel free to experiment wildly and insanely". Although he felt guilty about possibly tainting the integrity of his retirement project, there was really nothing to worry about. One inn keeper spit in the omelette, but the only disgusting thing about that was the slight taste of Listerine that made its way into the omelette. Other than that, there was an omelette that had grated shoe polish on it. That was it, from now on he was determined to let this omelette manifest itself naturally. He only hoped that he would live to see it.

Dale decided that a change of venue was in order. He simply wasn't getting the results he expected from these typical b&b's. His first foray into the underworld of the b&b's was an abysmal failure. He had chosen a b&b that actually advertised its proximity to the local brothel and blood bank. As he walked in, he chuckled when he saw the "check all firearms at door" sign. It was plain to see that this was no ordinary b&b. Yet, the place was clean and tidy, in fact it was by far the cleanest b&b he had ever been to. It was really an oasis in the concrete jungle.

The true test of this place was going to be the omelette. Dale came down stairs early to get a jump on the inn keepers. He thought that he could perhaps irritate them into making him a bad omelette, but when they came downstairs and saw him starting breakfast on his own, he didn't say the unspeakably rude things he wanted to say, he just said, "I'm sorry, I just got a bit crazy there for a second". They responded, "that's okay, we love it when the guests take the initiative". They added, "however, since we can't be sure that you perfectly followed our omelette hygiene chart..."

Yes indeed, this omelette was by far the best he had ever tried, even though he was eating it in the most sanitized setting imaginable. Finally, he had to ask the inn keepers why they advertised the fact that they were so close to the house of ill repute. They responded, "we did it because we didn't want to disappoint anyone, we believe in honesty in advertising".

Dale had eaten it all, omelettes that were too runny, too dry - even crispy, obnoxiously overflowing with salsa, omelettes with brown slices of avocado, omelettes with raw cucumber and pineapple, omelettes with way too much bacon (even though that is nearly impossible). There were no more towering omelette mountains to climb, and no omelette fords that needed to be waded across, nor were there any omelette volcanoes, oceans, rivers, or other metaphors that needed to be confronted in some illustrative way.

Mr. Perkins died before he ever found his elusive evil and/or deadly omelette. Or did he?

Yes, there are many who speculate that the final omelette eaten by Mr. Perkins was indeed the elusive Vomelette, and studies have been started to prove it. Using Mr Perkins copious notes they aim to re create every omelette experience he ever had and have a seven man and one woman control group eat this diet for the next 50 years until they come to the last omelette. At this point the three woman and two man variable group along with the 2 woman and 14 man secondary control group (which will have never eaten any eggs or egg products before) will all eat a lab created exact duplicate of his final omelette.

Of course, when conducting any type of controlled tests, it is important to take good notes and there has been considerable and heated debate as to whether that final omelette was made with imitation crab meat or imitation crap meat. It will only take 50 years to find out.

banana upheaval

2008-01-12T21:00:00.000-08:00

Mind escapes me in an oblivious turn for the better or worse that seems to be smiling the length of my doom in a cold sweat with razor burn banana peel whiplash as the garden of indentured servitude entices you to partake of its fruit and the unparalleled joy that comes from knowing your choices are bad in advance.

pet peeve #9,000,000,000,004.07

2008-01-11T13:43:00.000-08:00

Randomly numbered list items presented out of order. Stupid, pointless, hated them since I first saw them. Why are they still around?

sifting through the red tape of my lucid dreams

2008-01-10T05:10:00.000-08:00

As I fill the folds of my weathered neck with baby field greens, I spy an opening in the human resources department of my soul. I send in my resume and get called in immediately for an interview. The interview goes well, and pretty soon I’m told that I’m overqualified for the position. As frantically as I know how, I just miss explaining the fact that the position wouldn’t even be available if it wasn’t for me. The double meaning makes me laugh and the tension is traded in for a bucket of handlebars. The entire staff of my body hop on their unicycles and pretend the handlebars are connected. Oddly, I don’t see a thing but I am provided with all the forms, signed in triplicate and notarized by Dr. Penguin, a most respected figment of my embellishment.

Imitation Limitation

2008-01-09T17:03:00.000-08:00

You imitate art and you imitate life,
but you forgot who you were
and lost all your notes.

You come to me for validation
but all I have is truth.

The truth is that
you never knew
who you were
and nobody cares
who you are.

I could teach you to be me
but you’d just be
a cheap knock off.

Could you honestly live with that?

Look who I’m talking to,
there’s nobody there,
it’s you.

this old steak

2008-01-07T11:04:00.000-08:00

my heart is a steak - aged and tender

your heart is a hammer - it keeps beating and beating and beating my steak to a pulp

i just know

2008-01-07T11:01:00.000-08:00

a woman once said to me, "how did you know?"

"mans intuition", I replied.

I never really thought about it before...
but I wonder what we were talking about.

i was rain

2008-01-06T13:12:00.000-08:00

Like a droplet in a dream
falling so fast that it feels like floating or even flying
I try to recapture the weightlessness
by laying on the roof and staring at the stars
but I’m afraid to climb the ladder at night
so I stay right here on the ground
in fact, I crawl
but for fear that someone might roll me over
I lay down
face down
with my
eyes closed
maybe I should
dig a hole

Baby Face

2008-01-05T08:43:00.000-08:00

M. T. Brown was the first adult recipient of a human baby face transplant. The circumstances surrounding how his face went missing were a mystery. All he could remember was that he was walking to the office on Tuesday and the next thing he knew his face was just gone.

Being that Dr. Brown was a very important under cover geneticist, he was fast tracked to the head of the queue at the reconstructive surgery ward. His fellow doctors and scientists would do anything to get him back on track so he could meet with investors, world leaders, and the Nobel committee. They were so focused on getting him back to work that they allowed many ethical grey areas to be temporarily swept under the rug. One such area was the use of brain dead patients that hadn’t been qualified or released to be used as donors, another was using patients that were in waking comas and simply drugging them to make them appear lifeless, another was capturing vagrants and ragamuffins directly from the streets and drugging or even lobotomizing them so they could be used as possible face donors. Finally, they started rounding up minors who were lost or seemed to be “up to no good”. Some who disapproved of these methods still agreed that this needed to be done for the sake of efficiency and variety, both of which were very important to Dr. Brown. Besides, they were able to round up over 80 possibilities in less than 7 hours.

They would load the possible donors on carts and parade them in front of Mr. Brown, but he just kept waving them away and saying no, no, no. After running through all the adults, they finally put all the youngsters on the carts and began wheeling them in, every one was a “no”. They were beginning to get frustrated that they had done all this work seemingly for nothing, when one of the doctors remembered that he had seen a baby laying in a basket earlier on the street corner on his way in to work. He left it there because he didn’t think he would need it. I mean, who could even know that events would possibly have unfolded in such a way, and that a seemingly useless baby would be so urgently needed. He jumped into his fancy Italian sports car (that was normally for picking up the ladies) and raced to the street corner hoping, wishing, dreaming and even praying that the baby would still be there. To the astonishment and titillation of the doctor the baby was still there! He was so excited that he had found the baby that he accidentally slammed its left foot and right hand in the door, no big deal though, they wouldn’t be needing those anyway.

The scientist was frustrated that the baby was screaming and fussing so much that he threatened the baby in no uncertain terms. The baby finally shut up just in time to sneak it into the hospital. The surgeons quickly drugged the baby and didn’t even bother to place it on the presentation cart. They ran with the baby and as one of the interns held it up, Dr Brown excitedly yelled, “That’s the face!! That’s the face!” The doctors and scientists breathed a stunted sigh of relief, then someone spoke up, “we’ve got a lot of work to do lads, first we’ve got to kill this baby!”

Once the baby was killed, they quickly but carefully removed its face. Two of the best interns they had were assigned to the task of making this whole thing look like an accident. First they stole a forklift, a vehicle that would be totally untraceable back to them. Next they collected old liquor bottles and spread them around inside the cabin. They wanted this baby to appear to have been drunk at the time of impact, because they knew the media would run with the whole “faceless baby” thing, but a “faceless drunk baby” seems like a much less sympathetic character.

After hours on the operating table, Dr. Brown was finally lucid enough to move a little on his own. The surgeons explained to him that even with all of the advancements that have been made in accelerated healing, the process was far from over and the sutures would need to remain in place for a month. Then they peeled off the wrapping to reveal the new face of Dr. Brown.

First, Dr. Brown faced the group and they marveled at how well their fellow surgeons did at grafting a baby face onto a full grown man’s head, but they marveled even more at Dr. Brown, and how he instinctively knew that this face would suit him so well. Finally, Dr. Brown turned to the mirror and at seeing himself, he screamed, “That’s the face!!! That’s the face!!!” then he stabbed himself in the forehead with a scalpel and began cutting chunks out of his new face. Everyone started to scream, but then remembered that they had seen and done some slightly unethical things that evening themselves, so they regained composure pretty quickly.

Dr. Brown however, was literally and figuratively coming apart. They quickly sedated him and started to investigate what could have gone wrong. Finally one of the doctors said, he knew what was going on. “Where’s that baby?” he said. One of the interns came forward and said, “we put it in a forklift and drove it over a cliff.” The interns and the doctor raced to the scene of the “disposal” in a really cool Lamborghini stretch limo. When they arrived at the scene it was crawling with fuzz, when they asked the pigs what had happened, they said, “looks like some disgruntled child laborer got drunk off his keister, ate his own face and flipped his forklift “ass over teakettle” into the ravine."

“You think he ate his own face?” they inquired. “Yep, that’s what it looks like, we’ll know for sure when they do the autopsy”, he replied.

Finding that the body had already been taken to the coroner’s office, they raced on ahead of the rest of the group knowing that the answers were there. As they arrived, the medical examiner was just finishing up documentation of the contents of the baby’s stomach. When asked, the M.E. told them that there was definitely ingested human tissue in this baby. After performing DNA testing, it was clear that this was indeed the baby that had eaten Dr. Browns face. They now realized that Dr. Brown thought the carts of bodies were part of a criminal identification lineup, not a visage buffet. But they chose to let it slide because he was clearly in shock, so you couldn’t totally blame him for his confusion.

They asked the M.E. to make this new information go away, to which he replied, “Sure thing, anything for you Chuck,” which made Dr. Chuck feel pretty good about being a Rotary Club member. They took the face fragments back to the hospital and were able to use about 50% of Dr. Browns original face in the project. They couldn’t remove all of the parts of the baby face from Dr. Brown without severely limiting his chances of recovery, but they were able to use parts from a couple of other donors to create a real cohesive whole. The only problem was if Dr. Brown didn’t shave he would have 5 different colors of hair in his beard. Most people would just think this was a sign of his age. Since some touchy secrets may have been revealed, everyone involved was charged not to tell that Dr. Brown was not only the first adult to receive a baby face transplant, but he was also the first recipient of a community patchwork face.

Incidentally, the only article in the daily newspaper that was in any way related to these events was in the classified ads, it read as follows: LOST, unmarked industrial sized forklift, was used for drug and gun trafficking, REWARD! If found, please contact Lester Joseph Gillis VI.

Scilence!

2008-01-03T05:58:00.000-08:00

I've been catching up on my scientific reading lately and have been astounded by the abundance of published research that is unfinished. I understand that you guys want grants and other sources of funding to keep going, and you need to make a name for yourself in order to continue your research. But similar projects will be funded with or without your help, and I think it would be in the best interest of science if you just back off, stay in the background or just quit! Did you ever think that maybe you're taking money away from real scientists who may have some actual research to do?

All you "scientists" who subscribe to the idea that science is unprovable should really tone it down. If you feel the need to be near lab equipment, why don't you get a little cart with wheels? You can use this cart to fetch flasks, beakers, books, coffee, doughnuts, and other science related equipment. Yes, you can have a doughnut, but don't shove it into a flask and write a paper about it, that's not your job anymore.

Imagine a world where everyone waited to speak until they produced a genuine thought. Imagine a world where no one published articles unless they said anything new. Imagine yourself actually helping to facilitate the realization of such a world.

The beggar on the street makes up crap too when he thinks he can get some money from someone, but at least he doesn't publish his findings in science journals. The nightly news is filled with error, misinformation and hack, but at least they throw in a generous dusting of "allegedly".

I know the blame doesn't rest *entirely* in the hands of you "pseudo scientists", you only start the wheels of misinformation rolling, the "editors" have to take a healthy portion of blame pie as well. After all, they are the ones who checked for spelling, grammar and clarity of thought, yet they never bothered to check and see if anything was actually accomplished by your writing. A good question for an editor to ask would be, "Was any new, interesting or even documented data presented?"

I know, I shouldn't expect that being a scientist should be any different than any other job, where politics, recognition and power get in the way of a job well done. But I like to think of science as beyond all that. I know it isn't, and I know that most of what is called science is marketing fluff and office (lab) politics. But wouldn't it be great if the content was as powerful as the headline?

For you non scientific people who actually read this far... Generally, what is written in the science tabloids is based on some factual data or on an observation that cannot be reproduced. I have to admit to having perpetrated a science hoax myself.

Once upon a time when I was a young lad, I was looking up at the stars through an opening in the clouds and a small spark came down, hit my brother's truck and disintegrated into many tinier sparks. I ran in to the house to tell everyone what I saw. NOBODY believed me. I was so upset that I was disbelieved that I formulated a hoax. I dug a small hole in the driveway, placed a rock that would look like a meteorite into the hole and super heated the rock with my dads oxy-acetelene torch. Then I ran into the house *acting* excited about the meteor that I had seen land in front of the garage. Everyone believed me, it didn't matter that I was a bad actor and the rock was clearly a fake, the rock was hot and in a hole so it must have dropped from the sky.

The rock was so hot in fact that you could ignite matches on it by touch for a few minutes afterward. It was so hot that it shattered the glass bottle we tried to pick it up in. Any doubt that was generated by the fact that the rock was sitting in a hole dug with a tablespoon instantly abated when the match test (which I recommended) was administered. In fact I remember comments about how it wouldn't be possible to heat the rock up that hot.

Well, there was one small hiccup to my family hoax. My mom wanted to call the local "authorities", the college, the planetarium, that kind of thing. Realizing that this hoax would have been seen through by even the least competent scientist, I conveniently lost the rock. If you looked at it closely, you could see that it was full of seashells and was basically sandstone. Not the stuff meteors are made of. I imagined a scientist coming to the house to test it and laughing when he couldn't even get a magnet to stick to it, then turning to me and saying, "thanks for wasting my time and by extension the time of the entire world of science."

Now that I'm older, I realize that the odds of that scenario playing out were slim to none. I had a true story with a false outcome that would have created a cloud of buzz that you couldn't cut with an electric buzz knife. The "scientist" would have taken it to the lab and written page after page of observations. The sheer bulk of words would lead others to believe that I really found something. And everybody else that wanted a little taste of my fame pie would hop on board no matter how skeptical, in fact they would have reasoned that after they get fame and funding they could separate themselves from the issue and wriggle out of the pit of scientific whoredom they had now bedded down in for the short haul.

You can understand it when put in this context, because the rock I saw fall COULD have been sandstone, and it COULD have been full of little sea shells. It can never be proven so it can never be disproved. When you lie about something you believe, all you need to do is create enough reason to suspend disbelief long enough to present the evidence that proves your lie. I guess that's science.

individuality overdose

2008-01-02T16:49:00.000-08:00

Stan was like every other boy his age in that he wanted to be just like everybody else but still retain a vague sense of individuality. In all other ways he was totally different from other boys his age. And if you say that the other boys are also boys, then I'll remind you 1) you are talking to a story that has already been written, you won't convince the story to change now 2) you are not allowing the story to unfold naturally like the petals of a flower, a soggy accordion, or the pages of a book.

So back to the story...

Stan was keen to be influenced by peer pressure but was hard pressed to find a peer that was forceful enough to influence him. He was the equivalent of an autistic savant who only understood his own need for social acceptance. His comprehension of his own isolation was so profound that people would come from miles around to see just how lonely he could be. One and all, they were impressed by Stan's stark portrayal of loneliness. Comments ranged from, "looking at Stan is like you're drowning in his own sorrow", to "staring at Stan was like being microwaved to death in a sensory deprivation iron maiden".

As the years wore on, many other attractions were added near and around the Stan exhibit. A slacker exhibit which blurred the lines of slack by its use of coma patients rather than actual slackers was a particular hit. Examples of displays that never quite caught on were such flops as, Dudes with Suds, Jocks with Zubaz, and Turd Flingers. The Turd Flingers debacle was a shock to the parents who arranged the showing. They assumed that since monkeys were so popular, humans with the same antics would be a boon. The reality was that most families weren't willing to pay great fees to see the same things that happen on a daily basis in their own homes.

A stark comprehension of a singular petrifying reality was still worth coughing up some serious bread. Anyone who knew anyone knew that they could never be as alone as Stan. Seeing him suffer in his chronic involuntary detachment remained a great comfort to many. The thousands of onlookers somehow intensified and focused his already obscene estrangement.

One day a particularly depressive dental school dropout decided to walk through the displays because he had a few minutes to spare before killing himself. When he got to the Stan exhibit he was shocked by what he saw. A single hand movement. Was that a wave? Again, there was another almost undetectable movement of a hand. ExPreDent waved back and saw what appeared to be a smile. Although ExPreDent had never visited the Stan exhibit before, he had heard about it and seen Stan on all the magazine covers. He knew this was Stan, but he was acting so different, and even though the communication was minimal, Stan was expressing himself more than ever before.

Having been there to see all of this, made ExPreDent change his mind. He climbed down the steep concrete wall using a piece of a sturdy vine to lower himself to Stan's level. He said to Stan, "Why of all people did you pick me to communicate with?" Stan replied, "Because I knew no one would believe you."

Stan and ExPre sat up all night talking and laughing about uninteresting thoughts they had throughout their lives but never felt like sharing with anyone else. At least that's what appears to have happened. Both Stan and ExPre were found dead the next morning lying in a pool of their own sarcasm. Shards of crystalized thoughts were found as far as 30 meters from the corpses, and the fragments seemed to make up complex hyperbolic allegoric palindromes written in some hybridized variant of pig latin, esperanto and calculus.

Without Stan the exhibits seemed pointless, because there was no longer a clear benchmark for isolation and sadness. The loneliest person in the world could be just about anybody.

Reminders:

2008-01-01T14:07:00.000-08:00

Milk
Butter
Bread
Fantasy is for suckers,
reality is a pain that never goes away,
even in death.
Not that I'm a masochist or even a pessimist.
I'm a multitasking realist who needs...
Organic Heirloom Tomatoes
Feta Cheese
Kalamata Olives
Something I can Kill Myself With
Razor Sharp Fettuccini?

Common Sea Life

2007-12-30T16:41:00.000-08:00

They met at the shore like sand and sea,
Different as good and evil, close as cloud and sky.
Wherever he was she would also be,
Right or wrong, Good or bad, Live or die.
But anyone, anytime, anywhere can take her water for free.
He dreams of treading as she waves goodbye.
Pools of tears make it hard to swallow.
He’s overwhelmed by the changing tides.
But it still makes the ocean seem shallow.

The Difference Between You and Me...

2007-12-29T07:12:00.000-08:00

You like to think you like me because you like to think you’re like me. But I don’t really care that you think I think like you. You would talk to me all day and tell me it’s just like if I was talking to you. Do you love yourself so much that you can’t let me be anyone else? If we have anything in common, that’s barely anything at all.

You claim we’re the same in opposite ways, like near and far, east and west, up and down, black and white. Perhaps that’s true, but that makes our similarities uninteresting and our differences unknowable.

You say you know me better than I know myself, but how could the person who is my exact opposite know me so well? And if you tell me again, that our being so different is exactly why we're the same, then I’ll remind you that I would never say that I know anyone better than they know themselves, not even my own clone.

You didn’t know I had a clone? There are many things I could have explained to you if only you hadn’t insisted on explaining them to me. And now you’re wondering what else I would have said.

The only difference between you and me is me and you.

to all the girls I’ve never loved before...

2007-12-27T12:30:00.000-08:00

Here is a representative slice of apologetic data for all the girls I've never loved and true stories of preemptive avoidance of intimacy. All I can say is that I'm sorry but there is only so much of me to go around...

To the girl who always tried to kiss me...
I was 4 years old and so were you. You were just slightly bigger and stronger than me. You clearly had a crush on me, but I wanted to crush that crush. We were 4! Did you really think we had a shot at a real romantic relationship? Did you think I was going to support you on my allowance? Well, if you bothered to ask me any questions instead of just jumping on me and kissing me, I could have explained it all to you. Besides, I thought you looked like a pig and I hated your irritating lisping baby-talk speech impediment.

To the creepy girl who would stare at me when I tried to use the toilet...
I don't fully blame you. There were no doors on our communal unisex kindergarten restroom. The teacher probably assigned you to check up on me anyway. But you were stupid and insane and filthy. I know that your behavior was somehow modified by a bad home life. So I'm sorry for the mean things that I said, even though they were just toned down versions of the truth. Oh, you were a filthy beast. I saw you a few years later overdosing apparently just to get attention. What you didn't seem to realize is that all that commotion turns to white noise and you become invisible.

To my aunt who trapped me in the stairway and smothered me with kisses...
No means no! Seriously, I felt like I was being raped. Sorry I didn't bite you in the face but I was afraid I'd catch more diseases from your blood than your saliva.

To the leader of the “girl gang”...
I know that I was the greatest presence to grace our 1st grade class. But that didn't take much, did it? I suppose that many men would have dreamed of being captured by your gang of girls and held in your arms, but those men are perverts, and I was a little boy who just wanted to be left alone. And how did this become something where you brought me to robert so he could sit on me? Did you really think we’d have a relationship after that? Besides, how could I have spent real quality time with all of you girls and robert? The relationship was not well thought out on your part. Did you never notice that I was trying to avoid you? That’s why I was running.

(Robert, I know you are not a girl, but you sure acted like one quite often. I have to admit that I was a bit disturbed that you always wanted to sit on me after the girls caught me. But I was far more disturbed when you showed up in my first grade class a couple of months after school started. It didn’t help that you were somehow able to get the kid next to me to move so you could take his place. When you explained to me that you threw a tantrum every day until they finally sent you to my class, I was thoroughly and officially creeped out.)

To all the girls in my second grade class...
The only reason I was going to read your valentine cards is because I was a hired spy and had to see if your valentines and other notes sent to other kids in school were true or just “seasons greetings”. Well, I never got a chance to look at any of them anyway but I didn’t lose much money on the deal.

To all the girls in the 3 third grade classes in my school...
I know you weren’t all in love with me, but I had to make sure that YOU knew. That’s why I systematically broke each and every one of your tiny little hearts. It took me hours to copy with carbon paper the over 80 notes with 3 different themes - I sent you (by sneaking into your classes and placing them in each of your desks, which is easy when you’re a spy). I’d like to make a special apology now, to the girl in my class who’s note was intercepted by the teacher. I know that the teacher’s plan was to embarrass me by reading my love note to you in front of the class. Although it was classic to see her facial expressions shift as she read, “roses are red, violets are blue, this scrap is just garbage and so are you”, I still felt bad that the teacher was too stupid to stop reading and made you cry. I know that many other girls were crying that day as well, but your tears were the ones that hurt. I mean, little girls really don’t seem to like that sort of thing. So, I can’t remember your name, but I remember that day and sometimes wonder if I destroyed lives. I had no idea people could be so fragile. So sorry.

I guess it only makes sense that I can’t think of any girls who liked me for the rest of grade school...

To that girl who was always staring at me in seventh grade and finally got the courage to sit next to me on the bus...
I’m somewhat sorry that the first thing I ever said to you was, “you have snot hanging out of your nose”, but it was true, you did. Besides, I was pretty sure that if I said it, you would instantly hate me and leave me alone. I was right. But I am a bit sorry. Why did you try to push the thing back into your nose though? That was just twisted!

To the girl who would always rub up against me while asking me questions in eighth grade civics class...
So you were cute, big deal. You obviously liked me because you knew I never studied or paid attention in civics class, yet you were constantly coming over to my desk to ask questions. I chose to answer your questions (as though I actually cared about civics) and ignore your small breasts being pushed up against my left arm. How far did you think this relationship would go in civics class? Then one day (years later) you happened to meet me in a convenience store halfway between Minneapolis and Duluth and showed me how you had surgery to correct your slightly skewed lower jaw. You used to be cute, now you were pretty. I told you that you looked better before the surgery, sorry about that. Anyway, what did you expect? We had 5 minutes together in the snack aisle of a convenience store, and you couldn’t even think of any civics questions to ask me.

To the girl on my bus when I was in ninth grade, who was always nice to me and was telling everybody except me how much she liked me...
I have to admit I was a bit flattered, but you wore so much makeup that I knew your face was eroding beneath that carefully plastered and smoothed exterior. So when you finally indicated your fondness for me, I knew it could never work. My face was smooth and tight, your face was invisible. Plus, the only thing we had in common was that we rode the same school bus and were forced to listen to Def Leppard together, but I think you enjoyed it.

To the girl at the arcade who rubbed her body up against me while pretending the huge arcade door was too narrow...
Of course I ignored you. You were looking for a reaction. I kept talking to my friend and pretended you weren’t spending an inordinate amount of time and energy passing me by. I knew you were trying to get my attention because there was a lot more up and down motion than side to side motion. But I ignored you and you got bored and left. Sorry, but it must not have been love.

To the girl who seemed to hang on my every word...
You were impressed by the fact that we had the same last name. Your friends were impressed when I tore a five dollar bill in half. I talked to you quite often until I noticed that the way you playfully stood back on your heels and tilted your head was very odd indeed. Were you just looking up my nose? If not, what were you doing? Obviously, after such a profound moment of revelation I had to stop talking to you forever.

To the girl at the mall who liked my pants...
I apologize for my pathetic response. You said, “I like your pants”. I said nothing. You said, “aren’t you going to thank me?” I said, “why should I? You didn’t give them to me”.

I cannot apologize enough for that terrible line, I was irritated with your pickup line and tried my very popular ignoring you routine, but you forced me to say something. I didn’t have time to prepare something clever. Besides, we were at the mall during the 80’s. What self respecting person wearing jeans covered in triangular patches would allow himself to get involved in 80’s mall romance? What did you think we would do, open our own shop? Eat ice cream cones together? It doesn’t make sense. The relationship wouldn’t have worked. I’m just sorry I had to use such a poor quality line to set everything right.

To the group of girls in the high school hallway who pinched me and giggled as I walked by...
What was that? Did you all like me? Were you just goofing off? A lunch hour relationship between the five of us wouldn’t have worked anyway so I didn’t bother to turn around and see who you were.

To the girl that thought I was complimenting her...
I told you you looked almost exactly like someone I went to school with. You said, “Thank you.” Where did that come from? I couldn’t say anything else. You may have been thinking, “If the girl he goes to school looks like me she must be pretty”, but that would still be the same as saying “You look like yourself”. That’s not a compliment, just an observation. Sorry about starting that lack of conversation. And you know I was sorry because I never spoke to you again.

To the girl who was my friend but not my girlfriend who was always trying to make me jealous...
I liked you, but I was more like a father than a friend. You were smart but needed help. I tried to explain life to you but you could never get it. If you didn’t need so much parenting then maybe I could have seen you differently. But you remained a perpetual child, and I moved on. So we had a lot in common, big deal, that’s no basis for a relationship. If my life plan was to suffer I would have at least found a woman who was financially stable so I wouldn’t have to work while dealing with her noise.

To the girl at the graduation party...
You were staring at me all night and smiling. You seemed like you were trying to get my attention. We talked for about 5 minutes at the end of the evening and I left because the numbers didn’t crunch. You were a gymnast and on the swim team, I was wearing a shiny blue jacket. It never could have worked out.

To all the moms who pushed their daughters at me directly or indirectly...
You raised lovely young ladies. Kudos. But I always knew that you were interested in me and that’s why you pushed your girls my way. I guess you just wanted someone in the family to benefit from my presence. That was very unselfish of you. But I thought the whole thing through. I would have to come and visit you on occasion for family events and so on. Even if you didn’t get jealous, you and I would know the truth even though unspoken. And I think you can understand how that could get really weird and creepy. So, I never could have started a relationship with your daughters. Now if you were 20 years younger, maybe things would have been different between us, unless granny had her eye on me. You must have really loved me though, or you were just thinking how you never married the young broke artist (who rode a bicycle) when you had the chance.

To the girl I fell in "love" with at first sight...
Sorry I never bothered to tell you, but it would have been a hassle and a waste of our time. I'm sure you had better things to do than waste a couple of months dating me. And I certainly didn't want to waste any more of my time thinking irrationally. So you can understand why I never spoke to you again.

To the woman who used to rub her body against me in my office while I was explaining how we were going to develop her company web site...
I tried to ignore you, I tried to move further over on the desk but pretty soon you had me pressed up against the wall, with your chest pushed firmly against my right arm. I remained cold and distant. At our next meeting, I put out my hand to shake yours and you knocked it out of the way and threw your arms around me in front of many colleagues. I kept my arms at my side and said, “this is very professional”. You certainly had a knack for attaining maximum one-sided intimacy in a very public glass walled office. You wanted to come work for me but you had already hugged yourself out of a job.

To the countless women and girls who have feigned interest in me...
Why were you wasting your time and mine? I couldn't shake you, you were always around me like a swarm of insects. Did you think I was famous? I could tell you weren't interested in me. Did you not know that you weren't interested? You would just stand there and stare at me adoringly. Maybe you just thought I was nice to look at. So were some of you, but I wasn't going to waste my time following you around and staring. So, I'm sorry I left you in my wake and ignored you, but there's no way I could have told all of you to piss off.

In conclusion: So, ladies, even though the purpose of my actions was primarily not to waste my own time, by extension, your time was not wasted by me. You would have been hurt worse when I dumped you or worse still if you were able to fool me into marrying you. It was best that it ended before it began.

P.S. To the numerous gay men who harassed me throughout my life but especially between the years 1988-1991...
You really didn't think this relationship through at all!!! You're not even girls! How could you have possibly expected that to work? I rarely ran from a mugger or a drug dealer or thugs on the street because I knew their intentions were honorable (except the gay ones). You have given me good reason to be “homophobic”, so I ran. Fast. I hope for your sake none of you were heartbroken girls who got sex changes because you thought I was gay. Of course, perhaps that is less disturbing. Oh, and by the way, it is not flattering to be chased by a gay man. Nor is it really a compliment, when that compliment comes from a dirty sticky pervert.

I miss oranges...

2007-12-25T17:02:00.000-08:00

Okay, I miss going into the front yard and picking oranges off the tree, and I miss going to the back yard and year round having cumquats ready for the eating. I miss the lemons and I miss growing tomatoes year-round. I miss my herb garden.

I don't miss very much from Phoenix, the winter weather is great but the air is thicker than it used to be. There are some great restaurants that I used to visit, but I can visit great restaurants anywhere (except for places like where I now live). I like to make my own meals anyway, and although I don't rival any of the great chefs that have directed fantastic food toward my face, I'm not going to burn my own steak, and I know how to properly grill swordfish (although I rarely eat it anymore because I think they are taking them too small these days, and I want those little tykes to grow up before I eat them). My point is that even though I'm not the greatest cook, I can make a very enjoyable meal as long as the basics are of good quality so I don't need great restaurants. I need a greenhouse. A big one.

Something in confidence...

2007-12-21T20:28:00.000-08:00

I’ve been told many times in my life that I’m a genius. I’ve also been asked many times if I am a genius. Something that has happened even more often in my life is the question, “what’s your IQ?”

I (almost) invariably respond to the first, “so?” to the second, “yes, but so are you.” and to the third, “IQ tests don’t measure intelligence, they measure acquired knowledge in a very narrow frame of reference. They are somewhat more accurate at estimating the intelligence of a very young child, but in order to truly test intelligence they would have to teach you something you’ve never known before and measure how fast you could learn, retain and use that knowledge.”

A genius can be good at anything. A genius can be great at math, soap making, soup making, sheep milking, tooth grinding etcetera. Everyone has skills and abilities that could be considered genius. Some prefer not to use these, or are not self-aware enough to realize they have such qualities without focused intervention and guidance.

I am super awesomely hyper intelligent in many ways, but I think my intelligence is simply to counterbalance the fact that I cannot store items in memory very long. The chicken/egg of it is that I may have simply never felt a need for the ability to retain information because I could learn so fast. As I get older my learning slows and I’ve come to value memory more, but I think that my memory has been suffering as well. However, to me there is nothing wrong with a graceful aging and dumbing down. My real genius never rested in my intelligence anyway. What truly makes me a genius is just one ability, my confidence.

I have a supreme confidence that isn’t based on anything external. I’m reasonably certain that there is someone else out there who is as confident as me, but I’ve never met that person. There are people who walk with a cocky swagger or some other affectation that represents to many a type of “confidence” but the confidence shown in these cases is an illusion. This type of confidence is one of two things:

1) A great act by a person who knows that they can bluff their way into a position of group dominance by showing a larger than life attitude. It takes a certain amount of confidence to pull it off, but someone will eventually chip through it, and it might even get ugly.

2) A person who is only circumstantially confident. On top of the world for the moment and everything feels like it’s moving forward. This eventually ends, and the individual crashes to their natural level or even below that level. Of course, their true lack of confidence makes constant appearances whenever they perceive any threat to their position.

I’ve been shown in many ways that I have little power in this world, and even less money, yet people invariably think that I am both rich and powerful. Obviously, people who know me reasonably well don’t think those things, they think I’m a genius.

The relatively rare times in my life that I have done well financially haven’t changed me except to perhaps make me even less ambitious than I already was. I’m no slacker. I work hard and am very self-motivated, I just find it difficult to be motivated by anything other than myself. Money, I need it, but I find it impossible to get myself to want it. To me what carries real weight is my own opinion, not prevailing circumstances or opinions of others. A big reason for this is that the opinions of others are based on the opinions of others and the prevailing circumstances, while the prevailing circumstances are also based on these same opinions. It is all fabricated to keep the people with a lack of confidence (the vast majority of humankind) in their places. Since these elements feed on themselves the person who is starting things in motion rarely knows that they are at the forefront of the downfall of a society or even “civilization”.

Since these circumstances exist, they must have been put in place by people who lack confidence. A truly confident person (which would imply some level of intelligence) has no need for circumstances around him to be altered, as long as he remains the same he retains the only measure of control he can ever really have.

Now, you might say that a confident person has more control than that, they can use the strength of their character to influence others to do their will. Although it is true that a confident person “could” do this, that is a lower level of confidence than what I have. My confidence doesn’t allow me the luxury of manipulation, because I would prefer to allow people to think for themselves. I cannot say that I have NEVER controlled people and that I never will do it again. Certainly, I have accidentally changed peoples minds on numerous occasions. That’s the curse of confidence, no matter how much you try to do your own thing, you end up with followers. This makes you appear to be a leader, but you’re not. They are just sheep who follow you in the hopes that some of your essence will rub off on them.

Getting back to my opinions for a moment, they are great because they are amplified (not embellished) perspectives on the truth. They are facts plus 1. In short, my opinions are like having extra facts in your daily apportionment of factual data. There aren’t more facts, but it feels like more facts, because the facts are better. It’s like the difference between having a puppy and having a puppy that can travel through time, disrupting the continuity of its own existence, to become almost paradoxically cuddly.

Okay, I’m sorry, I originally had a great reason for starting this post, but I left for a while and forgot what the point was. This is a great demonstration of my poor memory, and to further demonstrate my confidence, I’m posting this on the blog right now, fully ready to not care if you read it or not.

Oh, hey, I just remembered. I was going to explain how my confidence has many exciting features that aren't showcased in others. First of all, sometimes my confidence gets a bit out of control and I think that I can challenge people who are much, bigger, stronger and crazier than me and convince them that my brains are stronger than their muscles and fists. Often it has worked and that shows that my confidence was stronger than their brains. Later, as I walk away "a winner" the fear creeps in and I realize how close I came to being brutalized or killed. When it doesn't work out, I generally don't feel a sense of fear, but am still ill at ease as I am lofted into the air, kicked in the crotch or punched in the stomach (rarely the face as the people who can't be overpowered by my strength of character are often focusing below the belt).

Generally, however, my confidence doesn't seem like confidence at all. Because I've had many times in my life where I have accidentally forced my will on people or frightened people with my inadvertent strength of character, I try to subdue my natural forcefulness as much as possible. I am even nervous about looking people in the eye because I don't want to frighten them. What often results from this is that people think I am the one who is uncertain or afraid when in reality I am just protecting them from the weight of their own terror. I don't mind that people think this. It would be great if we could all live lives of fact and understanding, but if we can't, I can forcefully subdue my own confidence for the safety and well-being of mankind. A great side-benefit is that I don't get slapped around too often these days.

chocophobic definition

2007-12-20T19:07:00.000-08:00

A chocophobic is one who does not appreciate newly coined words that are counterintuitive.

Random things from years gone by..

2007-12-11T13:10:00.000-08:00

Something I wrote several years ago. They are meaningful-less.

Lyphe Scentans

Welcome! Except your imminent defeat.
Visit the banana
Be my grapefruit
Tantalize the napkin fox
Reeds are teeth to mandy
We'll perform the "not with the knife dad" routine
They clap back in shocked amazement
There are tigers in my pants!
Will there ever be a wind of a dollar and change?
I like to ride the mice
Tennis is as tall as my eyebrow
TERIYAKI PHEN PHEN
I'm never going to kill the cat
Sylme rental plethoid
I detest your wilting arm
Degraded to airplane
Alarm is my gladys lamp
Ok your dime!
Indulge in fake lace
Restore gender bucket
the dimple was blue
my arm is left
cream of rope
razzle dazzle toilet bowl
keen as karp
telula carp
gym has been paint torn
stimulate the canopy!
refresh the pint at tomb land
quench my air hole
tease the resperator
glandular testimony refuted!
corpse alert!
I've been coloring your business cards
Qweep is my rasp of or for to tape
Rinse the lady
kelp is donated to keyman
report is my lollipop
green plywood
refoil the couch
you are still on fire
he is not on fire
the dog will choke when ready
i need lung density
i was stung by a be or not to bee
crane was the dinner in my heart
tonight we're killing tape with dread locked tight
tune in at elbow
never rely on wax
i can't see your lips
where did I leave the foam?
are you trigger around
cry for the tree of fire
my cat burned
dissolve in water
just add water
hot blooded badger alert
count me out
you are giant barbequed teeth
stereophonic rotisserie shovel
cranial tray of saltines
tigersticks are unfolding
rent drips from the lawn
doors that once were shut are now open to disease
enchanted lifestyles of margarine
today you are 61
I have a letter from the tornado
here is a memo from the asphalt distributor
telegram from murderer -- have accepted mace
blood was folded to the left on the arm
the hoax handed out tickets to carnival explosives
I'm the #1 contestant in a love contest sponsored by you!
face the man to mend the face he hands you
try to do your homework without the spoon
ok now land on mars
are you sure this is illegal?
count to ten and dismember
the rifle will be confiscated by the non-troll
you can't tell me what to say
you can't tall me what to say
you can't tell me which to sway
Sunroom can't be type-cast
are you all tired?
where did these subtle nuances come from?
be gentle, It's my last leg
are you sure this is wrong?
be careful to kick the dog before tripping
the moon dropped its groceries on steve
sparks flew into the dog
the rabbit was eaten by my sled
there were four attempts made by wednesday
is there any salt on this planet?!?!?
i left the door open on the wastebasket
I'd like you to meet stork, he's from wednesday
are you entered in the truck launch?
I've been watching you staple out the eyes on my photo
krill alert
are you 5?
I can't see through the axe
i'm sorry, did i blind you?
stop saying "cheese"
when two people love each other they are said to be "grapie"
are you entering this into the nut log?
I have a problem with your being correct.
I have an issue with you on the cover
are you entering this into the cheese log?
It's just staple love.
are you entering this into the rice cake?
I've just been fined 40 million percent!
I've just found 40 million percent!
I'm allergic to having my limbs cut off with spoons.
I'm allergic to eating liquid cake
I'm allergic to having my ribs removed
I break out when someone pours jail cells on me.
my cousin doesn't like getting killed.
you wouldn't know a bite if it bit you.
I'm licensed to relieve myself for the weekend
are you wintering near the equator?
no, I am a tray of unused cigars
will you allow me the pleasure of this knee surgery?
frankly my dear?
you are the only one with elastic legs on foam for me
are you near the electric warning dime?
can anyone spell the genus of that carrot?
are you sure I should fold the sandwich outward?
I have hidden my boring identity
you are the only secretary for me
you are the only legal secretary for me
you are the only convenience store clerk for me
you are the only mostly female convenience store clerk for me
bob?
you are the only crumb for me
you are the only quarter ounce portion of minced steak for me
are you a piece of orange flavored cornhusk sausage?
I said, are you going to eat that styrofoam?
are you sure about the pun award?
mom, dad, i think it's time you knew my awful secret for making rice
pudding!!
mom, dad, i think it's time you told me i'm not really adopted
fish, sock, i'm not really zorro
kite, lint, i'm not sure what your last name is
cork, tire iron, i am not eating any more cadmium
i reflect the ugly colors of the sun
i like the way your keys sparkle in your mouth
tents are for jumping in
i can't replace your smile
are you sure you hate trees?
i'm in your window
this is the wednesday shuffle
are you rocket powered?
cable and grease are on loan from the interior designer's lunch
hammer and thread
i kept this because it reminds me of yolk
the tire had three electric nipples
use the hammer to drill your way out
last time I was in a well i had the cheese puffs
there were ten reasons to eat the dog but this wasn't one of them
i can't tell where your head stops and your heart begins
i had the tricycle frozen until they find the pedal
i had my ant farm excavated to build a mall
i found many primitive foam tools
i rasp when my cable breaks
i stapled the gum to your wrist
will you teach me spend?
count to nub
are you really central park?
this is the way to feed the glowworm
are you a giant slab of concrete?
there was a lampshade in my eye.
premium mind will consult sewer face
that avalanche didn't pay
are you still trying to earwig that truncheon?
I can't live without tarpaper in my lap
ten percent less trees!
are you going to kill me now?
I'm seeing the back of someone's head for a while
i need a bucket spacer
you are not are is am
this does vonvern you
this does bonbern you
this does not concerb yoo
are you going to fly north today?
my pencil loves you
my rope likes steak
are you a red bus?
I am a tropical disease
Mmmm lumbar roll
Tetanus anyone?
The glass rolled down as my hair unfolded
I don't consider you to be insignificant to a very great degree
I lost my wallet in your mouth
The fur chipped off my leg
I licked the tree for a penny
Will you dance with this sample?
I've known all along that you were angle plated
The difference between you and me is the letter me
I don't know what to say but I can guess
All you ever do is salt the warthog
Can you identify the ant that bit you?
Can you identify the aunt that hit you?
Are you folding grapes?
What time was it?
The elephant is on fire
The elephant is under fire
Flames licked my elephant
A single tear
Applaud, for the density is reaching singularity
Steak!!!!!
Cranefly always hides the curvature
Dentist willl blink for the fire
Tree is my understudy
Can you tell when I'm lying?
Tell me a secret in the summer of love
You've been caught transplanting elephants
Abigail is the Wednesday sound
Wedding day is full of starch
I've got you included
Tent is my hammer tread trying to breathe
Will you ever be sound in your carapace?
We call it lunch with jelly
Are you stupid or is the shart folding on my neck?
What does it mean to be shlorkie?
Why do I always find myself shaving my ear?
Are there any unknown questions?
I laughed my arm up!
I haven't told you this yet!
Why are you teething?
Are we bleeding the right end?
I can't believe you because you are full of flowers
I've typed out a code in hammer language
Have you been counting the arteries in my hair?
Too many buddies
Carrot spleaning time!

civilization does not exist (Part I)

2007-12-01T11:26:00.000-08:00

slavery vs. employment

In this first installment I will perform a slapdash comparison of these two occupations and wow you with the outcome.

Employment: Being in the working world has its benefits. You can make a little money and thus attend to your daily needs and perhaps some of your desires as well. Of course, you’ll need to pay close attention to your pocketbook, or you can easily end up starving on the streets. You may even find a job you enjoy. But more often than not employees are subjected to abuse, ridicule and long hours. Often illegal treatment, including inappropriate pay and sexual harassment must be endured. If you work very hard you might get a partnership, stock in the company, or you may even be able to take that dream vacation or even buy your freedom. Of course, the positives that I just mentioned probably won’t happen for you, and the negatives are usually much worse.

Slavery: Being a slave has its benefits. You may be provided a modest stipend that will allow you to get some of the things that make life a bit more enjoyable, you have a roof over your head and you generally don’t need to worry about anything beyond your daily work, which is usually pretty strenuous. Your master may be understanding and kind, or he might be a dirty bastard who beats you whenever he’s in a foul mood. If you’re particularly attractive, you may be subjected to sexual harassment. If you work very hard you might one day be seen as a respected member of the family or even earn your freedom. Of course, this best case scenario rarely happens.

Now that you see the vast chasm between between employment (where you are used by someone else) and slavery (where you are owned by someone else), I’m sure you’ll want to keep your day job. You may want to get more than one job just to show everyone that you’re on the side of freedom!

multicultural influence of the donkey

2007-11-30T10:30:00.000-08:00

As we all know, donkeys have been around for decades and have enriched our lives with their ability to carry huge loads and the uncanny 'knack' they have for obtuse cuteness that qualifies them to amuse children and retarded people. The donkey can mate with other donkeys or with horses, donkeys seem to like it that way. The product of a daddy donkey and a mommy horsey is called a mule, while the unholy union of a female donkey and a male horsey is called a hinny. Although either of the offspring of these “relationships” would be totally half-assed, the mule is much more respected in the equine community.

Assertions of genetic espionage and insider trading have been leveled against donkeys almost since their emergence as major players in the burden bearing and needlework industries.

When Charles H. Darwin first discovered donkeys in the Galapagos Islands, he was most impressed by their athletic build and confident stance. When they were offered an all expense paid trip to the Scottish highlands, the donkeys just giggled like little girls and signed the papers. For untold weeks the donkeys roamed the rolling, rocky countryside posing for numerous magazine layouts and getting plastered on the finest single malts. When Darwin realized that his team of donkey supermodels were just getting fat and lazy, he banished them to south america (all expenses paid, of course).

While aboard the Kon-Tiki, they enjoyed the open bar freely, but the blended Scotch was a real disappointment. Everything else was a blur.

When they arrived in South America they began construction of a great land bridge that they would eventually use to start new civilizations on Mars. The depth and richness of science and culture that the donkey race brought to Martian society remains unsurpassed by any of the life forms that populate that planet today.

As for the donkeys that remained in South America, they became oppressive overlords and eventually enslaved all of the native grasses and some of the herbs. When the vegetation of the earth finally had its fill of this oppression, the revolt was great and the entire earth wept, while the donkey hair poultice market boomed.

Blood of donkeys muddied the streets. Terror was $1.95 a box and the boxes were filled to the brim, which was really a great deal if you’re into that type of thing or know someone who is. Much of the terror was bought as gifts for anyone known in the family, yet not in general company of the family except during holocausts and occupations.

Eventually the donkey leader - known to everyone as “wheat” - decreed that the donkeys should no longer be harmed, but become indentured servants to their grassy overlords. Nibble by nibble the donkeys infiltrated the domain of the grasses and eventually overthrew them. The donkeys had learned a valuable lesson from all of this, but they couldn’t remember what it was. And so it has been ever since.

We enjoyed taking this little trip down memory lane, hope you did as well.

the taste of money

2007-11-29T21:16:00.000-08:00

Once there was a little man named Everybody. He got a job that took his money to a place called eternity. When he felt like reading, he would fold his hands to mime the opening of a book, but his hands were thin and brittle with poorly designed cover art. The title was a real attention getter though - The Story of our Hands by Everybody Smith. One day Everybody decided that it was time to put his money where his mouth was. Once the money was in the proximity of his mouth, he was able to taste its great power. It was akin to that of a very spicy Thai dish that starts out hot and builds in intensity until you are dribbling and sniffling. Oddly, Thai money doesn’t have the same effect at all. But neither does American food.

That one taste of money was all Everybody needed to motivate him to sell his manuscript.

The first publisher refused to publish the work because it was more than 40 percent digital, and the industry was already in a severe number crunch. The second publisher found the book very handy and suggested that it be used as a doorstop. The third publisher thumbed through the book in a sluggish manner before suggesting a new name, “Everybody’s Handbook”. Everybody in the room loved it, except Everybody. Everybody ran out with his book covering his face, leaving everybody shocked and confused.

While everybody was discussing the possibility of a digital book being published on a single set of human hands, Everybody wrung his hands, and then the phone rang. Everybody rushed back into the room and clumsily picked up the phone with his literal hands. It was yet another publisher asking Everybody to hand the book off to him so it could be developed into a children’s bedtime story called “Show of Hands”. However, everybody had to remind Everybody that they had intellectual property rights to his hands because the work was developed under contract to the place that took all his money. Everybody was crushed, but everybody was overjoyed that they had gotten the upper hand in the situation. There was only one thing Everybody could do, he called his older brother (a lawyer) to help him handle the situation. After days of negotiations, the dispute was resolved. The hands were published (with minor edits) under the title “The Manual”.

Also, our hero - who preferred to remain anonymous - penned his own work. He was able to catapult to success by using the name of his sibling who was more than happy to help. The finished work was entitled “Grasping Intellectual Property Rights in a Digital Age - by Everybody and his brother”. Don’t gag, that’s marketing.

the poem

2007-11-28T17:17:00.000-08:00

There once was a poem that was fined for rhyming too much. Had the papers covered the incident, the poem could have certainly benefited from the negative publicity. But everyone knew that nobody would read a newspaper that carried such a story for fear that the poem would be mentioned by name, or worse, quoted. The other poems were saturated with readership opportunities - sitting at the bottoms of newsstands, under newspapers at coffee bars, near parakeets, and even in the minds of the people who thought they loved poetry.

The little poem wept incessantly while pondering its tiresome redundancy, yet it was this same redundancy that made the feelings of the little poem ring false. Short of becoming a limerick and longing to be a children's fable, the sad little poem took its own life by stapling itself to a firecracker. In the true spirit of art, life sprang from death, and inspiration from pain. Love no longer rhymed with above, dove or even shove. In fact, love was entirely missing, which made the whole pile of disfigured prose seem somehow new and true.

A RECENT DREAM

2007-11-09T12:41:00.000-08:00

The other night I dreamt that I was a stand-up comedian and electronics salesman at a local furniture and appliance store. Between sets, I would thoroughly hose down the furniture before the next audience would sit down. I could tell I was famous by the way everybody looked at me.

A new audience comes and takes their soaking wet seats and waits for the jokes to commence. I start in with my best joke right away, "...so I said to my wife, 'shut up and get me some toast', and she said to me, 'why do you talk to me like that when you never speak to anyone else that way?' So I said, '...' I said, '...'"

I knew the punchline earlier in the dream, but I just couldn't come up with it. I was too tired to care.

WHY I'M NOT A GOOD NEIGHBOR

2007-11-09T12:32:00.000-08:00

I was out in the yard about 3 hours ago and saw a large cloud of black smoke coming from a neighbors yard about half a mile away (one of my closest neighbors). I thought to myself, "I should get in the car and check this out, maybe it's a house on fire".

I went into the house and poured myself a glass of wine and grilled a couple of pork chops. Somehow the fire at the neighbors place made me hungry enough to forget all about my original idea of helping.

I just checked and there's no more smoke over there, I wonder what happened.

shame sucker

2007-11-02T21:36:00.001-07:00

Shame erases a carcass of heart, soul and cliche that blend so perfectly, so balanced, so at one with the now, that everything drops from sight but the one so steadily wanting, so inherently errant in aberrant need that longingly, lovingly, lingeringly, yet somehow abhorrently sucks its cling to me in a desperate disparity that folds onto itself in a steaming, shifting, sand-like vacuum that peels back fur, hair and skin in a spastic search for a slab of succulent newness only to find a clean-shaven pick-axe drawing blood from a concrete vine of fire and tangled dreams.

said

2007-11-01T15:36:00.000-07:00

You stare back at me in my own special way of making you feel like I feel the way you do when you look at me in my way. You are never far from me and my way of staying close to you and me, when I follow what you’re saying to me just like me. Your every word is mine, like when I’m telling you what I just said and you repeat what I had in mind when I reminded you of when you said what I just said. I’m never far from you, and you never shy of saying exactly what I told you to say or what I already said. When I hear your lyrical voice, I have an image of something better, the words you recited almost perfectly that I already said. And now that you have captured my essence in my own sweet voice, feel free to continue on and tell the world everything I ever wanted to express, but was afraid I had already said.

Writers Shock

2007-09-09T05:52:00.000-07:00

A mistypd word gave me sleepless nights when paper was gone and ribbon was low. The sleeplessness sped over the cliff of writers block and down a deep chasm of aimlessness. Wandering as I was, tired and parched for words I spied an enigma that looked fat with inspiration. The razor sharp teeth of my mind quickly broke it into comprehensible morsels. But only after it was once again whole and reunited within me, did I feel the answer quaking at the core of my being. As my vision clouded, my thoughts became clear and my writers shock delivered me to writers death.

The Bleaching

2007-09-09T05:49:00.000-07:00

Someone tried to bleach my mind to whiten the stain of my being.

Someone attempted to sandpaper my heart, never realizing it was a metaphor for feeling.

Someone took an interest in my bone structure …

Someone tried to steal my soul, showing a distinct lack of cognitive ability.

I would like to say nothing about art and take up as much of your time as possible

2007-09-08T23:06:00.000-07:00

In general, people like to categorize everything so that there are words to associate with concepts and objects. This specificity is a time saving tool. It keeps us from having to mime everything in daily life.

Sometimes specificity can become a burden, especially when the information regarding a certain thing obscures what it actually is. Søren Kierkegaard is often quoted as saying “Once you label me you negate me.” I’m not sure of the original context of this statement, nor am I sure that it did indeed come from him, nor am I willing to do the research that would be required to find out. Suffice it to say that a confident person would not be likely to indicate that their personal value was so fleeting as to be snuffed out by a casual encounter with another’s taxonomy. Therefore, I am assuming that Kierkegaard was not very confident, thus not likely to state unbiased information, thus quite likely to have said something of the ilk of the preceding quote, thus unworthy of my time and attention. I could be wrong, but my current opinion is of greater importance to me than ruminations on the speculations of what may or may not be true regarding someone that isn’t even alive and didn’t seem to have it all together when he was.

The point that I am (finally) approaching is this: We are not changed by the opinions of others unless we allow that change or we are physically unable to resist a forced change. Let’s use as an example a person who is labeled as “worthless” by others. This person may be of low enough self-esteem that they begin to believe this label to be true. They may have felt negated, and they might actually physically negate themselves by some means of self disposal. As another example a person of formidable self-worth, yet unable to move or speak is stuffed in a box labeled “incinerator”. These two examples could be extrapolated and expounded upon to cover pretty much every aspect of how labeling can negate.

The negation could rarely happen immediately because depression is not usually instantaneous and the cleaning lady doesn’t usually get in until after hours.

One label that is thrown around to a point of desensitization is the label ART. Most dictionaries have several definitions of art, ranging from “the quality, production, expression, or realm, according to aesthetic principles, of what is beautiful, appealing, or of more than ordinary significance” or “The conscious production or arrangement of sounds, colors, forms, movements, or other elements in a manner that affects the sense of beauty, specifically the production of the beautiful in a graphic or plastic medium” to “Artful devices, stratagems, and tricks” and “Skills and techniques”.

Personally I think the saturation of the meaninglessness of the term “art” has reached its apex. That’s right, a meaningless saturation apex! Being an artist doesn’t mean anything, it certainly doesn’t make you anything special. On some level everyone is an artist. No matter how banal ones expressions may be, a person cannot but help create something. They cannot help but influence the feelings of others. Even if that influence is just creating a sense of tension or chaos when they enter the room, they have created a unique and recognizable expression that moves people to discuss the work of that artist. They may wait until the artist has left the room, but any publicity is good publicity to an up and coming “edgy” irritation artist. The fact that individuals are recognized for their own particular creation (whether that creation is boredom, chaos, chewing loudly or anything really) shows that nobody can be totally unoriginal. So to say that your “art” is “original” is about as useful as saying nothing, except that it takes up everyone’s valuable time, so it is even less effective than saying nothing. Unless your art IS wasting peoples time, then good job! I’m sure nobody out there does it quite like you, and one day you will find your market.

People say that if you increase your vocabulary you will better be able to express yourself. That would be true if most people were smart and knew the same words as you. But sadly, even the most educated people just end up using more words in imprecise ways. The handful of people who know how to properly use pretty much every english word have to make constant compromises with their speech just to communicate. And a little news flash: the english “sticklers” are just people who are too oblivious to see that they are championing a losing cause. Yes, there are certain things that irritate each of us about the way others use language, but the “rules” will eventually change to accommodate the masses, just as they always have. So, if you’re “right” about some “proper usage” or punctuation scenario, just remember that in 10 or 20 years you will open a book and the rules will have changed to require what used to be “wrong” and the same people you “corrected” will still remember the story and laugh at you velocitously at anecdote parties.

I used to have a ponderous vocabulary, but I quickly learned that you use language primarily to communicate with others, not to write clever notes to yourself (although those notes are funny). Dumb it down and vague it up if you want to communicate.

Dumbing it down is difficult for many of us (I guess it’s a good thing that there aren’t THAT many). There is a certain voluntary cheapening or lessening of one’s self, an elective negation. One needs to decide how many scoops to take out of one’s own heart. What it then comes down to is, how many labels we are willing to accept.

I have always preserved the part I consider to be my “art” (whatever art may be), a visual documentation of “original” thoughts. Something from me, by me and for me, in a language that doesn’t change and doesn’t require labels or translation. On my end it doesn’t change, although I must say that the WORD “art” has changed for me over the years, and has - like so many words that have fallen before it - lost all meaning to me. I don’t mind if other people use it, if it still has meaning to them. I don’t mind if they use other words that don’t apply to what I do, to describe what I do. Even words like “abstract” or “contemporary” that have no descriptive value whatsoever don’t really bother me that much. I will still use such words with many qualifiers to convey a properly developed generalization to an academically inclined noggin.

So I will sometimes call my work “art” even though it may not be art by my definition or perhaps anyone elses. In the past, I have even tried to assign it an ism. I’ve tried Altruistic Depressionism, Objective Associationism, Artism, Artlike Documentationism and many others, but the fact is that none of those describe what I do. What I do describes what I do. I have never made a work of “art” for anyone else, I’ve just done what I wanted to do for whatever my reasons.

I always destroyed and trashed all of my school art projects immediately after the teacher graded them and handed them back to me. This usually resulted in a lower score, going from an A or A+ to a B, C or D instantly. I always wondered what made it so precious to the teacher when it had no meaning to me. Did it have meaning that was somehow negated by its new assignment to be trash? That didn’t make any sense, because it was always trash to me, from the moment the teacher gave us the assignment my process was all about how fast I could destroy the evidence of my compliance. I think the meaning the teacher saw was in the idea that he was helping young people see the value of art in their lives, so when he saw me throw away something created with thought and care, it hurt, and he made a quick show of the fact that he was upset. So, since my audience was visibly affected and could even put a score on it (B,C,D), it must have been art, but it was probably performance art (whatever that is).

Advent of the ladle

2007-08-28T10:25:00.000-07:00

It has been just slightly shy of 52 trillion years since ladles first lifted themselves from the primordial soup from which they formed. These marvels of evolution have adapted over the millennia so that today they have come to populate most of the worlds soup kettles and gravy boats and even some the harshest pasta salads. Why has evolution favored the modern day ladle more than its brethren of eons past? For answers we must turn to the science of grave robbing, also known as paleontology, to the uninformed.

Modern grave robbery techniques have come a long way since the dawn of grave robbery, thus with modern tools such as the backhoe and toothbrush we can discern a great deal about a world until now shrouded in mystery - the secret past of the ladle!

A brief history of our limited ladle knowledge

Until recently, scientists believed that the ladle started its existence as a small bowl that eventually grew a dorsal bud which facilitated being grabbed by primates in search of tools. The more tool-like the ladle became, the more useful it was to monkeys. Eventually this resulted in longer and longer ladle handles and rounder “bowls” at their ends.

Although this theory is still taught in some school books, we now know it to be based on misinformation. As “onward and upward” is the motto of people who choose to better themselves, and in light of present bone sifting insights, we must let knowledge reign supreme.

Recent finds in my backyard along with some things people dug up while remodeling their homes, show startling new revelations about ladle evolution. Ladles it seems, did not come from bowls after all. It was in fact the bowl that came from the ladle.

The earliest ladles looked more like bundles of twigs than what we currently think of as a ladle. Besides this, there are many features in the evolution of the ladle that used to be thought of as found “missing links”, among these are spoon holders and pasta sauce lids. We now know these to be dead ends linked only by a diverging course from the ancestors of our modern ladles.

The fossil record helps us to clearly define the path of development of the modern ladle from a soup dweller, to a dormant phase during which it evolved a hole so it could hang from a hook, to its current, amphibious state. Occasionally one may find a ladle without a hole and wonder “What the...?” but this is simply evidence of the marvelous evolutionary heritage of the ladle.

Tracking the ladle

Believe it or not, there was once a time (until 1812) when there was only one known fossilized ladle in all the archives of science. It was misunderstood, handled carelessly, and eventually miscatalogued as a tea infuser. But new evidence once again disrupted all that science knew about ladles when Dr. E. J. Something Or Other discovered a cupboard full of ladles in the pantry of his guest house. Radiocarbon dating was performed on several ladle flakes that were harvested in an inert atmosphere. Sadly the information was corrupted by Mrs. Something Or Other when she mistook the credit to Willard Libby along with the notation of pumpkins on one of the ancient ladle handles as cryptic pumpkin pie instructions. Knowing that even the most stable pumpkin pies had a half-life of only days and not billions or trillions of years, Mrs. Something Or Other set about correcting her husbands recipe. As an added feature the pie was 32% glycerin which allowed for perfect cryogenic preservation.

Although the pie was a great success, the research was all but destroyed. The ladles were put to rest in the Smithsonian and scrapings were no longer allowed due to fears that the ladles were now too weak and had degraded from being taken out of the safety of the cupboard. All that could be done was to take the recipe to impartial experts to see what they said. They said that the recipe didn’t look very stable and that the pie produced would likely be structurally unsound at temperatures approaching 0 degrees Kelvin. On this count they were dead wrong, the pie was lovely, and even at a molecular level its configuration had not been altered by the dismally frigid temperatures. The experts also placed the origin of two of the ladles at 27,453,861,549 to 88,964,342,256 BP or about 27,453,861,605 to 88,964,342,312 B.C.E. At least on this account they were correct! This new information placed the “SOO Spatula” - as it had become known - squarely in the public eye, because it provided a much needed link between the earliest known ladles and these even earlier ladles.

Answering ladle scoffers

What was once mere speculation was now backed by overwhelming evidence. Today the ladle fossil record is indisputable. Even many charts and diagrams have been made. Yet there are still some that argue that the ladle is a product of “probable design”. How do you answer such an uninformed stance? Here are some commonly held ladle myths and responses that kick all ass.

1) Ladles were made by a ladle maker in a factory.

Many people blindly believe that ladles were made in factories that have no identifiable address or shipping routes. They were told this by their parents and their parents learned it from their parents. But has anyone ever actually seen a ladle factory? Have you ever been to a party, or even a cooking convention or housewares expo and met a ladle maker? Of course not! Because they don’t exist, and that is science talking.

2) If early ladles were so advanced why are modern ladles so primitive? Isn’t that devolution?

Again, many believe this but it doesn’t make any sense. The world of ladles was far different in the past and primordial soup was very thick and hearty ( more like a dense stew really) so ladles needed to be more complex in form to accommodate the assignment of bulkier morsels over longer distances to get to what would later become bowls. Try using a modern ladle with a pterosaur dive-bombing you. You can’t do it! So prehistoric ladles looked like bundles of twigs or “faggots” as they are known today.

3) Ladle development has never been observed in a controlled environment so there is no way to be sure what forces were acting on their development.

We don’t need to see every little detail of ladle development to be sure of what acted on them. We have an extensive fossil record that clearly shows ladles to be the oldest of all kitchen utensils. That record shows how ladles adapted over eons to become one of the most respected utensils in the household. Everybody has a ladle, even if you never use it. Ladles have found a way to survive. That’s evolution at work!

4) What about DNA?

It’s a ladle, it has adapted to the point where it no longer needs DNA.

5) Scientists have never been able to successfully produce a ladle.

Just because scientists can’t make a ladle doesn’t mean that they don’t understand the developments that have shaped ladle evolution over the years. Besides, partial ladles have been created in the lab on many occasions, scientists simply haven’t reached a point at which they can assemble an ENTIRE ladle. Seeing that so much progress has been made thus far, there is no reason to doubt that science will be able to create a complete, useable ladle in the next 20-45 years.

6) Aren’t there disagreement between scientists as to how ladles developed?

Debate is a cornerstone of science. Without conflicting ideas we could make no advancement whatsoever. What if everyone agreed to disagree? Or worse, what if they agreed? If everyone agreed, how would we know if we were right? Therefore, if no one is questioning a belief, it must be wrong! If I firmly believed the same thing as everyone else, I’d be trying to figure out why, rather than simply being willing to believe what I already think at face value.

7) There is a lot of talk about ladle evolution, but how did ladles fist come into existence?

The error here is simply being unable to grasp that ladles came into existence over trillions of years in a slow development. The first ladles were both very large and very small. Remember too, that they were not at all ladle shaped (as we think of ladles today) but shaped like faggots. Eventually these ladles fell into disuse and some of these early ladles even formed primitive notches so that they could be hung up when not in use, keeping the primordial kitchen tidy. During this dormant period ladles developed less woody and more metal bodies (when we see ladles with wooden handles, this again is a reminder of their faggotlike history). Today we often see ladles that are entirely made of plastic. There is no denying the evolution of the ladle and they will continue to evolve.

8) If you shook a box full of sticks for a billion years do you really think you would get a ladle?

If you put some soup in the box it is possible. But remember that ladles didn’t develop in boxes, most ladle development occurred after they began to be hung up, the disuse caused them to develop the ability to seem needed as a self preservation mechanism. Also, keep in mind that sticks are not rudimentary ladles, nor are they ladle precursors. Ladles used to RESEMBLE bundles of sticks.

I am confident though that if you hang sticks up for a billion years something neat will happen.

9) What about ladles that have been proven to be dead ends and not “missing links”?

Who cares? Ladles are everywhere. How did they get here? Magic? “Ladle makers”? Sure, there are going to be dead ends, suck it up!

10) The ladle is far too fantastic to have evolved on its own.

There are far simpler things in the world such as metal bars and wire, yet these simpler items are quite similar to spatulas, which are not much different from ladles. And remember, the ladle evolved from something much more complex. So after it became what it was, becoming what it now is, was a cakewalk.

It is important that we all know where basic household items come from because for far too long there have been too many cooks in the kitchen and not enough utensils. Now we have an overwhelming supply of kitchen tools. Were they all made? Hardly. There is too much similarity between them to think anything other than the logical conclusion. They evolved. Besides, the idea of “probable design” assumes the likely existence of a maker. For this to be the case, we would need a ladle maker, a spoon maker, a fork maker, a knife maker, a spatula maker, the list is endless. Is it not the logical, reasonable and responsible course to systematically analyze the similarities between these items so that we can arrange them chronologically and by size and color? Of course it is! Life is short, don’t waste it. Dedicate your life to the pursuit of ladle knowledge.

currency in relationships

2007-08-05T23:04:00.000-07:00

Sweet nothing

There’s a dime in my mind recollecting a pain in increments too small to appreciate. There is a logical deficit and a negative balance that goes with it. There’s an abundance of heart but no soul. There’s change to be made, but never enough to trade for a token of faith. If you could afford the time to see me right now I’d probably crack your head open like a broken gumball machine and take all the red ones. I’ll write you a post-dated check... for a penny ...for your thoughts.

Sweetbread dough

You are a reaching plant wanting sun and straining for a chemical reaction. Your food is what happens on the outside and your breath gives life. You are more than just some green, you’re a sugar mamma with big apple lipstick. You’ve climbed the corporate vine and you’re throwing me a line. You’re lush like the tropics. You’re no vegetable honey, but everywhere you go you’re tossing salad. When your wheat is ripe you pluck the heads and spread your bread. No, you’re no veggie baby, but you spread through the roots. Your branches are snug like a multi-national conglomerate bear hug. Sorry about the animal reference.

Sentenced

2007-08-04T19:36:00.000-07:00

I milk all the flowers of the world.

Little girls folding old men for tin.

Things left in place are abundant.

Cheese wheels occupy france.

My last time eating dried tape.

Brass nipple factory exhumes bread.

Year supply of prison body flakes.

Waiting lab.

Waiting is the disease that keeps you waiting.

Cake has energy.

Abundance is the feeling of why.

If we were equals

2007-08-04T19:32:00.001-07:00

What’s in a name if we’re all the same and we don’t know the good from the bad? And why should we care who they fry in the chair? If everyone’s evil, should any feel sad? But if it’s really true that I’m better than you, and smarter and much better bred, then even your own validation of my superior creation would be yet another occasion for dispensing unto you my heartiest mockeries.

My Little Miracle

2007-08-04T18:03:00.000-07:00

I have a little miracle, a life inside. I love my little miracle, it keeps me alive. If they took out my little miracle both lives would end. And I would say goodbye to myself and my brother, my tumor, my friend.

Life and death in the high desert

2007-08-03T14:48:00.000-07:00

Here are some photos I took of good and evil nature. Most of these photos are from my yard, a few are from nearby areas. Unjoy!

cholla flower

tiger swallowtails

dead horse in the galiuro foothills

angel and maudite

sandhill cranes

devil's claw seed pod

roadrunner babies

looking toward new mexico in the chiricahuas

maudite with a gopher snake

tarantula and k's hand

mojave rattlesnake in mesquite tree

dead mojave rattlesnake

soaptree yucca flower

bullet holes in sign on hiking trail

chiricahua monument

gravestone near fort bowie

pine trees in turkey creek chiricahua mountains

vulture eating a dead rattlesnake

tagged ornate box turtle

spongebob in a candy store in mexico

2 more things...

2007-08-02T06:49:00.000-07:00

Why I drink
Many drink to forget what they lost or what they cannot have. They drink to forget their desires. They drink to slow the mind and fool the heart. Some drink for pleasure, living life to the full. I drink for the noblest cause of all. I drink for the good of all mankind. I drink to forgive.

Mixed bag
What’s in your rhyme bag? Is it something about me? How I am the something of the something or the something to the something? I could read all day in your tear soaked ramblings, knowing you’ll be too embarrassed to show them in the future.

3 untitled things I wrote last night...

2007-08-01T07:02:00.000-07:00

1)

Dangercaps unfold a meadowlarkingly lyrical call for arms of string to arrange patterned colors in leaflet folds. The tears of anchors that sway in glowing altitude glance seemingly at nearbaked orbs. The thickness is a sensation by the lips of wired maggots that seek a destined recombinant metaphorical lessening. Do your midnights burn with the same intensity as your rebirths? Or do you fire the wednesdays like farming a range war?

Peeling back the sounds that frighten you will exercise a tenfold lust for the warmth of radiant protection. As the flames envelope me, my eyes diffuse sound.

2)

Shaking into murk snakes with my mind, curling it into restless frames of ether. The constancy and vigilance of thought embodied by the coarse assembly of doughnuts and hair that somehow amounts to me, is a balance of wanton unwontedness.

Many delights are heralded as the fabric of the minds of passersby brushes softly across my cat-clawed mustache and the happy gaze they cast plucks the last ripe fruits from the harvest of my heart.

Weakly as ever, I will the beast of conversation into being, and as they are enraptured by it’s hideous grasping and thrusting, I hide the apple of destiny inside my own originality.

In the wake of these events, my thoughts are tightened down for a slow settling as comments are drawn from the lightest of the crowd.

The waves gently bed the unsettled tourists who misread the directions on my skull.

3)

The flight pays me by and tangles down to sudden draws that play into traction with armored wheels. The depth of breeding ropes, grapples and snuggles with a satisfied lung-fighter for lunch wielding hypocrites that tend intention to justify fraudulent sensations of genuineness in worth.

Triangle lesions are parked on the outermost surface of the new-found you. When the baking of your soul has been thoughtlessly performed you stand up and at the ready, but are either never quite finished or worse, overdone.

Little girls from outer space

2007-07-31T08:05:00.001-07:00

Space granny was poised to excel at the impudence rally. She had a 14 joule suffusion wand with more low gear plasma settings than any other wands used by ultra-senior space citizens who entered the competition. The problem with suffusion wands is that the overthruster transfer barrel never worked correctly on any of the pneumatic models and the glyco-hydron worm models had poorly crafted wooden handles.

Of course many would argue that the uniformly low quality of the suffusion wands leveled the playing field. When that was said, they immediately had to remind everyone that this was merely a figure of speech, since level playing fields are grounds for immediate disqualification at impudence rallies. Interestingly enough, disqualification only applies to the rally itself. At impudence rallies, it is impossible for any of the contestants to be anything less than overqualified. When a disqualification occurs, the regional rally representative travels back in time to a point three weeks prior to the time when Tooggie McBeelfuton came up with the idea for the rally. This “Ambassador of Winning Ways” convinces him to open a lemonade and assisted suicide stand. This banishes the rally into nonexistence from the perspective of Tooggie. Of course, this only happens once.

Space mom was poised to take the blue ribbon at the lemonade and assisted suicide rally. She had a 28 speed blood atomizer with a lazer arm griddle with more splizzon settings than any other blood atomizers used by other middle aged soccer moms who entered the competition. The problem with blood atomizers (especially those with griddles) is that the anti-static formanizer gets gummed up with embalmoplast.

It is not uncommon to hear people say that the low quality of the blood atomizers used at lemonade and assisted suicide rallies add a charm that would otherwise be significantly lacking at such an event. Plus, a suicide that only takes a few minutes doesn’t draw in the big crowds. If crowds of sufficient size cannot be drawn, then the event must be cancelled. The event is canceled by traveling back in time to the point where Bret Frarvere’s parents would have conceived him and starting a heated argument that will last nearly ten weeks. No title is given to the person assigned this task, because anyone can do it, really. This stops Bret from being born, so he can’t kill Tooggie McBeelfuton and steal his lemonade and assisted suicide idea.

Tooggie was never cut out to run a death related business anyway. So, after being in business for only two weeks he finally closes his shop and begins pouring his lemonade on the ground screaming, “behold the tainted lemonade of death!” When people see this they are intrigued and ask if they can pay him to join in the lemonade dumping game.

As it turns out, Tooggie has got “IT”. IT is what all salesmen need, IT’s the ability to sell anything even when one is not trying. By the end of that day Tooggie had pocketed twenty trillion dollars, which was a lot of money on earth in the 1750’s. Of course, Tooggie moved to outer space with his space girlfriend and was able to live there three weeks before being evicted. He came back to earth with a renewed vigor and some interesting sales (s)kills he had learned during his 3 weeks in space. Of course, earth had changed tremendously during the time he was gone because 3 space weeks was actually 49,000 earth years. Fortunately, his old high school friends were still there waiting for him. He would visit them every day at the museum of natural history. While at the museum he would sometimes wander away from the group and see what other displays were there. He came across a journal that just happened to be opened to a page that had his name written in it. He broke the glass and grabbed the book to read it. Shortly thereafter he was grabbed and the book was taken from him. He was taken to a penal enlargement colony where he was given plenty of time and space to think about what he had done. Of course, they had already scrambled his brain waves so he had absolutely no idea what he had done. He thought long and hard about his situation but he had no comprehension of the passing of time so what was actually 85 minutes seemed like an eternity or no time at all. But upon being released he realized that the world was very different from what he remembered. This is not because anything was actually different, he simply didn’t remember anything. After what he thought was a large meal - but turned out to be a very short cab ride - he was back at the museum of natural history. He was quickly arrested again because he had mistaken the place for a public toilet. After being allowed to finish peeing on the display with his friends in it, he was taken to a processing area where he was forced to process chicken feed. Then he was taken to a holding area where he was forced to hold a large bowl of rotting grapefruit - but was actually a medium sized bicycle tire. After he passed these two tests, they lead him to a large box of cabbage - which, even though he was wrong was exactly what he thought it was. He was forced to eat all of the cabbage in the box, which he found to be much easier if he imagined that the cabbages were really live kittens. After eating the cabbage kittens he was ready to commit lemonade, because he was thirsty. No such a thingy was to be allowed before the brain scramble. After the brain scramble he started to remember things. “The past three hours were pretty wacky”, he thought. He waited in stir for the required 85 minutes and was back on the street.

Since his attempts to read the book with his name on it were thwarted the first time he decided he needed to acquire the information from within the system. So he quickly built a small inflatable resume out of twigs, berries and a small sample bottle of Epinephran he had received from his grandmother who was desperately clinging to her failing pharmaceutical business. After a brief demonstration to the museums board of directors showing how the resume could be used to dredge canals or get him a job, they bought the resume from him for 8 tennis balls. He took the deal and went to the government and bought it with the tennis balls. He still had one tennis ball left over so he used it to play squash for a while, just to be a badass. Then he donated the final tennis ball to the charity of his choice.

After leaving the charity a large group of small girls with strong arms and deep pockets attempted to nickel and dime him to death. He was able to dodge the nickels and catch most of the dimes which he used to buy a large house with small windows and medium-sized doors. This house was immediately placed on the register of historic places and he opened a bed and breakfast. The bed and breakfast wasn’t as successful as his grandmother’s floundering pharmaceutical business. So he decided to check in on his government and see how it was doing. It turned out that his government plan was really taking off. He decided to flood all the streets with applesauce and not only did the people love it, the hornet and bee population skyrocketed. He could do no wrong.

One day he got off his high horse and rented a dune buggy to better relate to the man on the street. While driving around the town he remembered his motivation. He did all this so that he could read the journal with his name in it. He went into the museum and told them he wanted to see the book. They said that it was a government owned facility and he would have to ask himself about it. So he asked himself. At first he said “no”, but he knew it wouldn’t be long before he changed his mind, because he knew that this was something he really wanted. He waited a while to build suspense, then he said, “Okay, read the book”, he was so happy that he felt the desire to kiss himself on the cheek, so he told everybody to just hang on there for a minute while he got in his time machine.

He took the time machine back in time a couple of minutes so that both of him could have one. Then they switched time machines and both went a few minutes further back in time. When they saw him standing there they both ran up to him but decided to stop and explain that they were going to kiss him. He said, “Don’t you me’s know about time paradoxes?” To which they responded, “yes, we do. We know they’re great for a laugh.” “Oh, me” he said, as he opened the book and began to read aloud from it. “Wait” said the audience, “you haven’t asked you yet!” To which he replied, “this has gone on way too long, we’re going to have to start skipping some parts.”

As it turns out, the book didn’t have any information that would have helped him win back his original destiny. It was just a book of random names made up by a group of little space girls as a party game. The book ended with coded information regarding the location of the next slumber party.

Everyone cheered. The reading was a huge success.

Is this an art blog?

2007-07-04T06:44:00.000-07:00

As you know if you've read a few of my posts, there is no theme at all to this blog. Unless that theme is that I write whatever I feel like writing. But sometimes a few posts in a row are similar. So, these little promotional pieces will probably be showing up for a while. So here is a link to my latest drawing on my gallery.

The image is called "Hand To Mouth" that is just for reference though. Really, it's self titled. But if I called everything "eponymous" I would be creating more difficulty for the people who might buy my work.

When I was young, I always thought that I would need to move to the "big city" to sell my work. I really wanted to show my work at galleries. By the time I was 18 and living in Minneapolis - which had a thriving art scene - I spent whatever time I could find hanging out anonymously in the downtown warehouse district. This is where the galleries all seemed to live back then. I was shocked to see that I didn't fit in with the whole art scene. Almost all of the artists were too heavily swayed by opinion. It seemed to me that they were trying to ride dead ideas until they rotted out from under them. I had insulated myself from culture (which was very easy where I grew up) and yet I had seen all of this before.

To me art was always expressing a thought I had, and thoughts I had were generally new and unique. It was easy to see that the majority of these artists had some real talent, but that talent was hidden beneath layers of "skill". I never wanted to see a display of skill. Skill CAN be great, if it doesn't obscure talent, but how many artists do you know of who can really do that? There aren't many, alive or dead.

Don't misunderstand me. There was some really cool work on display at many of these places as well, and some of it by the same people who did the trite stuff. I just expected to see something fresh, and my own drawings and paintings were the freshest things around. After spending 11 years in Phoenix, I long for the old Minneapolis art scene. Now, I'm in the high desert in the middle of nowhere, and I never once took an opportunity or even an offer to do a gallery show. I always said, "I don't have the right collection to show". When offered money for my work, I've always avoided the subject. So many people have said, "I really want that!" only to get the reply, "well you can't have it".

Well, an artist with real foresight would have acted on the inevitable moment that has now arrived. ART CLUTTER. I threw away all my work that I did as a young kid. But at some point when I was about 16-17 I started to hang on to some of it. Now, I still own almost everything I have drawn or painted since then. I don't have most of it on display, it just sits in boxes, taking up space. So, now after all these years, I'm willing to sell it.

I used to have several of my paintings up in my office at work. People always would ask excitedly, "who's the artist?" I would tell them that it was me, and they would hire us to do their web site. This worked exceedingly well with the women, but men would often hire my team based on the fact that I was 1) clearly great at my job, 2) creative. So I did sell my art in a sense. Or I used it as a sales device to sell my commercial art.

Above is just a picture of one of my old offices with a couple of my paintings in the background. I also insisted on real plants. People don't buy web sites from plastic plants.

Self Promotion....

2007-07-02T07:18:00.000-07:00

Here is a link to my latest gallery. I've gone against my galleries of the past and put in very large pictures. This gallery is my first real attempt to sell my original work, thus the much more vivid pictures of the drawings. This gallery is super simple and clean. It's all about the images and getting to them quickly.

Xymyl Gallery

Here's a little art story to go with my little gallery opening....

When I was 8 years old my grandmother gave me a large book about birds. It was full of good quality illustrations. And I appreciated the gift. Then my grandmother told me as we were leaving, "Remember to send me drawings of those birds." I was shocked! Nobody had told me this wasn't a gift. She got me vested in ownership of the book, then out of nowhere switched gears for the hard sell. I can't remember anymore, but I think she gave me a quota. So once again, a seemingly thoughtful gift turns into a rent-to-own plan. I felt terribly undervalued. That's just typical though. How many people really GIVE you something?

I still wanted to make a go at my indentured servitude, because I really wanted the book. It was a 30 or 40 dollar book. And I had no money to buy it. Wanting to get out of this pickle as quickly as possible, I began to churn out drawing after drawing. The following is one of the first pictures my grandmother got. It certainly was not my best work, it was a payment to the rent-to-own store. It was money.

It didn't take long for me to get truly angry about the way my creative integrity had been compromised over this book. I was literally going insane. After a few more of those, the pictures started to look more like this...

I was very frustrated because I was still being forced to draw birds. It didn't take long before I physically could not draw those stupid birds. I thought to myself, "she can repossess her book if she wants it."

I waited, but she never came to get the book. I started to feel like drawing her some more pictures. Then I remembered that any garbage I could churn out would be much more meaningful than what she did. Yep, paid in full, overpaid really.

For My EMMY Consideration...

2007-06-27T08:45:00.000-07:00

I know that this will be among the most boring blog posts I have made, but it is from the heart, so please forgive.

I’ve been getting my EMMY freebees that come with Variety magazine. I really don’t watch much TV. I refuse to pay for satellite. Where I live it’s not even possible to get cable. I can’t get Fox or the CW or even CBS. If I would just turn my TV antenna south of the border I could get many channels, I tried this once and it was amazing the variety, but it was all in spanish and I haven’t gotten around to learning that language yet. But I digress...

So most of these shows are invisible. I think it is great to stick these shows into the daily industry mag. One is immediately disarmed by free stuff. If you didn’t like the previews you might still give it a chance because it’s something with at least some perceived value - a DVD. These DVD’s usually have more than one show on them, so an individual may keep the disc sitting around longer and watch other episodes. Most of the discs have art on them that depicts the actors or even the environment of the program, so you’re reminded if you see the disc laying around the house.

Next in line I find the Heros and House, free iTunes downloads. I thought, “that’s cool, I could download it on my notebook and watch it in the while I eat. Now, this would have been really great if you got more than one free show. But, hey, it’s free.

The most recent one I got was something from “thegreencampaign” I was going to throw it away, but it did say “EMMY” on it, so I thought, “hey, more free shows perhaps?”

It folds out to about 3 feet long, and this is what it says:

“CBS PARAMOUNT TELEVISION Putting Our GREEN Where It Counts”

“Once upon a time in a land called EMMY..."

“...There were BETA and VHS and then DVD’s. Each year in the season of for your consideration, cluttered packages collected, confusing the voting citizenry and threatening to destroy the kingdom. Until one day, the townsfolk in their infinite wisdom, made all things virtual and green.”

There is also a note at the end that states: “PRINTED ON 100% RECYCLED STOCK WITH SOY INKS”

So they have to start by explaining that this is an environmental issue, then they get into reminding us of clutter caused by VHS and BETA. Of course they must tag on the bulky DVD that takes up so much space and requires such destructive resources to produce. Then they get into the clutter on your desk, and the confusion it causes. That clutter and confusion is going to destroy the kingdom. The world? The world could be destroyed by EMMY clutter? No, from the context, we can see that it is the “LAND CALLED EMMY” that faces destruction. Wow, they are going to clear up the voting confusion! Then they bring us back to the environmental issue. It’s green, and even printed on recycled paper!

What forward thinking folks they are at CBS Paramount!

Now, I have some quibbles with this campaign. First off, you go there and there is no free download. You are locked to your computer looking at a low quality video in a browser window. Yes, the window can be enlarged to fit the screen and show how bad the detail really is, I think they are destroying their land called EMMY this year.

Another thing to dislike is the fact that they are really confusing the “voting citizenry” by trying to pretend this garbled message is an environmental campaign. My House & Heros download cards probably require less resources than this piece of paper, they certainly cause less clutter, and again, they show an image that relates to the show. You actually have to go to the CBS Paramount website to find out what shows they have. Even though I was totally turned off by this ad, I went to see the site. They do produce Everybody Hates Chris, which I have seen in the past and thought was pretty good. I already forgot what else was there, and all I have to remind me is a three foot long piece of recycled paper with a blank back. Really, they could have been a bit more environmentally friendly by making this thing half as long and writing on the other side.

Personally, I want more free shows and less fake environmentalism. It’s not like these guys aren’t making DVD’s of their shows anymore. I watched Everybody Hates Chris by renting it from Netflix.

My full resume cover letter:

2007-06-22T12:51:00.000-07:00

Pre birth: Being in a womb as far back as I could remember was a bit confusing for me, especially since I could move around and even visit people. Of course, I couldn’t communicate with them because I was unable to use my lungs and hadn’t quite figured out how to kick out the proper signals. Fortunately I never heard a conversation that made me think, “oh, I really gotta get in on this”. Plus, everyone was muffled and I imagined that if I could speak, I too would be muffled.

During these long dull formative days, my thinking was along these lines, “I know that I have more potential, and I know there is more to life than this, one day I’ll climb out of this hell hole and see what’s on the other side”. One day I did just that, about a month before anyone expected. Immediate issues became readily apparent, too cold, too bright, doctors suck, I’m pretty sure thats not my family, am I even on the right planet? You know, the usual stuff. But there were some positives, a general sense of autonomy, leg stretchin’ time, actually that’s everything. The sense of autonomy was soon crushed, and leg stretching - as it turns out - wasn’t all I thought it could be.

Pre school: I really hated being a baby, being lower than a slug in mobility and as high as a god in comprehension were just two sides of my existence. Everything was pain, light was pain, sound was pain, and even thought had become pain. But thought was the only escape from the prison of my newness.

I had to change some of my plans after my move from fetus to child, partly because, even though I knew it wasn’t the case, I had sort of planned on being a fetus for the rest of my life. Not that I was unaware of my development, I was just a little new to planning. To be honest, I did have the impression that I had been a fetus for all eternity prior to my knowledge of this state, oddly, I cannot pinpoint when I developed this belief. Of course, for me, everything is a blur prior to when I was 1 year old.

My first scientific experiments were entirely based on my dreams. Such experiments as “do the things that are shaped like other things do the same things as those things?” and “do the same physical laws hold true in dreams and in reality?” were the topics of the time. The answers to both were “sometimes”. This may not seem like breakthrough research, but I had completed many such experiments by the time I was 2 years old. Unfortunately, I couldn’t (and didn’t have the desire to) write, and couldn’t get anyone to take dictation. I remember the important stuff though. Lizards aren’t wrenches, wrenches aren’t lizards, not all lizards are chameleons, wrenches can’t change colors, not all lizards can change colors, wrenches can come in different colors, we can’t afford fancy wrenches, all my tools are plastic, plastic tools are generally worthless, well, this list goes on and on, but you get the idea.

From about the time I reached two years of age I was plagued by dreams about my former lack of existence and my current distinct lack of omniscience. In my dreams I was somebody, in fact, I was sometimes everybody. We all kept our eyes on us. We could see us at all times. Dreams where almost everybody was me were very comforting, but when I would wake up again, I was just little ineffectual little me.

As for “potty” training, I will not describe all of the details of this experience, but I will say that as a newborn baby you are given many impractical evacuation procedures. Once you figure one of them out (even if it makes little sense such as the “crap in your pants and we’ll get that later” method) you move on to the next step and it becomes apparent that you’ve been wasting your valuable time and embarrassing yourself. Fortunately the devices and methods do get more reasonable. My mother claims that I was using a normal toilet at 1.5 years or earlier. I would have I’m sure, if I had been given the option, but I remember distinctly being 2.5 years old when I got my first “training toilet”. I also remember that it took me exactly one try to figure out how it worked. I must admit that I needed a brief explanation, but it was not a problem. It made real sense, the stuff you no longer want goes in the hole, I don’t need to carry it around anymore! Now, I was a bit disturbed to find out that the big porcelain thing next to the training toilet was yet another phase in this process. If someone would have just given me a boost at age 0, I could have foregone all the trauma associated with finding out that nobody in my family was interested in pushing the potty training envelope to new levels. I wouldn’t have to write this sad tell-all either.

Being a toddler is no better than being a baby, you get some mobility but that comes at a great price. One of the biggest problems is that your “cuteness” attracts people at first. Then when you try to avoid them they think you’re shy. It’s called “hate”, idiot! People hate it when a “toddler” has deemed them unfit companionship. They get really mad. Now, I wasn’t out to hurt anybody. But how long can you listen to obvious stupidity just because someone is older than you? I did it for years.

Schooling: After years of listening to idiots talk about being older I was finally 5 years old, I had been eagerly anticipating my first day in kindergarten. I foolishly thought school would be a place of learning. Imagine my shock when my “teacher” turned out to be one of the most ignorant turds I had met so far. I spent most of the year sitting in the closet as punishment for having standards, intelligence and morality. It didn’t help that kindergarten wasn’t a place of learning. My mom and sister stopped reading to me when I started kindergarten, so I had to teach myself to read. I hated reading, and before I taught myself I knew I would hate it, but I didn’t want to grow up to be an idiot like my teacher. Building blocks, nap time and drinking milk are not my idea of a well rounded education.

Just to make sure that you understand that I was trying my best to cooperate with this beast, I will share another embarrassing story. The teacher left us alone in the class and was gone for about 45 minutes. Leaving 20+ 5 year olds alone for that long is dumb, but she told all of us not to move from our seats. Well, other kids were running around, but if it wasn’t a blatant moral issue I was going to stick it out and wait. I peed my pants. When the teacher came back, she had the nerve to ask me why I didn’t go to the restroom. I just thought, "even blind obedience doesn’t work with this idiot". I was willing to put up with the shame of having been responsible for creating the class pee chair. And she just acted like listening to her was the problem. Of course, she was right, I knew she was an idiot. Why did I listen to her? Oh, well, all the kids were so stupid they lost track of the pee chair after a couple of weeks. Besides, I had learned a valuable lesson. Quit school as soon as possible.

On the job: After I quit high school I moved to Minneapolis, Minnesota and started working at industrial temporary services with the lowest of the low. In fact, we didn’t even get to enter in the front of the building. We had to go around the back and down 3 flights of basement stairs. People were too stoned to fill out the forms or too shaky to fill out the forms. Sometimes I’d come in and there would be no work for me, so I’d wait around until somebody started screaming twitching and vomiting because they didn’t get their fix in time. Then I would get the call. If only they had gotten their drugs the day before, I wouldn’t have been able to eat.

I worked at so many different companies, making balloons, potpourri, diet drinks, sorting mail, packaging beauty products, refurbishing cash registers and computers, and working on all manner of assembly lines. I worked in so many different buildings and industries that I have little recollection of what I have really done and who I met, but again I learned a valuable lesson. Everywhere I went, I was the standout. I stood out among all the temps of course. But I stood out among all of the other workers. It was a huge ego boost that allowed me to move on to bigger and better things. Since then, I’ve found that being in any environment with any group of people is an ego boost. At worst, I will be slightly better than the best person who has ever done my job. This is not to say that I could do absolutely anything better than anyone else. But I’ve either been better at convincing everybody else that I’m better at everything I have ever done or the natural perception that everyone invariably accepts is that I’m better at everything. Either way, you’ll be sure that I’m better than anyone else, and that’s all that really matters.

Inclosed you’ll find my resume detailing many technical and creative positions that I have held over the years. Some of which have included perks such as very expensive company cars, large offices and great respect.

I hope this is enough to convince you of the great blessings I could bring to your tapeworm farm. Looking forward to your response.
X.

The tale of the supernumerary flipper

2007-06-07T08:50:00.000-07:00

Once upon a flippin’ day there was a little boy who loved to flip people off. He would smile, laugh and flip all day long. When he would do this everyone would smile and wave. He hated people, but loved his hate. The smiles and laughter just made everyone in the world love him all the more.

But he loved his hate so much that he couldn’t keep from smiling while he just kept flipping off the whole world.

Of course there were other reasons that his hatred did not become apparent to his adoring public. One good reason for this misunderstanding was that both of his hands were backwards. Typical flipping etiquette would dictate that the back of the flipping hand is shown, not the front. Another good reason was that he had two middle fingers on his flipping hand. These two middle fingers made the little boy feel that he was giving double the flip to the world every time he flipped. But to his adoring fans it looked all the more like a friendly wave.

One day in “I Hate Wood Shop Class” the little boy cut off all the fingers on his flipping hand except one, the middle-most of his two middle fingers. The little boy was ready to show the world what he really thought of them. His bloody flipping mitt held high for all to see, he ran outside crying and flipping like he had never flipped before. As he flipped to the cameras and flipped to the crowds, he saw a little girl with beautiful little porcelain hands flipping him off like there was no flipping tomorrow. He had found a soul mate. Then she shot and killed him. The crowd rushed to his flipping side (because there was no room on the left) and tried to revive him, but he was too far gone.

The girl rushed into the group and apologized. But the crowd just looked at her with sympathy and the mayor said, “That’s alright, you couldn’t have known that he was really waving to us, because it certainly looks like he’s flipping everybody off. But on closer examination you can see that he recently accidentally sawed off all his fingers except the middle-most one.”

The grave stone bore the engraving, “He waved because he loved” beneath that it simply stated “a misunderstanding”. This misunderstanding was not the misunderstanding they thought it was. The little girl knew exactly what she was doing. She was killing the only person she could ever love, because she was afraid of rejection.

There are two morals to this story: If you can’t learn to express yourself, try to become what you seem. And, if you can’t handle rejection, suck it up.

How Sarah Tunes Her Head

2007-06-07T02:26:00.000-07:00

The kneecaps glistened with blind unabashed turbulence. As Sarah looked at her baby-grandmother smiling with arguable retrospect, she could never have suspected that this would be their final kneecap picking tour of southeast Asia. She wasn’t in the least prepared for what her (almost impossibly difficult to play) gaga uber-matriarch was about to relate. Because she didn’t know the future, she wasn’t omniscient. Are you even reading this?

Her high-strung baby-grandmother turned to her and said, “Child, I fear that this will be our final kneecap picking tour of southeastern Asia.” “No No! tiniest of tiny Nana’s! Say it isn’t so!” “It is so, or at least it is so likely that this story is entirely based on the premise. Did you just call me tinny?” “No, tiny” “Oh well, you wouldn’t have been totally wrong to describe me that way if you chose to, what, with this recyclable aluminum hip and a hearing aid that sounds like a gramophone recording of paper being crumpled.”

As the two pushed on through the kneecap fields they chatted away about everything from the alphabet to the other end of the alphabet. When they finished their chattering, they were so tired they decided to set up camp and catch some z’s.

As she drifted off to sleep Sarah’s conscious mind was flooded with the disturbances based on what her youthful progenitor had spoken, while her subconscious mind was obsessed with cataloging, maintaining, and sublimating a lifetime of repressed murders. Tonight these two worlds met as she drifted off to sleepy land.

Wielding her trusty chainsaw (or noggin plucker, as she liked to call it), she severed the head of the always lively - but now dead - genetically beneficent antecessor she had so revered.

The sweet irony of this tale is that Sarah was from this moment on, able to sleep calmly and peacefully every night, but all her waking hours were plagued by the knowledge of the atrocities she had committed over a life of nearly 28 years.

But here is where our story ends, that moment of awakening which scared and dislocated both conscious and subconscious, releasing them forever from their respective prisons and placing them squarely in each others.

School Violence WARNING Contains School

2007-06-06T09:10:00.000-07:00

Being as I was constantly enveloped in unquantifiable splendor, the glow of my newly polished brass skullcap barely raised an inquisitive eyebrow. One day, I was just walking along and I fell to the floor and dinged my shiny new bean bucket. Well, I was so mad that I couldn’t do anything other than flap.

As I turned around, ready to use my swanlike neck to break the arms of my molester, who do I see but Chet Vargas, the biggest bully in school. Standing fourteen feet eight inches, I was dwarfed by his kneecaps. Chet just laughed. Little did he know the great strength in my whiplike neck. Snap! Snap! Snap! I chopped his legs out from under him (yes all three of them). Chad writhed on the floor panting and screaming in agony. Then I used my spork to gouge out one of his eyes and forced him to watch me with the other as I ate the one I had just removed. As I spit out the lense, I said, “you expect me to eat this lense? I don’t think so. I may eat everything from the point at which the optic nerve meets the back of the eye, all the way to the cornea, and I love the vitreous humor, not just because of the soft gelatinous consistency that makes for great snacking, but also because it is funny, but I am not eating lenses! Oh, humor, get it? It’s funny.”

Chet just groaned. I couldn’t be sure if he was groaning because of the physical pain or the mental anguish inflicted by my crass jocularity, so I sawed off one of his arms.

The rest of that day was a blur, but for such a bad start it surely must have ended up as one of my fondest memories.
It’s just as they say, revenge is always sweetest amongst your school memories.

Nothing about Xymyl

2007-06-04T21:54:00.000-07:00

So a friend of mine turned me toward Technorati to sign up my blogs. I do a search just to see what's already on there, and this comes up: There is nothing in the known universe about xymyl.

It's true.

I later went to a site called Indie Bloggers to see if joining that would be worthwhile, It said: "NOTE: If for some reason you get an error message or nothing happens, refresh, then try again."

Names Schmames

2007-06-04T10:03:00.000-07:00

Terminology, nomenclature, taxonomy, classification and so on. We need to define what something is if we are to communicate to someone else what that thing is, or what it did, or how a certain anecdote involving that thing is actually an anecdote.

We can’t make sense to another individual without a shared language, so words need to have meaning. Simple names of objects, such as car, chair, shoe, desk, bed, etc, come up in daily life often, and if we didn’t know these words we’d be set back in our daily routine. If you come into the office in the morning and Jim (you know Jim) says, “what side of the bed did you wake up on?” or something to that effect, you would likely be very confused if you didn’t know what a bed was.

Anyone can say that they were using their binoculars to spy out a Parus major, or a Sula sula, and you would think they are intelligent and kindly Marlin Perkins type folks, when they are really greasy little perverts who happen to enjoy dead language double entendre. But you (and when I say “you” I don’t mean all of you, just most of you) didn’t know that.

So, you see, even many names, in fact most names, don’t make any sense to us. So we may have to make our own names. Names such as whippoorwill and chuckwillswidow are great examples of this homespun naming convention. If you forget the birds name just wait a minute or two and the bird will say the name again to remind you.

Besides the fact that many of those names are silly sounding, I don’t really have a problem with them. And when compared with Latin names that often serve no function except to tie in the name of one animal that you never heard of or can’t remember to another animal you never will see and won’t need to remember, the common names make more sense. However, they still fall far short, see the following example:

If you were visiting me at my home and I suddenly said, “I just saw a couple of great tits flitting about in the backyard” you would probably run to the window to try and see what’s out there. If I said, “I just saw a couple of parus majors flitting about in the backyard” you might casually walk to the window because you might still think I’m talking about ladies breasts, but if I said “I just saw a couple of little birds flitting about in the backyard” you would remain seated.

The irony of this scenario is that the lack of specificity gets the point across.

I think it’s great that people like to classify everything. Things need classifying. But if you see a cat running down the street and you say, “look at that equus caballus!”, I probably won’t correct you.

Is philosophy shopping?

2007-06-02T07:09:00.000-07:00

Recently someone told me that I find philosophy boring and thus, must like shopping. Just to set things straight, I didn’t even say that I found philosophy boring, but rather, that he liked boring philosophy. I was intrigued by this statement though, because I have never before heard someone deal with shopping and philosophy as though they are two diverging points at a crossroads.

Must one really give up shopping to pursue philosophy or vice versa? Well, to start down the aisle to the rollbacks of enlightenment, let’s pull out our handy dandy dictionary.

The dictionary defines shopping as “of, for, or pertaining to examining and buying merchandise” or “to go from store to store in search of merchandise or bargains” and many other similar phrases. The dictionary definition that really encompasses all that shopping is would have to be, “To look for something”.

Now let’s do the same for philosophy. Definitions range from “rational investigation of the truths and principles of being, knowledge, or conduct”, and “the critical analysis of fundamental assumptions and beliefs”, to “the critical study of the basic principles and concepts of a particular branch of knowledge, esp. with a view to improving or reconstituting them”. To better compare the two points, let’s make them both verbs. We’re talking about shopping, and philosophizing.

Shopping remains the same, but philosophizing changes somewhat. The definition is “to think or reason as a philosopher” or “to speculate or theorize, usually in a superficial or imprecise manner”.

These definitions show that shopping and philosophy are not opposites, nor are they identical, however, they are very similar. Using the information we have already gained, we see that someone could philosophize while shopping, or even go shopping for philosophy. Certainly, if they were not creating their own (self-styled - totally morally, scientifically and spiritually autonomous) belief system, they would be shopping the entire time they pondered on philosophy. In fact, since philosophy is an “investigation”, “analysis”, or “study” of existing beliefs or assumptions, philosophy MUST include some degree of shopping. Unless, of course, the “philosopher” were not open to new ideas, in which case they would just be philosophizing in the sense that they would be speculating or theorizing, in a superficial manner.

So, any real philosopher must be a savvy shopper, constantly searching for bargain basement truths and saving up “get out of a pickle in the hereafter” coupons. When you find the right system of beliefs, why not chop the top, bore the cylinders, find some vintage mags with spinners, give it a flame job, pimp the whole deal, make it your own. Who cares if it is the metaphysical equivalent of a Mexican built VW Beetle, it’s got a Rolls Royce Grille! Happy shopping, pimping and philosophizing everybody!

A little more of the same, super whiny heros!

2007-05-31T07:28:00.000-07:00

My brother was just ranting about the whiny and pathetic superheros that are on the big screen these days. He had many examples that are quite heart wrenching. He didn't pick too much on the whole Superman Returns movie, but even that was full of pathetic overtones. I don't feel like writing anything new for this blog right now, so this is what you get. A chunk of my response to my brother's blog.

One of the things that bugged me about Superman Returns was that he was voyeur, a peeping tom, a stalker. What was up with all that? You know that any dude (super or not) that spends his time spying on his ex-girlfriend (and her new guy) and sneaking into her sons bedroom has got serious issues. Sure, the kid turned out to be his son, but he didn’t have visitation rights as far as I could tell. Even so, my parents were never separated and they were just the next room over, yet my dad never climbed into my bedroom window at night, in fact he NEVER came into my bedroom at all, even through the door. My mom came into my bedroom at 3 or 4 in the morning sometimes but that was just to try to get me to eat hamburgers and blueberries. Sure, that’s bizarre and even a bit disturbing, but it wasn’t sleazy. Plus, my mother was not a super hero. Plus, she never, ever, ever climbed in or floated in through my window to offer me hamburgers and blueberries.

Back to the whininess though. This crybaby, whiny attitude is everywhere now. Remember when there were at least SOME musical groups in the public eye that weren’t crying all the time? Look at kids today, whiny, irritating, pathetic turds. They are trained from birth to be totally worthless. The government, the media, the entire entertainment industry and yes, even parents home in on all the self serving characteristics of children and use them to get what they need.

For the government, it needs mindless drones to use as cannon, grenade, or car bomb fodder. Just think how many crybabies join the military after getting dumped.

The media and the rest of the entertainment industry want money, and they will pander to whatever base inadequacy they see in the public to make it seem normal, so they can get money. In fact, it isn’t just normal to peep, it’s super! What self-respecting pervert wouldn’t pay 9 dollars for that type of validation?

As for the majority of parents, they are selfish, whiny rotten beasts too. I’m old enough now that I’ve seen some of these new mommies and daddies grow up, and I’ve seen how they were raised by their parents who were just about my age or a little older. It’s amazing to see how each generation degrades, it is so rapid, yet people generally choose not to see it.

And the saying, “Life imitates art” holds true even when that art is just marketing fluff burned onto a nickel DVD and put in a shiny box. If you buy into it, you are paying for the service, not the product, the product is you.

On the subject of everyone’s awesome beliefs...

2007-05-11T07:54:00.000-07:00

People believe stupid things. Generally this is due to a lack of education, stubbornness, or actually being raised in an environment that insulates them sufficiently from reality that they create a foundation for a system of beliefs based on these bogus “realities”. Once such a foundation is created, the accepted “truths” reside on that platform and the conflicting viewpoints (true or untrue) have no place to stand and so are easily discarded or even vilified due to the the obvious lack of harmony with already ingrained “truths”.

People argue about stupid things. People feel the need to argue their points to make others believe. Most arguments are a construct of the denial a person with unimpressive views must rely on to keep from eroding the foundation of their unreasonable beliefs. Each argument creates a new platform very close to a trunk or branch of the person’s system of beliefs. These platforms -based on either winning an argument or based on how mean (and thus wrong) the other person was- serve as a much needed structural reinforcement to the precarious system of improperly developed beliefs. Personally, I love arguing. But I think arguing should be about comparing logical processes as a fun mental exercise. Whether you have the correct or incorrect view should be properly established beforehand so that you’re not wasting everyones valuable time. Sadly, most people get into arguments totally unprepared and not really knowing whether they know anything or not.

People pretend to believe what they believe. There are many times that people must make a concession on a certain level yet wish to retain the system of beliefs they have grown to cherish so. Thus they develop another type of platform. These new ad hoc platforms serve to stabilize the precarious structure while bridging gaps between other beliefs that must be at least partially assimilated due to scientific, sociological or psychological necessity. This works well as a coping mechanism because one can retain the unstable system of “reality” that has been nurtured while allowing other philosophies to support the structure, yet never needing to examine the core or foundation of these other logical structures.

People go with the flow. The well known phenomenon known as the “mob mentality” is a great example of people going with the flow. But let’s look at it from another angle known as the “bandwagon”. When mob mentality is treated in this way it is most often considered a standby marketing tool. “Everybody else is doing it, so will I.” But this way of thinking has been nurtured so much throughout the world that there is little chance that more than a handful of people out of any group would balk at committing any atrocity endorsed by the next guy over. Everyday people who wouldn’t steal a pen from work, will torture, burn, rape and kill as long as everybody else seems to be doing it. Most likely, you are one of those people.

So people kill for their beliefs. On a certain level you can understand it. They are merely protecting the core foundation of their system of beliefs. Murder is an extension of the argument. And let’s face it, if you’re dead, you can’t possibly be right. But it is odd how they never seem to think, “murder is wrong, so some core belief of mine must be wrong”. Rather, the reasoning generally takes the form of pretending that the opposing side is more of a jerk than your side. A war could just as easily be fought with a debate and whoever has a better argument wins, but wars are always based on totally stupid ideas that have no comprehensible basis. Since both sides know deep-down that they couldn’t possibly win an argument, they decide to argue with body count. Whoever kills the most usually wins the argument.

Now I don’t want anyone to tell me that murder is okay. If that is your firmly held belief, then that’s awesome in my book. Everyones beliefs have their own special kind of merit.

Why not just use the honor system? I propose a system where everyone just looks at their own system of beliefs and honestly analyzes it. We can’t all be right about everything so it isn’t that big of a deal when you have to back down from your outmoded framework of existence and build a new one. If you learned something that negates past understanding that’s a good thing. Why feel like you have been hurt by learning? Tear down the logical structure that has become your prison. Sure, some people would prefer not to think about life in a calm rational way. But once everyone else is doing it...

Why do so many blogs fail?

2007-05-01T09:38:00.001-07:00

Blogs are useful because they enrich the time wasting capacity of both the blog writer and the blog writers audience --which is primarily made up of other blog writers-- this is called synergy. In the world of people who think they are smart this phenomenon is known as gestalt. For people who just like to use uncommon words and shove them into awkward contexts to sound smart, this is known as coadjuvancy.

It should be remembered that first and foremost blogging is about you, or in this case me. It naturally follows that blogging is about my lame ideas and how much better than your lame ideas they are. We are published authors. Even more importantly, I am.

Blogs generally attract just enough of an audience on their own to justify the authors time expenses in creating just barely enough “thoughts” to keep that marginal audience checking in every so often just to see if there has been an update. This is certainly the case with my blog. I have even been told that my blog is “one of the best blogs out there”. That’s high praise. Or is it?

Yes, saying that my blog is the best out there is much like saying that someone is the smartest retard you know, or that they have the least offensive odor, or that they irritate you in the most tolerable ways.

This course of discussion would eventually lead to a question that I am going to jump ahead to right now. If everyones blogs are so great why is it that 9 out of 10 blogs fail during their first year?

We cannot be sure, because owners of failed blogs cannot be reached. Failed blogs no longer exist. So, anyone who claims to know why blogs fail could not have found out by visiting and examining unsuccessful blogs. Questioning owners about why their blogs failed is more for therapeutic value than for collecting meaningful data.

However, from information about why blogs succeed, we can rationalize that failed blogs did not operate the same way as those that succeed.

Owners of successful small blogs can be reached and are proud of their success. They say that keys to their blog success, in decreasing order of importance, are: Search and Replace, Blog knowledge, Self awareness, Time to post, Sufficient vocabulary, Hard work.

As a result, we can speculate that blogs fail because owners lack standard blog knowledge, post market analysis, personal ability to manage, and sufficient mental resources. Most bloggers work hard even to the extent of substituting working harder for working smarter. Knowing where the pitfalls are that contribute to failures is the first step toward avoiding them.

Standard blog knowledge and experience that team management members must possess are in the areas of: Ranting, Spewing, Mincing, Blathering, Posting, Cutting, Pasting, Office Management, Blog Fabrication, Mental Insulation, Denial, Readership, Reader Service.

Blogs without enough expertise to meet specific blog needs will probably fail. Each blog requires its own blend of expertise, based on post readership, marketing media, number of employees, operating expenses, inventory, post manufacturing, reader service and profit expectation.

A Small Blog Advocate says:
nine out of ten new blogs fail in their first year, usually because of lack of training in standard blog practices or because of undercapitalization. but blog startups that collaborate with an incubator have a very high first-year survival rate - nationally, about 87% of them are still in blog. what's more, an average of 84% of the companies that have graduated from an incubator stay in their communities. at sba we work with our clients to help them avoid the pitfalls that make failure inevitable.

Small blogs are started and managed by bloggers, who by definition are "highly motivated" and typically lack training in some standard blog practices. Almost all bloggers enjoy their personal resources for their major source of blog capital. Entrepreneurs with little more than a great idea and limited funds are asking to fail.

Internet Blog Solutions has been in blog since 1996, which puts us beyond the five year milestone that qualifies blogs as successful. Also, IBS is successful in several Internet blogs, one of which, according to VISA and MasterCard, is a very risky Internet blog. We sell prepaid time wasting cards over the Internet and deliver time wasting card PINs by email without having experienced any more than one chargeback during 2000.

Since 1996, our biggest challenge and greatest reward has been dealing with readers. During that time, we have firmly resolved that the reader is not always smart. As a matter of fact,blog regarding aimless musings the reader is rarely smart. Quite a revelation when all readership advice says that the reader is a blogs life blood and is always smart.

Well, that advice was not developed from Internet readership. Further, high maintenance readers are unwordy for Internet blogs, should not be tolerated and can be be easily eliminated.

It is still true that the cost of acquiring a new reader is five times the cost of keeping an existing one in the brick and mortar world, but probably not on the Internet. Regardless, we don't want high maintenance readers. They drain our energy and take the fun out of operating a blog.

We agree that the typical unhappy blog habitué e-mails eight others of his or her unpleasant experience. But, where are they? An unhappy reader is a real problem for a small blog in a small community and less of a problem for a small blog in a large, densely populated community. How much of a detriment is an unhappy reader on the Internet?

IBS readers are not very centralized. So, unless one of our readers refers a friend, our readers are probably not going to know each other. That is not an excenjoy for treating readers badly.

But it is a reason for taking out the trash.

IBS receives about 25% of our new readers from word of mouth. So, our discrimating against high maintenance readers, who appear to us to have become irrational when we teminate them, does not seem to have hurt our readership. We know that every blog has more dissatisfied readers than it thinks. So, we get rid of high maintenance readers. They are by definition unhappy.

IBS offers our readers many ways to communicate with us so they can tell us of any problem or difficulty ordering or using our postings. We are aware that 9 out of 10 dissatisfied readers don't complain and that 7 out of 10 just don't come back!

Therefore, we send out spam to let them know how to enjoy our postings and how to select the best value post for each reader. Each IBS reader has his or her own ordering page that decreases ordering time and effort as well as improves security of each reader's credit information. Each established reader receives his or her time wasting e-turd immediately by email or blog. We realize that if we don't bore our readers, our competition will.

We have learned to resolve reader problems and difficulties on the spot, so that we lose only those readers who we chose to let go. We have demonstrated what some blog schools teach...that small blogs can challenge larger, established blogs by becoming more responsive to blog habitué needs.

We subscribe to the belief that each company, regardless of its size or the punishing quality of its postings, needs an effective strategy for managing blog habitué complaints and inquiries. IBS has found that effective complaint management enhances our company's reputation, builds blog habitué confidence and loyalty, and attracts new readers.

IBS has experienced effective complaint management resulting in increased readership, better postings, improved overall blog fabricator performance, and satisfactory blog economics even though small blogs are hit hardest by a weak bandwidth or a even dialup.

A few years ago, Stanford University research reported that nine out of ten new blogs fail during their first two years of operation, while nine out of ten Myspace accounts survive and prosper. Most bloggers start out with a good concept, a lot of energy and a little in the mental resources department. During the critical first twelve months new blog owners have ample opportunities to make mistakes due to inexperience.

Buying an existing blog is one way to avoid all new blog risks. Blog success is proven. There are no start-up problems. The blog already has readers, employees, suppliers, etc.

We developed a reader service policy for each of our postings, one policy does not fit all. We custom fit our basic reader service template to each of our postings. Our policy works so well that we have been tempted to franchise it, provide incubator type assistance or sell an existing blog policy, modified to fit another Internet blog.

Each new post IBS takes on is fitted with custom blog and reader service policies. They are tested and refined for each set of circumstances.

There are benefits in knowing the areas where new blogs might need improvement now instead of after they have been started. Experience is not necessarily the most efficient teacher. IBS can evaluate marketing and readership territory, standard blog knowledge and reader requirements, then provide feedback for any post.

If you would like a policy estimate, please provide information:
 Post, marketing and readership territory, blog expertise, name, address, time wasting number and email address. We will get back to you with feedback.

Small Internet Blogs taken as a whole are really big blogs:
Of 11 million blogs in the U.S., 10.8 million are small. And, the smallest intellects created 24 times as many incomprehensible ramblings as the largest intellects.

In 2000, Internet companies were responsible for 5.5% of the 2.557 billion of US direct bozo hits. That is .141 billion.

According to the US Small Blog Administration small blogs contribute 39% of the gross national post, create two thirds of our country's new dead weight and are responsible for more than half the nation's incomprehensible blatherings. If these numbers occur in other countries, small blog influence world wide is enormous, Impact of a small blog may be small, but as a group small blogs are one of the largest influence on the world bandwidth.

Small blogs are encouraged in a free society, are regulated by governments less than large blogs and attend to readers more personally. Small blog owners know their readers are responsible for their misplaced confidence.

While large blogs spread responsibility around, small blogs concentrate responsibility in a few key people who must develop multiple skills, take risks and rapidly implement plans resulting from quick decisions to stay wordy.

I hope that what you have just read will assist you as a blogger to hold onto your dream and keep cranking out the compost that makes us all grow and develop into fully functioning, highly adaptable impersonal pronouns.

Please let me know if you actually read all of this, I know I didn't. I just did a search and replace for certain keywords... I left plenty of clues, so if you read all of this knowing that is what I did, score 1 for me because I wasted more of your time than mine. If you read this far and didn't realize what was going on until just now, score 2 for me. If you didn't get this far, you will never know that you got 5 points for wasting my time. Kudos!

Please let me know how many points I got, without your help I won't be able to validate my existence.

Making of “War of the Worlds” spoilers

2007-04-29T07:50:00.000-07:00

Guy A: Are you telling me that I can’t peel off your socks?

Guy B: I’m telling you that you can try.

Guy A: What you need to ask yourself is “do I feel lucky?”

Guy B: Does what you’re saying even make any sense? That’s what you need to ask yourself.

Guy A: I’m not going to ask you which of those questions I’m supposed to ask myself if that’s what you’re trying to get me to do.

Guy B: Why would I even care? You’re the one who keeps trying to pull off my socks.

Guy A: I’ve been asking. I want to make this perfectly clear, if I had started trying you’d know it!

Guy B: How would I know?

Guy A: Because you wouldn’t have any damn socks, Einstein!

Guy B: The name is Epstein, Einstein.

Guy A: Yes, I know, that’s why I called you Einstein.

Guy B: No, idiot, I was calling you Einstein.

Guy A: I’m not going to ask you why you think that makes sense, if that’s what you’re trying to get me to do.

Guy B: Why would I care what you ask?

Guy A: Well, because we’re best friends.

Guy B: What brought you to that conclusion?

Guy A: The way you hang on my every word. The way you told me to try and peel off your socks. The way you always answer my questions with a, what do you call those?

Guy B: A question?

Guy A: Yeah, just like that.

Guy B: Best of luck to you Einstein.

Guy A: He he, I got your socks!

Guy B: I don’t know what you’ve got, but I’m still wearing my socks.

Guy A: Wow, the aliens are all dying!

Guy B: I know, we deliberately made the story as different as possible...

Guy A: And, don’t forget, as boring as possible...

Guy B: Right, as different and as boring as possible, but we decided to keep the original ending.

Guy A: Brilliant.

Guy B: It was the cold.

Guy A: What?

Guy B: The cold, the common cold. That’s what killed them.

Guy A: But then why?

Guy B: Don’t ask, just believe.

Guy A: I’ve got your nose!

Guy B: Oh, shut up.

Not quite the story of my life...

2007-04-28T22:30:00.000-07:00

I was the king of everything dusty and rank. They peeled me out of my soup can and dropped me off at the mall of death. I strode with the best of them. They called us Barbra Streisand. I never had time to learn why.

One day, me and some of the other Barbras impaled a hitchhiker to an oak door with an ice pick. The story didn’t get any airplay until the 11 o’clock news. The guy never saw a thing but he described us perfectly, “A pushy loud-mouthed chick who kept claiming I miss screamed her name.”

About 15 years later I wasn’t the big shot I used to be. I stopped at a convenience store and picked up one of those plastic looking, almost glowing food products. As I paid for my lunch I noticed an odd gleam in the eye of the guy at the register. By the time I was hacking down the the final chunk and fighting my gag reflex like a bulimic with short term memory loss, I realized the dude had slipped something in my ‘ham’ sandwich.

I was awakened by the smell of burning pancakes and the tickle of blood dripping down my legs, only to find myself stapled to the business end of a turkey baster.

It’s true what they say, “people who think they need a cheap-ass hoagy are the lunk-headedest people in the world.”

What the?

2007-04-28T20:46:00.000-07:00

The boy said what the? in pretentious tones, the girl said what the? in and out of her mind. The glass was all what the? rose colored shards, and people slithered in the rain.

There was no call for tidiness. No one cares. No one Cleans. No one owns anything. Everything is just a bucket of twigs, actually, that’s not a very good metaphor, but you know what I mean. It’s like staple cross or something in a lung bucket.

Nancy Dreamface or girl with the eyebrows.

She walks over, well, she wades in the sun, but I can’t stop staring at her crowded mind.

Her thick, cool glasses glisten with dead whimsy, and her voice is like lead, soft, grey and heavy.

She stutters, sputters and chokes out all the evil.

Not like a weed. Like a duck.

The vomit dances off her polished lips.

I got credit for being a student so I payed her off.

The next day I woke up early and watched as they threw the whole forest in the trash.

The science of the uninteresting...

2007-04-13T07:52:00.000-07:00

Have you heard about the new cheesy ad campaign to get funding for quantum research? It’s called Quantum Encryption or Quantum Cryptography. Sure, QE and QKD (Quantum Key Distribution) have been around in the form of a high budget grade school science project for years, but only recently has it become a major marketing campaign for Quantum Everything.

Sure, better encryption is interesting, actually it isn’t, but it’s more interesting than worse encryption. So, being the closest to practical branch of the quantum yawn-fest, it is most likely to gain acceptance in the target demo; people who have money and want to keep secrets. This conveniently includes many world governments which actually have a “license” to print money.

So what is QE? It is the simplest, most linear, most pedantic, most restricted, least quantumy branch of supposed quantum application. It is essentially based on moving a photon from one place to another. The idea is that if you look at it, it is altered, if it is altered there is a warning, if there is a warning encryption can be changed, if encryption is changed it naturally follows that data is protected.

Ideally your quantum key consisting of photons would contain no duplicates, if there were duplicates, then someone could eavesdrop and take all your data. This is where it is demonstrated that viewing a thing changes that thing. Now, when dealing with entanglement and other things (that we may never need to deal with), this is a slightly less dull concept, but when dealing with QE is it really that complicated? You’ve already done the math...

Sure, viewing a single photon changes a photon. You get the photon. If Janie has an apple (in a bag) and she gives you an apple (in a bag) then you have an apple to look at, and the apple is no longer in its (recent) state of unlimited possibility. It follows that if that apple was intercepted by Jimmy and you see Janie walking toward you with an empty bag, you will change your apple delivery system or start using theft-resistant apples. That’s a practical application of QE.

Unfortunately, QE has not reached this level yet because Janie often produces identical apples, one of which can easily be intercepted by Jimmy without you knowing. The state of apple clone #1 was not changed from its intended course, and the state of apple #2 was never an issue. Now Jimmy can sit and stare at all your duplicate apples and really get to know them.

What is the solution? QE recommends a stopgap: Produce multiple dummy apples to confuse Jimmy. As he reaches out to grab Janie’s (seemingly) randomly thrown apples he can’t be absolutely sure that he’s getting a duplicate apple or a randomly generated apple. We are only a few years away from implementation of this technology.

I’m not saying any of this to deny the validity of Quantum Anything, I admire the use of addition and subtraction by these great scientists.

Quantum cryptography is often referred to as consisting of *both* classical and quantum techniques. If some of the researchers developing this “science” are implementing any quantum techniques, I don’t see why, because they don’t need to in order to carry this label. In fact, if they continue to rely on classical physics as they do now, it will make it to market sooner, they will get more brand recognition, the sheep will believe that it is really quantum science. Of course, they could just put out the Quantum Toaster and claim that it incorporates mysteries of string theory to get your toast done perfectly ... until looking at it changes it. It will be a big hit!

I accidentally signed a new band...

2007-04-11T09:57:00.000-07:00

I didn’t even know I had a record label and now I am representing a new band. None of them can sing or play instruments. We just lock them in a room and let them bang on things. You can hear their sonic poo at myspace.com/aluminumsiding

A trickle of consciousness...

2007-04-09T22:11:00.001-07:00

My ear is bleeding the tonal inversions leading to the deafness of a lie that absorbs my heart-aches and engulfs my derided hanky of oblivions tuna sandwich tuner who trained the sparks that are packed thickly in my head that leads plenty to the forests of intrusion that pickle the minds of the undertouched by belief and thickness of substance and fear while fading into electric harmonious ranting inappropriateness of happenstance with torque envisionating with deeply intrusive lacerational inept intrepitude that divides the wordsmiths into sections of beaconed and undercooked debeakened lazy-mounded irrationals with tentforks glistening for implementational frequentalizing without realizing that the millionator is a non-denominator of sequence and substance sandwiched between the discussions entombed in the infrequently revoiced jugglings of the mind-monkey that plucks licks and rips the paperweights that adorn my heart strings of tender meat then tumble into an eternal framework of comic parlance.

I wrote this for 8th grade english...

2007-04-07T09:21:00.000-07:00

We were supposed to write an essay about the three biggest problems that our society faces and cap it off with a solution. I think our “teacher” was trying to get a Nobel Peace Prize without putting forth any effort. I knew that I was the only kid in my class with a shot at solving all the worlds problems by writing essays, so I needed to think carefully about my presentation. I only have the first draft which is very close to the final, but the teacher threw away the final draft (darn). Doesn’t matter though, neither was very good, which was the point. Anyway, I just found this and it saves me the trouble of thinking about and writing anything on the blog today. I made these few words cover two whole pages. Less words = less chance of a plagiarized Nobel Prize.

“Three Big Prob’s”

There are a number of problems facing America and its people today, among these are fakes, cheaters and skunks.

The first, fakes are a whole group of dopes and jerks. I have only one solution to this problem, to put them in jail for thirty days.

The second big problem is the cheater. The cheater likes to bet and only loses the low stakes. The solution to the cheater is to place all stakes low.

The third and last problem is the skunk. Skunks are very unclean and they stink most of the time. The solution to the skunks is a thick walled live trap that you can take the skunks to the snake pit in.

To conclude, we can see that these problems are not alike in the least. And the most sure answer to these problems is a nuclear war.

Epilogue: Needless to say my teacher never stole my idea and pawned it off as his own, also, he never won a Nobel Prize. And as you can see, the world has degenerated rather than improved. That’s what I call success!

The science of the unexplainable...

2007-04-06T08:54:00.000-07:00

Einstein was a qualifier, he qualified almost everything he said. He even put “true” and “truth” in quotes much of the time as a little reminder that the truth had to be taken in context of the specific experiment and methods used. Thus relativity is a pretty good term for science that is relative.

Einstein also qualified his qualifiers, that’s why we need to understand the differences between Special and General Relativity. Many believe that Einstein thought the theory of Relativity was the end-all be-all solution to all of the mysteries of the universe. Nobody but an idiot would actually say such a thing, Einstein certainly presented many questions that he knew he could never fully answer.

It has been years now since I have seriously slowed down on my science reading. Just because I am not as educated as I could be doesn’t mean that I am totally lost in conversations regarding new science, however, I do have a general sense of reality about me which makes me skeptical of many ideas that pop up from time to time.

I need to point out though, that many things are perceived as incorrect because the person telling about them is uninformed or unintelligent. Things can also be perceived as incorrect because they are unexplainable. There may be a logical outcome, but the methods as to how the outcome is produced are not relatable in numbers, words, colors, sensations, impulses, vibrations or audible, visible or even tangible communications of any kind. So the question a reasonable person would have to ask themselves is if an intellectual endeavor is of any value if the knowledge gained is either, unusable, incomprehensible or unexplainable. For example, I would have to ask myself, “Now that the experiment and knowledge gained are reduced to an existentialist self-enrichment exercise, is it really worth all this effort?” My general answer would be “no”, my special answer would be “yes”.

Einstein is often quoted as saying, “God does not play dice with the universe”, but Einstein would probably have agreed that God does play God with the universe. In which case he would expect that there would be observations made that would either contradict common understanding or be beyond understanding. Most scientists would still feel a compulsion (as did Einstein) to know the reasons behind an observed phenomenon. Personally, I would love to know the answers to all the mysteries of the universe, but knowing the unexplainable realities I already know leaves me with a desire to communicate some small part of what I know, even if it is said, or typed, or scrawled, or drawn, or screamed, or splattered or painted in a way that no one can truly comprehend. As for science, I still keep up with small things, most of which aren’t science as much as they are bite-sized morsels of pseudo-science whimsy.

Now, I have to say that quantum anything eventually leads to this crossroads, “Do I wish to know something incomprehensible or unexplainable (even unknowable)?” I am intrigued, but everything I want to know about this branch of sometimes science I will have to find out for myself, because even when the answers are ready they are often senseless or useless.

Generally, when a big question comes up that I know would take many years just for the grants and a lifetime to experiment, I’m happy just to say, “God plays God with the universe”. I’m sure I’ll pick up all the information that I need as I go along.

The little unventor who blabbed

2007-03-31T21:27:00.001-07:00

Jimmy was a young old man-child who wanted nothing better than to be the oldest young child-man to come up with the newest little take on the oldest big idea. The oldest idea that immediately sprung to mind was (not springs) paint. But thinking up a new idea about paint proved to be as boring and difficult to focus on as watching ideas about paint dry. There had to be something easier that seemed more difficult to everybody else. There had to be some simple little something that every other little everyone had passed by thinking it impossible. Turned out there wasn’t.

Jimmy took a job at a local ice scream sunday school scooping kids brains out. 6 weeks of sundays he worked at the same little school buttering his bread on both sides to stop the conjecture.

One day a knuckle sized thought thwacked him roundly near the tuba hole. “Edible paint”, he screamed. Well, he didn’t scream, that would have awoken the lobotomized kiddies before they could harvest their organs. Black market organs are so cute at that age, as long as nobody is fussing.

Eventually he was too excited to contain his glee, and tripping over kiddie corpses he fumbled for the phone. He then dialed the local guy who nobody trusts and told him his plan. The guy stole the idea and promoted it as his own. Eventually, he had two large folding tables and a very large salad bowl (to hold the paint chips) as the major components of a vast edible paint chip empire.

Jimmy was disappointed to see that his first little big idea was not only stolen, but was possibly the last little big idea he would ever have. Just then Jimmy had another big idea, he would create a murder hammer that would seek out people with unoriginal ideas. The idea was a big success and he was instantly killed by it. As for the other guy, he was an idiot too, he used a lead based paint to make his edible paint chips.

The tale of the hypothesist

2007-03-27T07:48:00.000-07:00

Dr. Sloppynose P.H.D. stood at the threshold between pure science and wild fantasy. He was staring Schrodinger’s box right in the cat’s eye. As he ruminated on the ramifications of the possible implementation of his theorem like a 2,000 pound bull chewing the cud of destiny. Naturally, a tear, did, didn’t, and got busy with some party planning and so almost forgot to, come to his minds cat’s eye.

Tomorrow the world would be a very different place, but would it really be a better place? “For me it will be better, that will have to be good enough for everyone”, he thought. He was right, it was a better day for him. But then the next day was terrible. Then the previous day had never happened. Then he was married to duck. Then the earth was frozen solid. Then he never existed. Then the earth was a paradise. Then he was a girl. Then the whole world was a playground. Then he was retarded. Then the planet was just as it had always been. Then he was cells in a dish used to extend a kids leg 3 inches. Then the planet was even more like it had ever been. Then he was a Nobel Prize winning ox. Then the world was a zoo. Then he was himself in the 15th century B.C.E. Then he was happy, then sad, then happy again, then very sad, then he was happy and sad at the same time, then he was finally everything, then nothing, etc...

He had done it! The disposable, single use, time machine was the ultimate success failure.

The cuddly polar bear must die

2007-03-26T01:54:00.000-07:00

I’ve been seeing this little polar bear on TV a lot the past few days. And the tag is always about how animal rights activists want him dead. What kind of sucky animal rights activists are these? I know polar bears may not get much choice, being that most animal rights activists are from tropical climates (that’s why they don’t understand that people may need to wear fur when it is cold). But come on, if I was a little snuggly cuddlekins (which I am not) I would like better representation.

They are saying people shouldn’t cuddle polar bear babies because they are wild animals. But when is there a better time to cuddle with a wild animal than when it’s a baby? Adult wild animals kill people who try to cuddle with them.

I predict zooicide bombings.

The science of the unknowable

2007-03-25T11:25:00.000-07:00

I’ve always liked science, real science, the kind of science where things actually happen, where things are discovered. What sometimes strikes me as odd, is that discoveries are often named after the discoverers, as though they had really invented what they found and hadn’t just found it. I don’t have a big problem with that, but I think that much of the time properties of the occurrence or phenomenon could be used instead. Of course we wouldn’t want that name to be too long.

I appreciate theoretical science because most of my science has been done hypothetically or even rhetorically. I have some ideas for room temperature superconductors that I wrote up when I was a kid, but I’ve never been able to test them because I can’t afford the equipment. I rarely take things at face value without doing some research, although I used to think that Einstein was an idiot, until I realized that Nigel Calder (whose writings about Einstein, I read before I read Einstein’s writings) was probably just a poor communicator or misinformed. That misunderstanding was a lesson to me, that many scientists don’t get what other scientists are saying. And just as they misinterpret words of others, they often misread obvious data within the framework of their own experiments.

Scientific research is a daunting task for the dedicated truth seeker, possibly even more so for the tried and true fact checker. The fact that every answer tends to generate at least 10 more questions often seems to make pseudo scientists feel free to comment on items that stretch deep into the unknowable. I think that the frustration of taking ten steps back for each step forward eventually wears down many real scientists as well, until they become the very thing they despised in the beginning, a prophet for a false god. They start to talk about the distant unknowable past or the distant unknowable future more than the here and now that can be recorded, observed, and commented upon.

This is how I see it, If cold fusion can’t be proven (or even disproved) to have occurred in a reasonably well monitored lab in 1989, how can anyone expect to have more reliable data than that on the lineage of Zygoticus Rex 20,000,000 years ago? Of course that is exactly why some of these guys who want a hypothetical process or modern fairy tale named after them reach so far back to grab data. It is so hazy and distant that they can make up any old crap and no one can refute it. If they want to refute it they will need to wade through data for generations, and the grudge will die long before the answer is won. Other questions requiring more immediate attention will take its place in the queue.

Let’s consider a scenario, a scientist says that pies made on the moon are nowhere near as tasty as pies made on mars. It will be so many years before there will be coordinated space bake-offs that we can’t discount that possibility. Perhaps the bold theorist will be long dead by the time the hypothesis can be tested. We are required to accept that there is some slight possibility that the same ingredients prepared in the same way on mars vs. the moon would taste much different, and we may speculate that it may be due to the limited gravitational pull of the moon vs. mars. Of course, one day we will be able to test the tastiness of moon pie vs. mars pie, if he is still alive when this happens, and it becomes clear that moon pie is better, he will simply say, “You did it on earths moon?”

Haiku the anicient art of thought folding

2007-03-23T22:42:00.000-07:00

frost envelopes me
a blank cat skates through my hair
visible in breath

a needle stops pain
right at the central vibe joint
howling at relief

grape candy peels back
thoughts of another tantrum
baby tastes the floor

art evacuates
the room of no condition
entropy enjoyed

mental spool unwinds
on a bone table I see
sparks become silent tears

artificial wound
from a plastic utensil
then roundly absorbed

Thoughtfulness and Business = Bad Beer Day

2007-03-21T17:49:00.001-07:00

Let’s go back in time... A guy comes into my office to get someone from my staff to work up a new logo for his client. We sat down and discussed the project along with other possible future projects. He was a veteran marketing guy with the full bag of cliches. He was fairly intelligent and thoughtful, and I could see that he was making mental notes about my way of speaking and items in my office.

While we were talking I was drinking a can of Budweiser (not a Czech one, the crappy American one). I was actually a little embarrassed that someone had seen me drinking a bad beer at the office. Back then I could still drink that stuff on occasion, but it isn’t enjoyable at all. In fact, I believe that I had decided while drinking that particular can that I would never drink a Bud again.

Well, I had another meeting with the guy about a week later and he walks in with a 12 pack of that garbage as a gift. So because I chose to drink that urine once (in a moment of weakness) I get stuck with 12 that I have to get rid of, and a bad beer bad reputation. I gave the 12 pack to the guy who gave me the single can.

Now, getting crappy beer as a gift is an insult on so many levels. What did it cost for that 12 pack? Maybe five bucks? I should have been drinking a Flemish reddish brown ale or something else that was difficult to find at the time. Oh well, the guy kinda creeped me out anyway, and my disinterest in his gift must have been apparent. But we finished the logo project, it was okay but not up to the quality I’m used to showing. How’s that for a trip down bad memories lane?

Eyesores soar at the Grand Canyon

2007-03-20T18:55:00.000-07:00

I was talking with my brother today about the Grand Canyon Skywalk, you know, the glass floored "ride" where you walk out and look down. It is supposed to be like a helicopter ride that doesn't go anywhere. Exciting!

I put off visiting the Grand Canyon for about 10 years of my life in Arizona. My main problem was that all the pictures looked like open pit iron mines, and I'd seen enough. Finally I went to see it, and realized that there two big differences between the Hull-Rust mine and the Grand Canyon. The first difference is that the G.C. is has a river running through it, whereas the H.R. has a lake. The other major difference is that the H.R. is in MN and the G.C. is in AZ. So, I've seen both of the famous holes in this country and my money is on the bigger hole.

I have seven better ideas than the canyon skywalk:

1 Canyon Cannon, it has it all, views, danger and even alliteration! It would just be an old circus cannon with an optional parachute. Cheap, practical and fun for the whole family!

2 Grand Canyon "Clear View" Park and Ride, this is just as it sounds, you park your car on a glass parking lot that overhangs the G.C. then you hop on the shuttle that takes you to your hotel in Vegas or Flagstaff.

3 The Grand Canyon=Grand Slam Batting Chasm, again exactly as it sounds, you stand at the edge of the canyon and just swing away. The person with the best distance wins a donkey ride to the bottom to collect lost balls.

4 Condor Medic, this is actually a subset of the previous idea, but it is so unique and exciting that I thought it should be its own attraction. You have 1/2 hour of intensive training before you join your team of naturalists and activists on a mission to save condors beaned during batting practice. You will need to be fast on your feet to avoid being hit by the falling baseballs and rare California Condors.

5 Canyon Coffee & Cake Carousel, this has views, danger, refreshments, and more alliteration than any other Grand Canyon attraction to date! You sit in a cage with a 8 pound cake (with your choice of frosting and sprinkles) and an espresso machine and a large sponge. You are slowly lowered to the canyon floor to get your cup, or will you get too excited and pour the coffee into your sponge? It will be worth the cost just for the cake alone, the great views of dead donkeys condors and heaps of baseballs are just gravy!

6 Disposable Choppers, Helicopter tours are expensive but they don’t have to be. What makes helicopter rides cost so much? Experienced pilots, expensive equipment, fuel and maintenance. We eliminate all of these with disposable helicopters. Our helicopters will use vegatable oil powered chainsaw motors, props will be made of balsa wood and rice paper, the cabin is a 15 gallon plastic bucket (perfect for picking up baseballs you might find laying around after a crash). The whole package includes a map of the G.C., a repair manual, a first aid kit, and a great egg roll recipe, because there is nothing like real egg rolls, wrapped in rice paper and cooked up in a huge plastic bucket.

7 Standing on a Rock, Saving the best for last, and pulling out the big guns means waiting until item number seven to unleash the awesomeness of the sure-fire G.C. hit! For the price of admittance to the Grand Canyon you can look over the edge and see thousands of feet down. It is like standing on a giant glass patio and looking down, only there is no glass in the way. This is going to be so huge, I just hope I can figure out a way to get in on this National Park thing on the ground floor before too many people get the same idea.

HOW TO WIN *EVERY ARGUMENT (PART IVb)

2007-03-20T11:55:00.000-07:00

Let’s take money as another example. Currency has names that are common enough to call “reality” for the purposes of this discussion. If someone holds up a twenty dollar bill you know what it is. True some might say, “that’s money”. Few might even say, “that’s very durable paper with watermarks, security thread, color-shifting ink and other security features. Some use it to facilitate transactions.”

If they say anything like this last statement, you probably shouldn’t be talking to them. The point is that it’s pretty readily agreed upon that it’s a twenty dollar bill. Not many sane people who have a life are going to argue against that reality. It is interesting to note that currency often changes in value during the course of the day. This is most evident when you travel abroad, but it has an impact locally as well. However, the name of the monetary unit remains the same, and it continues to be regarded as legal tender.

The following point is particularly fascinating to me. There is almost no intrinsic value to a twenty dollar bill. Its value beyond the scope of the marketplace is quite minimal. It could be that a twenty dollar bill on its own is the same value or only slightly more valuable than a one dollar bill, due to the twenty’s security thread which could possibly impart a small amount of extra durability (and thus quality, and thus value) to the bill. How would someone fully evaluate money when it is no longer used as a means of exchange? As I’ve already indicated, I think the main criteria would be durability (followed by opaqueness). That’s just an opinion.

Money is subjective, variable at best and often arbitrary, yet it is treated as a constant by the majority of people. Many give no thought to the fact that it has little to no benefit without the ability to facilitate an exchange. It is interesting that many of the same people who believe that there is some intrinsic worth to money beyond the usefulness (and possibly durability or malleability) of the substance(s) of which it is comprised, are the same people who ascribe seemingly arbitrary worth to their beer of veneration.

Quantity, not quality is the aim of many. “I drank a whole 24 pack myself”, “you paid fifteen dollars for that one beer? I paid $7.50 for this 48 pack”. People who quantify in this manner generally do not consider taste or quality as part of the enjoyment process. Many of these are people who’s “enjoyment” is solely based on basic linear processes. Either they want to consume a large amount of liquid, they want to consume a large amount of alcohol, they want to consume liquid quickly or they want to demonstrate the volume of liquid they can absorb. These “feats of endurance” generally seem to revolve around the belief that, being surrounded by math enthusiasts at the time of the “beerbongathon” or “chugalugfest” the quantities will be totaled and for a goodly length of time they will retain fame and “high number status”. The amount of memory loss (a difficult thing to quantify) somehow also seems to be high on the list of factors cementing the greatness of a beer. “I had such a great time this weekend! I can’t remember anything since Friday afternoon.” This has been a very long, slightly comic aside.

Just because we don’t see the merit of the “choice” someone may make doesn’t mean it is arbitrary. It might seem arbitrary to us because we can’t see the method used for defining and establishing the criteria used to evaluate the possibilities and thus develop this “preference” which may finally be acted upon.

Of course we can’t see this. Usually it’s not there.

As any thinking person should be able to see, most people have chosen (or “chosen”) not to choose. The “choices” they make are almost invariably more reflex than choice. They’ve allowed themselves to be conditioned to “enjoy” certain things in life based on repetition and environmental influence. Some have reduced their life processes to nearly the level of a grade school science project (action/reaction).

*HOW TO WIN (almost) EVERY ARGUMENT (PART IVb) b as in beer

A Shrine to Me

2007-03-19T11:07:00.000-07:00

Today I got a phone call from the Executive Director of outer space. He told me to expect something big. Bigger than space? “Twice that big”, he mumbled. “That’s a big deal then dad”, said Tube (the son I never had). Wow! My expectations of my life having been changed in an instant had changed in an instant. It was as though something big was really about to happen. “Bigger than space, dad”, I was quickly reminded by the son I never had as he deleted my conscience. Don’t! “Too late”, replied my non existent child.

“I’ll never be able to forgive (or forget) your alleged mother”, I plothered. A made up word to describe the way I communicate to my anti-son.

When the big day arrived I was like a son I never had, diluted with anticipation and full of apricots and vinegar. Yes, as you properly guessed, I am no longer writing this story. How did you, dear reader, gain such bountiful wisdom? Certainly, you show wisdom beyond your wizening!

I in fact am the son-of-a-me that was never had. And as such, can thus properly acclaim the disproportionate coronation of my dad. You would never believe him because the story is about him. But it was big, bigger than space even! And they placed it upon him with glee, there was oh so much glee, and dancing, oh, the disproportionate dancing, and twins, conjoined twins with hula hoops and hacksaws.

There was a distress in the air that no one could fake. Why would they want to? But the air was fake, mostly argon, I hate argon!

And the bows were provided for snake charmers and neptune handcuffs, but the prognosis was large, bigger than space even!

I am beginning to understand the reason that my non existent son (the one who is writing this) has allowed me to see you, dear reader, as you can barely finish this tale. It is because you are the end of this story, and I/it is/am bigger than you. Your conclusion, no matter how meaningful or meandering, cannot infuse meaning into itself or even this/it. You must secretly know this, but won’t you tell yourself? If you can’t trust yourself, then who can you trust?

Try to trust a doctor with a very mild conscience and we shall see which side of the morgue you wake upon. I have no conscience, it was rolled back at the Wallmart, and my neverboy charted it to doomsday mice.

Sparks launch my blood-target to force the issue of pain from the dark void of all-encompassing doomsday particle accelerants to the peaking of the pain in my mental shard, the one left true by bankers and deli thieves and skate park honchos.

I look at the derailed rallied clouds of crowds embarking on the journey to the center of my daily grind, forcefully intruding on my nocturnal bliss, the moment my eyes close and see the snake of sleep drift into the heart of my translucent nightshade, and they enter, with hearts made of hands and pulverized, sequenced, entombed, razor-edged diatribes, benefiting no one, being shared by all.

There are quips and engendered vagrancies that delight in stopwatch harmony. The fluttering embolism that is a symbolism of the persistent gouging away at my incomplete, post-destined, punctuated life that has been capitalized on by the hounds of reading. No pages re-inserted. No coffin overflowing. No chance to escape the day I am scraped into a shrine built for no one but dead little sad little me.

An apology...

2007-03-19T09:39:00.000-07:00

So I've been out here blogging for a couple of months now. I have plenty of good ideas, but no time to write them. So some of this blog is new, some is old, and some is not very interesting to anybody other than myself. That's okay though, I've seen what most blogs are like. I know that mine is still better than most. That's good enough for me. I seriously considered doing some sort of quality control on this blog thing, but that takes even more time.

So I'm sorry about taking your valuable time explaining that my blog is not the best but still better than most. But I thought it needed to be said. And with that out of the way, we can get back to the days important events.

HOW TO WIN *EVERY ARGUMENT (PART IVa)

2007-03-18T22:30:00.000-07:00

As we have already discussed, winning is easy if you are me. And who am I to say you aren't me? If you are in the argument game for the long haul, you will want to understand the difference between reality and perception. Once you understand the point at which a discussion crosses the boundaries between perception and reality, you can choose what is best for your particular topic, to remain firmly planted in reality, or to use perceptions as a gateway into the best argument you ever won.

People very often say, “perception is reality”. Far less often people say, “there’s perception and then there’s reality”. Never have I heard anyone say, “There is reality and from that people draw their perception”. Ironically, this is true. It’s fascinating how many people squirm and even twitch with frustration when one expresses a belief that something is correct or incorrect if it conflicts with their own apparently unfounded beliefs. Perhaps they will say, “that’s your opinion” or “that’s how you see things” or “I don’t know about that”. These are all great responses, but the last one’s best because it is a sideways way of saying, “since I don’t know, you must be wrong”. Of course if one agrees with these unfounded beliefs the response will be hearty agreement. They may say, “yes, that’s true” or “I know”.

Not that there’s anything wrong with perception. Perception is what makes everyone who isn’t me unique. Everyone else being unlike me is what makes me appear unique. I don’t mind being called different, even if I’m not. I also don’t mind too much being called the same, even though I’m not. This has been a comic aside.

The reactions to a proposed reality or opinion are generally provided by the respondent in roughly the following format, 1. twitching, awkward defensive/offensive posturing 2. opposing response 3. lecture on perception and reality. This lecture should fully explain how we all have different viewpoints, we are entitled to our opinions, and how they are all correct, and yet incorrect. They may be “polite” and thus omit telling you that you’re wrong. What just happened?

Nothing. Nothing actually happened. Time elapsed but nothing was actually stated. Not even an “Agreement to Disagree” was exchanged. They could have just as well have said, “My opinion doesn’t matter”. The aim is to gloss over the notion that there are facts and speculations and these two things may differ or even conflict in their amount of meaning.

Reality or not, your perception and their perception may be mutually exclusive. Let’s say that the discussion revolves around a glass of beer. Your view is that the beer is bad. His view is that it’s great. Can it really be both? Clearly it can be perceived both ways. Perception being touted as reality is a very unfortunate reality.

Interestingly enough one of these much-debated “beers” makes claims of kingship. Of course, it’s not even popular opinion that makes a king. A king comes in and takes power. And like most kings it has lost touch with reality and relies heavily on perception. This has been another comic aside.

Reality, however, must exist if there is to be perception. If nothing is real, nothing can perceive. Some (idiots?) say, “perhaps there is no reality and we’re all just in someone’s dream.” You may respond, “if that is the case there still must be the reality of a dreamer, besides dreams actually exist, although not tangible.” Or perhaps you might respond, “but how would you explain the fact that I know what you just said isn’t true?” Or perhaps your response would be, “maybe you thinking you are keeping up your side of an intellectual discussion is a dream and you’re really an idiot.”

* HOW TO WIN (almost) EVERY ARGUMENT (PART IV)

A funny thing about school shootings...

2007-03-17T12:09:00.000-07:00

When I was in either third grade or my second fourth grade, I heard rumors that a kid had brought a gun to school. A girl named Tina and myself disarmed the kid and gave the gun to the teachers. Turned out it was just a starter pistol, but apparently he was putting rocks in the barrel and trying to shoot branches off trees. Regardless of any of that, he was not punished as far as I know. It wasn’t on the news. He never tried it again as far as I know. These days that kid would be in prison and Tina and I would have been praised as heros. These days it doesn’t matter if the gun is real, its all those mind bullets the kids shoot. I think that’s all the teachers were afraid of with me. They probably worried about what would happen if just one of my mind bullets materialized. What they never seemed to notice was that my mind bullets were real, but they weren’t bad bullets, they were bullets of benevolence.

Anyway, that kid who had the gun, used to steal the little gold stars and “good job” and “well done” stickers and take them home to his mom affixed to his F papers. It was really sad. But I think it has become abundantly clear that sad and pathetic is funny. I still wonder if his mom ever figured out that he was not the student the stickers made him out to be.

The School of Life IV

2007-03-16T09:41:00.000-07:00

There are too many dreary tales of woe from my life in school to recount them all. In fact, I’m not sharing any of the real horrors with you (just the fluff) because the descriptors required would be to mindbendingly shocking. I made several attempts to describe them, but without using only the most perverse analogies and offensive descriptors it just doesn’t come remotely close to helping others understand the reality. Once people get to know me better and I reveal a small fragment of the pain inflicted by the depth of weakness of the minds of others they are shocked and they think that I’m telling a horrible sick joke or just insane. But the problem comes from them comparing me as an equal to themselves. They can only comprehend lower level anguish. They think physical torture is worse than mental torture because they are more physical than mental.

Of course, even I can’t comprehend what I went through as a child, partially because I’m not nearly as smart as I was, and partially because when you experience real trauma you can only fully comprehend the pain during the pain. Afterwards, when the pain is just a memory, it softens. But it still makes for great anecdotes.

One of my overall points with this writing about school days is that school never gave me anything real, it just corroded, eroded, shredded and ate away at my soul. It beat me down, plundered my mind and attempted to nullify my worth. In many ways what they were trying to do worked, I could certainly call myself a victim of the school system if I wanted to. But even with all that they ripped away, all the ways that I conformed and foolishly allowed them to control me, I started out with so much substance and worth that even as the shell of the boy I once was, I am a man who is still too cool for school. I am a proud drop-out. I am the purple-heart winner of the war of the mind, I am the Heisman trophy winner of being the only kid in my class who never learned the rules to football, I am the Nobel Peace Prize winner of not being the first kid to shoot everybody in school, and I am the impeached king of compromise. Besides, who really wants to claim to be a victim of something that is weaker than them? That would just be sad.

The School of Life (part III)

2007-03-15T09:04:00.000-07:00

I have to start by saying that I know this series of writings is not of interest to most people, but I’ve titled them all clearly so that you can avoid them at your pleasure.

Fourth grade was a year of true protest, no homework, no work in class except what it took to maintain a C to D average. It was very difficult to hit D all the time, me and my friend Troy would compare drawings and try to shoot low enough on our scores to get into the special classes. This wasn’t actually possible, but it worked because our teacher HATED us in no uncertain terms. There were quite a few D and F students in my class who never got sent to the special classes, but we weren’t complaining. The teacher really sent us there to (1) get us away from her and to (2) try to embarrass us. But which would you prefer, to be talked to in a slow sweet voice by a teacher who thinks you’re retarded or have your mind raped? Right, it’s a no brainer (no pun intended).

Troy and I would finish our ‘tard work quickly and then have a couple of hours to spend in the library actually getting a chance to learn for a change. It seemed that this was the perfect scam, except for the fact that it raised our grades to B’s and C’s, I may have been left with as little as one D at the end of the year.

One day my 4th grade teacher sent me home with a note for my mother that said, in essence, “If you sign this we won’t hold your son back, if you don’t sign this we will”. My mother, of course, didn’t sign it but never told me. I got my report card and it said, “Placement next year: Grade 4”. I was sick, I was being “consoled” by several girls in the class who were very sympathetic but now sounded just like my special class teachers. The evil 4th grade teachers plan was a success, I was embarrassed. I was also sick and shocked. I never trusted anyone (including my parents) but to have such blatant confirmation of my mothers betrayal did hurt a little.

Later my mother told me that she agreed with the teacher and that I was immature for my age. I said, “Have you even seen these idiots? They eat paste and chew on pencils all day!” I knew there was no fighting it, my mother had no understanding of what I was going through, she had bought into the system long ago, even having been homecoming queen.

My second fourth grade was extra painful but mostly due to the multi-faceted monotony and then having to learn the names of the new crop of idiots in my classes. I had a good teacher. I didn’t learn anything from her, but she wasn’t afraid of my brain, maybe just because she knew that all the other kids thought I was dumber than them. She clearly liked kids (even though I still can’t see why). Overall it was at a relatively calm place between rapes. She read Judy Bloom books to the class. In a way, it was refreshing that the kids in my class weren't intimidated by me.

For some odd reason I seemed to be the only kid that didn’t have a music class that year. It was my previous 4th grade teacher who also taught music. Somehow she had arranged it so that she didn’t have to see me at all that year. She was winning all the way, my only consolation was that she was sentenced to life as herself, and that was something I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

The School of Life (Part II)

2007-03-15T07:25:00.000-07:00

When I was in Kindergarten (the first day) it took me less than 10 minutes to figure out that it was a scam. It took me no more than 1 hour to vow to myself that I would quit school at the earliest possibility. In 8th grade my mother promised me that I could quit school the next year (when I turned 16). Of course, she went back on her promise just before I was going to quit. A deal was finally negotiated wherein I would attempt to like school in 10th grade, and if I still didn’t like it, I could quit.

So, I coasted through 9th grade, tried in vain to get a negative GPA and waited out the year, I got a horrible case of pneumonia and missed many days of school. The pneumonia and its associated ailments remained with me for many years, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t keep my GPA down. I had avoided doing almost all work, it had been quite a few years since the last time I had taken any homework home. I rarely did any work in class, and I would only do tests when I felt like it. I must say though, you can do nothing at all and get a B or even an A in many classes just by acing a test.

If I was going to college I would have majored in tests. I was great at tests, I never had to know anything about the subject. I could generally skip 15 days in a row, take all the tests and still get a good range of scores (mostly A’s and B’s but some C’s and D’s too) but for me school wasn’t about scores, It was about survival. Not surviving being beat up (although I did get beat up a lot during certain years). A real man (or even a real boy) can take physical beatings. I was also afraid that I would accidentally kill these kids (even though they were in large groups and/or bigger than me), because I was smarter than them, and I generally had a good grasp of why they were beating on me. They were fragile minded children and I was not going to kill them for being too stupid to know that I was not even remotely associated with the source of their rage.

I’m not saying I was very smart back then, just that I was smart in comparison to everyone else. Which is certainly nothing to brag about. As for my current intelligence or smarts, that is no longer an issue. Yes, I’m still much smarter than most people, but I’m not even a reasonable fraction of the person (or mind) that I once was.

Getting back to the survival I was describing... I was speaking of the mental terrors that were imposed upon me from the beginning to the end of my schooling. Some outstanding torments included Kindergarten’s infamous Nap Time (which is particularly bad for an insomniac) where I was forced to lay down on the concrete floor on a towel I brought from home and stare at the ceiling for 45 minutes, being forced to play with blocks, square dancing, floor hockey, baseball, having teachers attempt to force me to sing, being locked outside with all the idiot students during recess as if I hadn’t spent more than my share of time with them (of course I would sneak back in through the window and read or hire myself out as a spy most of the time), being forced to do math again after I figured out how, being forced to use their mathematical systems, being forced to write with cursive letters, being forced to print everything after being forced to write fancy for a couple years, being forced to use pencil, being forced to use pen after deciding pencil was okay, being told you have to buy a calculator, being told you can’t use the calculator, being told that you can use the calculator but you have to show your work...

I know what some of you are thinking, “these are things YOU hated, but it wasn’t about you, It was about all of the students”. And you’re right, it certainly had nothing to do with me, except to attempt to remove all the me from me and turn me into an industrial robot. Even as a very young child I knew that square dancing and memorizing the lyrics to Sidney is a Silly Centipede were not viable “life skills”, but you know what? I was the only kid that protested singing the song on the grounds that it was stupid and on moral grounds (which again amounted to the fact that I thought it was stupid). I was the only kid who protested any of this garbage and I had my personality set to negative decibels and was running a personality white noise maker, I was trying my best not to complain, but it was ALL so stupid and it was killing me. All the robotards around me seemed to bask in it. As a side note, it turns out I was 100% correct, it is a very stupid song. So, the one with the backbone and the mind to run it should have been the one controlling the curriculum.

I was affected by the conformity of singing later on, when a particularly harsh teacher wasn’t going to take “it’s retarded” for an answer, and I had to once again compromise my principles and pretend to be singing the song (by moving my lips). Turns out that this was life training that I one day had to use, when my “team” at work had finished all of our work for that day but one of the higher-ups was walking through the building, the manager comes running in and shouts, “look busy”. It is a very sad realization, knowing that I had picked that up from school, that I actually did have to use it in “the real world”, and that it was just as stupid as square dancing. I tried to avoid similar jobs in the future and got very good at quitting jobs that offended my conscience.

The School of Life (Part I)

2007-03-10T16:37:00.000-08:00

School is supposed to prepare one for the “real world”. It is supposed to give us the life skills to ace our future careers. It is no secret that it only works that way for idiots. In case there are some idiots reading this, I’ll explain. First of all though, congratulations, you are a happy product of the school system!

If you are an idiot there is one easy way to tell, you don’t have the bitterness and resentment that comes from having your mind raped on a daily basis, rather, you feel an attachment to the institutions with which you were affiliated and a fondness for the students of their chaos.

I will take this time to mention that I don’t think that all schooling is bad, and not all teachers are bad. I have noticed however, that many people get into positions that they consider to be positions of authority because of the fact that they have virtually no self esteem. They have no self esteem in most cases for very sound reasons. I have no problem with the kindly sub-intellect that just likes kids and wants to help them in any way they can. And there is certainly a small group of these in public and private schools. Of course there are so few that there are many schools that don’t even get one. These may rarely teach you anything, but they are just about the only ones with a shot. But mostly they are just good for chilling out before the rest of the days mental trauma. I’ve never checked the numbers scientifically, but some schools possibly get quite a few and perhaps this is where some of the reasonably intelligent teachers come from.

I had a couple of teachers over the course of my government imposed sentence that I thought were probably fairly intelligent. One such person I could actually converse with on his own level as though we were really equals. When he would bring by little experiments for the kids, he would accept my wishes to abstain. With tests and quizzes, he would also respect my wishes (of course I would still get marked off points for not engaging in that part of school activities) but never would he mark points off for thoughtfulness, creativity or insight as most teachers would. I remember how sad he was when I told him I was quitting High School, as though he really believed that there was ever something for me in school. Now, perhaps if I could have gone to college right off the bat rather than kindergarten I could have taken it for 4 years. As it was I almost totally stopped taking homework home in third grade. I had totally given up on schooling on the first day of kindergarten, when I realized that it was just a place to enforce conformity and give tiny minded teachers a little ego boost, and of course to rape little minds. The only thing sadder than being a student is being a teacher who really believes it is a big deal to control a child. I tried to comply with their arbitrary standards, but they were so contrary to logic that I frequently bent my standards to the point of breaking and wasn’t even close to what they wanted. I felt totally compromised, and they thought that I hadn’t been paying attention. Idiots!

It was during this time that I fully realized that when you have no power the only way to control the power is to make sure the power has no control. That may sound like chaos to some, but it isn’t. I’m speaking of the power exerted by disinterest. Almost all of my childhood victories over ignorance were mostly due to my general disinterest in stupidity, and in part due to the school system beating me down so much that I didn’t care. I didn’t care about my future, my now, or even my past.

Since most teachers have the same exact disposition as rapists the rapist analogy is a solid foundation from which to build a platform of discussion. But on second thought, we’ll have to finish this later, after I’ve had more time to think through the analogy. I don’t want school teachers to think they’ve suddenly been promoted to rapist status.

Know thy you Be thy thee

2007-03-09T22:41:00.001-08:00

What makes us self aware? Actually most people don’t have a clue who they are. So a better question might be, “what makes me know who I am?”

A good question, thanks for asking. I just know, that’s all. It’s like anything. Ask me how I come up with unique ideas. Go ahead.

The answer is, I think of them.

Now, I have to admit that I sometimes think of things after others have already thought of them, but when you have as many original ideas as I do it is inevitable that some may overlap with some original or unoriginal ideas of others. That’s why when I say something that fits into the category of observational humor, I generally let the people with whom I am communicating in on the fact that I may not have been the first one to say such a thing.

I also must admit that I conform the outworking of my thoughts to formats conducive to sensory comprehension. This is to say that a certain creative work may look, feel or sound like something familiar to you. The idea conveyed is still enough in tact to be appreciated, but on the verge of being destroyed by its own representation.

People always suggest or ask for a list of influences. A real person doesn’t need influences. I have no problem with people who have influences, but it can often damage their credibility. It is as though one is saying, “I do this, and here’s someone who did it much better a long time ago.” So, as for inspiration and influences, I already have myself, so I have no further need of influences.

As for my drawn and painted artwork, it isn’t about the artist, it is about an individual physical representation of a completely unique thought that has no physicality, tangibility or any possibility of finding words or objects that can accurately express it. The combination of everything is “good enough” to express the thought I want to convey. People always ask what a painting or drawing is “about”. My answer is the same, “It is about itself, a physical representation of a thought I had. If you try to assign words to it or concepts you are familiar with then you are getting further from having an understanding of the work.”

I’m not trying to say that all of my art is complicated. Much of my work is simple in concept and simple in execution. But I would still say that my work is far better than most other work throughout all history, because it is unlike anything else. Sure, it may look like things you have seen, but that’s called communication. I made it look like things you’ve seen because that is the only way for you to see it. If you see the image, then peel away all that it made you think of, remove every word association that popped into your mind, you’ll see a bit of what I was thinking.

Of course, sometimes I’m just drawing a silly looking dog or a cabbage made of razor blades. But I hope you can tell the difference without me having to explain it to you.

Life and the sound of waiting for applause

2007-03-09T10:15:00.000-08:00

I want to make a horror movie called “PLANET EARTH” it will star everybody, doing all the crap they do all the time. It will suck, but it will be the biggest hit ever at the box office. Credits and commercials will run right on top of the movie itself. The credits will take an eternity to complete but everyone will stay to the end because they will be waiting for their name to show up. Since the credits will start in order of appearance, no one will ever be able to live long enough to see themselves in the credits. Entire generations and nations will rise and fall in this one gigantic theatre. This will all be filmed and shown to future generations and the credits will go on and on and on. Bodies of the dead stars/patrons will be buried in popcorn and candy, then mumified by the sugars from spilled soft drinks.

I won’t take a writing or directing credit. I will have a brief cameo where I play the part of a person who moved out to the middle of nowhere to get away from all the noise, but military planes are always buzzing around because it is such a sparsely populated area. I will be the comic relief because I sit around all day giving people the benefit of the doubt.

The Tale of Embryon

2007-03-04T23:32:00.001-08:00

There once was a little boy, a very little boy, and young, very very young. His mother was dainty, considerably dainty. And his life was a chore, a bore and the sort of a crapfest from which grew lore. Sorry about the rhyme, I got carried away. The point is that he was small and his life was a big task. His mom was dainty so she was not likely to be of any great assistance to him.

When he went to school he had to stay inside his mothers womb, this was difficult for him because of all of the name-calling. Names like mommas boy, belly boy, core and unborn/undead were commonly heard (by his mother) on the playground. He was generally unaware of the sadness he should be feeling. I think I forgot to mention that his mother was also petite, both dainty and petite. As Embryon grew older he depleted his mothers few resources to such a great degree that she eventually had to give him up for adoption. She was saddened that she had to leave her home that she loved so, and had paid for with money that was supposed to go to her education at the International Steroids and Weightlifting University. Now all her dreams were replaced by vague, indifferent hypotheses about what it might be like to be any two other people besides herself and her son.

The foster parents were very friendly and astute, they were like very very large teachers, and they knew it. Embryon’s new family sent him off to military school, imagining it would make a man out of him. They were fairly bright folks, but not hip to the fact that it is difficult to make a man out of a boy that still has a mother outside of him. The simple fact is that Embryons mother couldn’t keep up with the rigorous training needed to keep her son in military school. Plus, she was disturbed by the fact that all of the classes were about how to scoop guts out of moms.

At long last, Embryon’s mom had enough with the prison inside her and took her own life by giving him his. At this emergence, Embryon was fleshy and raw. His adoptive parents were happy to finally see him in all his huddled red radiance. And quickly introduced him to his adoptive brothers Cephalovoid and Extrolung as well as his adoptive sisters Cranimorph and Rhinaclasp. As he sat in a pool of blood he began to appreciate that there were many others in this world that were odd and had difficulty fitting in. He started to realize that he had spent too much time hiding in the womb and needed to get out there and live his life.

His adoptive parents allowed him to go to school with his brothers and sisters and were able to get him honorably discharged from military school.

At his first day of school he was happy to see that his brothers and sisters were all greeted in a kind way by all of other children. As he walked proudly with his siblings everyone shouted to them in perfect harmony, “hey, what are you kids doing with that fetard?”

Dear Diary, I’m leaving you...

2007-03-03T07:42:00.001-08:00

Hi Diary, I know that this is my first time writing anything to you, but I wanted you to know that I care. How I long to rifle through your pages recounting childhood dreams, aspirations, interests and girls I liked. But there were none. How I wish I could page through my history and see everything with a new perspective and laugh at the childish and carefree point of view I had back then. But I don’t need to, because I remember, and that’s not how things were.

What it all boils down to is this: You were never there for me. You were all about words and not about feelings, ideas or freeform expression. If you didn’t have blue lines all over your pages, If you weren’t bound so tightly that you made writing a joke, if you were made from a higher quality acid-free paper so I could be certain of your archival quality, or better yet, if you were able to contain abstract or immaterial concepts and retain them with perfect clarity so that I could recall them exactly as they originally were instead of having to remember them as objects or colors or even worse, WORDS, then I certainly would have let you into my life a lot more.

But you are stupid and useless, fat and empty. That’s the most polite way I know of saying it. My feelings are, of course, much deeper than that, but don’t bother asking me to write it all down because deep feelings can’t be written, and if they could you wouldn’t understand.

An ode to a Utah! Driver...

2007-03-02T19:40:00.000-08:00

Dear stupid driver, why do you stay so near? Can't you find your way without me? When you pass me you slow down. When I pass you again you risk your life to get back into formation. Do I create the perfect wake in my 1996 volvo 850 Turbo? I know you are from the far away land called Utah! but right now I'm there too. It is very disturbing to see that everyone else here seems to love me or my old car at least as much as you. Why did you just turn left and chase me off the road? Don't you love me anymore? There is oh so much more that I could say, but I may just find a way to say it with my car.

A unifesto (a singular, hurried, incomplete, defective "manifesto")

2007-03-01T04:21:00.000-08:00

“Once you label me you negate me” is a quote attributed to Kierkegaard. It isn’t fancy like some other Kierkegaard quotes, quips, Japes and Insights. It certainly isn’t his best statement overall, if indeed he even said it. Perhaps he titled the work in which it was written and then it disappeared.

If someone could label me in the sense that I was perceived by the populace of the entire world in a unified way, even if that viewpoint was derogatory, I would still know my personal worth. Although I must say that even the strongest among us may be a tiny bit swayed in their feelings of self worth either + or - based on the opinions of others. But, I would think negation would come in a more complete way, it is NEGATION after all.

A label does change a thing, a can of generic soup vs. a can of big name soup (both made by the same manufacturer out of the same ingredients) will experience very different cupboards in very different homes for several years until someone finally opens them and purges their contents thus negating them.

As for the general use of this quote, I’ve always thought of it as a whiny statement, a pre-victimized perspective, as though anyone could just walk up to you and negate all your worth (assuming you have some).

If you allow someone to label you then you have most certainly opened yourself up to the possibility of some variety of personal negation.

I think it is more to the point to say, “if you freely associate yourself with a moniker of questionable worth, you have placed your value in peril.” We don’t have complete control over our existence but until I am given a label over which I have no control whatsoever, such as “corpse”, I will present myself as an independent entity. I will avoid established labels as much as reasonably possible. When I create a label that is assimilated into the vernacular, I will disown the label at its point of saturation.

The Transubstantiation of the Cheese and Wine

2007-02-28T07:07:00.000-08:00

I get strong cravings for meat every once in a while. A perfect meal for me in this situation is a medium rare porterhouse, a baked potato, asparagus, and a glass of Château Puygueraud (any year). But sometimes I have this craving and just can’t get the meal together. First of all I don’t have any Château Puygueraud on hand and haven’t for over a year. Secondly, I don’t always have a good steak just lying around. Thirdly, I live far from civilization (if indeed such a thing does exist) and can’t go out and easily buy these items. So I must at times make do with a cheese plate and a different wine, often an American (or even Canadian) Bordeaux style blend. One of the best deals I ever had was 1998 Conn Creek Anthology for only $18 a bottle. I was flat broke and thus couldn’t justify buying more than the 3 bottles I purchased (which I also couldn’t justify). Well, needless to say, that’s all gone too.

To get back to the point, sometimes a glass of wine, a few pieces of extra aged Gouda and/or some Old Mimolette and maybe a slice of mango or apple do the trick. It is as though they have somehow transformed into that perfect meal inside me.

a new deodorant can of deodorant worms

2007-02-27T06:41:00.000-08:00

Trying a new deodorant is a big deal for me, because I have allergic reactions to almost every deodorant and antiperspirants make me sweat profusely. My last deodorant had the slogan “developed with athletes” proudly displayed on the label. I often wondered how the athletes assisted with its creation. Were they the “scientists” who formulated it? Were they questioned to see what they wanted in a deodorant? Were they guinea pigs who were experimented on, perhaps without their knowledge, or were they just pulverized, liquified, or granulated to somehow serve as the base for the deodorant? Doesn’t really matter, because it worked okay. If it works, I don’t care how many dead sports heros are in it, and I don’t care how dumb the people are who made it. But I could no longer find that particular deodorant. My new deodorant looked as if it had already been opened and possibly used, so I examined the top to see if there were hairs or something in it, and written right on the top were the words “TAKE THE RISK”. I was thinking, would some dude rub this under his arm and then emboss these words to try to goad me into acquiring his unique variety of underarm warts? Now, you know I’m a risk taker when it comes to deodorant, because i need to try them out to find out if I’m allergic. I don’t need to be taunted by my deodorant, as though I’m not living on the edge already. Another slogan for the same deodorant was, “FOR RISK TAKERS, It’s the smell of telling your boss that he hasn’t had an original idea in 20 years.” That seems a bit unfair, because I am my boss, so If I wear this deodorant I’m telling me I’m not a very good boss, plus, I’m a risk taker, and I haven’t had any good ideas in a while, and apparently I don’t like me. Of course, I would have to assume that it was the marketers complaining that they had to do this campaign, because how could they have known that I might take the risk?

Well, I decided to go ahead and take the risk, I’m wearing the deodorant as I write this. It seems to be working okay, but I’m beginning to feel dissatisfied with my job, life, self, I would jump off a building but I would have to drive for more than an hour to find a building tall enough... There is a silo about a mile from here. Now I’m on a quest to prove something to this deodorant. But it is easier to be a risk taker now that I hate myself.

The tale of Lucifractus

2007-02-26T07:50:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time there was a 3 sided semi-opaque semi-translucent boy with a glowing spine. He was just opaque enough that you couldn’t see all of his internal organs (which were shiny and true). He was very refractive, more refractive than other semi-opaque things would normally be, for instance, a sandblasted prism would not be nearly as refractive as he. His refractiveness was highly coveted by black marketeers and there were many attempts made to capture him, lobotomize him and use him as a chandelier. But in his refractiveness was his cunning, plus he could run equally swiftly forwards, backwards and sideways, and he made many daring escapes. Sometimes he would pretend to be part of a chandelier (which is ironic, incase you didn’t notice). At other times he would pretend to be a neon sign, and had even earned the nickname “neon spine”. Due in part to his personal charm and to a great degree due to his ability to recharge glowing golf balls by resting them in his shirt collar he became something of a local celebrity. All of the 24 hour business men knew him due to his consistent presence and visibility on the nighttime courses. He was the first ever in all history to simultaneously hold the titles “Very Glowy” and “Highly Refractive” at the state fair. It was this renown for taking part in simple community activities that eventually landed him the opportunity to be on Jay Leno. But Lucifractus was a proud little fella, and decided that even though Jay’s head could easily support his weight, he would wait until he was invited as a proper guest. His personal integrity gained him even more prominence in his small town but he was never again asked to go anywhere or do anything by anyone outside of his small town again. He lived a simple life, became a bee keeper, and sold honey on the street corner. Many wondered how a life with so much sparkle and promise could have made such a nominal ripple in the fabric of the patchwork quilt of our lives. The easy answer is, that’s what always happens. Call it pride, modesty, artistic or personal integrity...

The moral of this story is, “If Jay Leno wants to wear you as a hat, just let him.”

Marketing New Economic Hybrids

2007-02-24T08:57:00.000-08:00

I’ve seen many third-rate products gain almost universal acclaim due to great marketing campaigns. You can probably think of a few billion of such instances yourself. One of the lamest and most offensive product endorsements you will ever be bombarded with is the marketing of a child by that child’s progenitor.

No matter how good your product is no one will appreciate it without some sort of marketing. One of the best forms of marketing is word-of-mouth. Word-of-mouth is usually much more effective than other types of advertising because it generally comes from a friend, colleague or other familiar source. Word-of-mouth is also generally delivered with a great amount of enthusiasm because the person WANTS to talk about the product or service. They aren’t being paid or coerced to do it. They often don’t even have a clue that they are advertising. They are just talking about what they believe in.

I believe this is so with most parents, they believe in the product. They have to believe in it because it comes from their “factory”. They don’t want others to think they churn out shoddy progeny. There hasn’t been enough real-world testing to know whether the child will be capable of any appreciable tenure on the world scene, receive any acclaim or notoriety, or even assimilate into the proletariat cog-pool. So the parent starts an ad campaign early on to convince people that their flatulent little poo-ball has intrinsic worth beyond what appears to the “untrained” eye.

This is accomplished by parading the “outpouring of ones loins” around proudly so everyone can see. If the “loin-fruit” is more of a rotten apple, then photos are proudly displayed while horrific tales of anguish, perversion and sadism are refashioned into charming post-traumatic retrospectives in which the antihero is portrayed as truth incarnate. The facts are not fully glossed over, most of the gut-wrenching detail is on display. The parent/marketer does cover things up, but they need to keep the product real, so it is mostly the presentation that is altered, not the facts.

A common way to “happy things up” is to cap it all off with a colloquial buzzphrase such as, “boys will be boys”, “we just love him to death,” “he’s my joy”, “we were all kids once”, “if you had kids you’d understand”, “you did the same thing when you were a kid”, and “well, lets just see what your kids turn out like!!!”

Of course, you don’t have to let people know you have such a bad product. In fact, you could go back to the drawing board and figure out if you really should be in marketing. Maybe you’d be better served (as would all of us) if you just spent more time improving the product before you tell us all how great it is.

I realize that I truncated this analysis rather abruptly, but does anyone really have time to dissect and catalogue the intricacies of a collective irrational mind? Besides, you wouldn’t read it.

HOW TO WIN *EVERY ARGUMENT (PART III)

2007-02-23T07:30:00.000-08:00

Here are a few more tips and tricks to try (just for fun) during your next argument.

Establish multiple definitions of key words. Listen closely to the opposing viewpoints and pick out the key words that they use to make their case. Take special note of the meanings they intend to apply to that word in this context, then start using these words to build your own case. Avoid using their definitions, imply this by your context but try to straddle at least two different definitions of these key words at all times. This will allow you to change the meaning of your statements “post factum” by making statements such as, “I was referring to (the word) in its classical sense” or “I was bringing up a hypothetical” or “I meant that as a verb” or even “well, if you want to get all technical about it I’ll just make up a new word for the concept” (then start replacing the word with their name, their children’s names or other topics they might find touchy).

Try footnotes. This is a variant of the afore mentioned method, but in this case the word choice is fully initiated by you. The research should be done in advance to find a few great misleading words. Although, pretty much any word should be vague enough because you can also add meaning to your words by “footnoting” them thus raising them beyond the scrutiny of context. Then, later you can explain that you had “footnoted” that particular usage of the word and were going to come back to it later. Or you can say that the word must be understood in context and you have to finish your entire thought before it can be properly explained. Try this several times during the discussion. Depending on the desired reaction, this can be particularly enjoyable if your proof seems to be negating itself.

Go with what you know. This is a cheesy way to argue, but many find it enjoyable. Every single little thing that the other person says, you just say, “I don’t know about that”, that’s it. You don’t need to know anything, and you just might win.

I’ll conclude this lesson with a story about an argument that I witnessed just the other day. A guy walks up to me at the gas station (while I’m filling the tank) and is just finishing what sounds like a very forceful argument, he seems to be making a good point. I assumed he was talking on his cell phone, but as he walked up to me and finished his point (which was totally coherent, yet unintelligible (brilliant style)) I could see that he was just some bum or drug addict. He had no phone, he wasn’t talking to anyone specific, he was talking to everyone. Taking on the entire world one blip or conversational fragment at a time.

As he completes his dissertation, he stares right at me and says, “I’m right! Well I sure don’t see you arguing!” Then he walks away saying, “yeah! That’s what I thought!”

I could have spoke up but then he would have probably said, “back off, this is between me and your hair!” So he won that argument just by being vague about who or what he was actually arguing with and what his beef was. Brilliant self preservation mechanism. And a reasonably respectable style.

* HOW TO WIN (almost) EVERY ARGUMENT (PART III)

HOW TO WIN *EVERY ARGUMENT (PART II)

2007-02-22T09:13:00.000-08:00

Sometimes you need to avoid the argument to win. I know that may mean that you don’t win the current argument, but you have to consider your overall record. You need to remember that some people will actually kill you for being a winner or even starting an argument with them. I know that it puts a huge damper on your day if you don’t get to argue (especially if you belong to the “Total Jackass” school of debate), but you have to think of the big picture, there are many others out there waiting to engage you in verbal fisticuffs. Are you going to take away their joy because you want to match wits with a knife, gun or kick to the head?

Remember, no matter what your specific aim is, to teach, preach, or terrorize, argument is about destruction. You certainly can’t teach someone anything new until you have extinguished their hopes, banished their dreams, pulverized their expectations, subverted the foundations of their deeply held beliefs and deconstructed the psychological artifice that keeps them from listening to you blindly. Plus, sometimes you need to convince them that obvious truths such as gravity don’t exist (this will be discussed in part 8).

The great thing about my methods is that they are proven true for almost all styles of and motives for argumentation.

Of course there is no point in facing-off with a person who has no intellectual fodder to throw on the mixed metaphorical bonfire of brain-boxing. If you have some dummy throwing mind-feces at you, just let him believe he won, let him have his moment of “glory”, he’ll probably die soon by suffocating on a plastic bag. And when he’s gone, you and the plastic bag can get together and discuss your collective accomplishments.

Being right doesn’t mean you’ll win an argument, in fact, it may even be a hinderance at times. One of the best ways to win an argument is to know all the facts but not tie yourself down to them. This gives you the fluidity you need to assail your foe from any angle. You will sound more credible if you can appear to have an actual viewpoint, but it isn’t usually necessary.

You are probably thinking, “sure, it may be the best way, but I don’t wanna know stuff, I’m just in it for the hard-core noggin-scuffle”. Really, you don’t need to know much more than the fact that you want to argue to get in the game, in fact, that thought you just had, if expressed out loud could be considered an argument!

If you hope to become a professional fussbudget it is best to fact check, fact check, fact check, and to the best of your ability make sure you are always correct (fussbudgetry and pragmatism will be footnoted in part 8).

*HOW TO WIN (almost) EVERY ARGUMENT (PART II)

HOW TO WIN (almost) EVERY ARGUMENT (PART I)

2007-02-21T06:40:00.000-08:00

There are many reasons to argue, and almost all reasons are valid. Maybe you argue for a noble cause; to raise awareness to issues that you feel are important, to alert someone of danger, to stamp out ignorance, to crush weakness, to expose feeble reasoning, to turn your frown upside-down, or just to chill. Perhaps you argue with motives that are questionable at best; to make someone else feel bad, to make you feel better about yourself, to justify your own reasoning by getting others to unwittingly agree with you, to get people to disagree with you in a way that allows you to discount their opinions thus validating your own, to dogmatically express your rage, to make someone cower so you can feel that there is at least one part of your life that allows you to exhibit power and exert some miniscule amount of force, or just to be a total jackass. No matter what your reasons for arguing, and regardless of whether you are a professional or amateur, everyone can enjoy this delightful and relaxing activity.

Arguing is fun and educates the other person. It sharpens the senses and rejuvenates the mind. It is generally very easy to win an argument because the other person is almost always wrong. In the event that the other person may actually be on to something, just be happy that most people who actually have a good point don’t generally have a clue how to argue. You can easily crush them by rehashing some vague misunderstanding that they had when they originally formulated the idea or with some unintentional mis-statement or even a speech impediment they have. Certainly, an idealistic person who has thought through their beliefs to the nth detail has convinced themselves so thoroughly that they are correct (and no one really cares, but they may be) that they have also duped themselves into believing that everyone will praise the truths they have discovered (or at least that someone will). Even if this optimism is the only flaw in their argument, it is plenty of ammunition to fully obliterate their assertion. All you have to do is bring up generalized impossibilities and pose them as though they are legitimate questions somehow connected to the topic of current controversy. A question like, “What about the links made by Dr. Leopald Thorstieg in his 1938 paper regarding IFE, you are familiar with IFE aren’t you? Well, all the research that I’ve seen confirms his findings. How do you explain that?” will totally disarm almost all of these turkeys, for the simple reason that they can’t have possibly heard about something that doesn’t exist. Along with this another great thing about almost everybody else, is that they argue against the person confronting them rather than just arguing their point. So when you bring up a hypothesis in a forceful way, no matter how contrived, fabricated or spurious, they tend to feel a compulsion to argue against that point and lose track of the original thrust of the discussion. If you think they have a valid point then it is your civic duty to utterly annihilate their presentation, this will help them to hone their expostulative expertise, and thus, in the future, when you feel that they are appropriately equipped to save the world you may wish to allow them to do so, you may choose to stand by and supervise though.

But how do you destroy a perfect argument? Especially when you know that the other person is 100% right? Easy. No one can be 100% right on everything, so just sit back and wait for them to say something you can easily capitalize on. It helps if you continually disarm them by finding things you can agree with, this is extremely easy to do when you are debating with someone who is right. NEVER, agree with things that will undermine your own contradictory stance, if the thoughts expressed by your nemesis are correct, you can generally gloss over them by reaffirming an acceptable and similar point that was previously agreed upon by both parties. Remember that you only need to vary slightly from the essence of your opponents gist, anyone who has thought through their reasoning so well as to seem 100% correct will easily be lured to defend the seemingly insignificant details. If you are almost constantly agreeing with them they will eventually tire and/or drop their guard and actually say something wrong. In any of these cases you can then take that one small comment and pretend that it is the platform of their entire logical framework. Your opponent may see through this tactic but if you are playing to an audience they will be on your side. Because of the audience, your opponent will be compelled to respond to your quibbles, once this process has been started you can’t lose, just keep agreeing, baiting and inferring. If they refuse to continue the argument, you lost, but the audience thinks you won, so in a way you did win, because you convinced a large group of people to believe you instead of the person who was right. And that’s no easy task, actually, I’m kidding, it is very easy to fool people, but you still did it, plus you made the winner of the argument leave in frustration and that’s worth something!

In the event that your opponent sees through this tactic and there is no audience you will need to have the stamina and presence of mind to keep nitpicking and then agreeing while countering with hard hitting vague questions. If none of these things work, it’s time to play dirty, it’s all blatant falsehoods of incomprehensible atrocity all the time, a person who really wants to help you (and/or the whole world) will feel like they are physically being attacked, they will eventually fall into a stupor during which they are disoriented and begin to question their own beliefs. They start to wonder how others (that’s you, but you have made it seem that there are many who share your views) could have such strong beliefs that seem so contrary to reason. Being logical people, they will begin to doubt their own reasoning and consider the notion that the obnoxious blathering you are bombarding them with has some possible merit. Now you have them where you want them, if you don’t care about the future of our planet, you can just move in for the kill (This will be explained in detail in part 8). But if you would still like to see if they can adapt to the psychological punishment you’ve just dealt them, you can let them live (conversationally speaking), after all the argument is over, for now. They are still questioning things that they were fully convinced of, and may have lost all will to fight, you did your job well.

There are really no losers in an argument because you always win an argument if you enjoy yourself. That’s the whole point of arguing. If you follow the directions laid out in this primer, you should enjoy your next argument.

A forensic look at evolution...

2007-02-20T06:42:00.000-08:00

Lately I have been getting a lot of “enlightenment” from evolutants, these are guys who have evolved over a few millennia to develop massive egos. You’d think that coming from apes would make them a bit more wary of talking wildly to their superiors. But they look at it as a long string of promotions that somehow makes them better than those of us who haven’t seen a need to evolve. They point to the track record they have of getting huge promotions every few hundred thousand years. Some call these promotions “punctuated equilibrium” but If I have an employee that does nothing but forage for 200,000 years and then only moves when the food chain or a meteor “punctuates his equilibrium”, he’s getting sacked. Others insist that it is slow and steady evolution that wins the human race. But anybody is getting promoted if they plug away at the same old job for a few hundred thousands years. Eventually somebody will die, and you are the cool new protozoan on the block. Of course, a staying power promotion is nothing to brag about. I wouldn’t care if I was fast-tracked from amoeba to human in only 20 weeks on the job, I still wouldn’t brag about my humble beginnings. It just diminishes one’s credibility. It’s like when I was told that MENSA lowered their standards from the top 1% to the top 2% of IQ scores. Would you join a group of pseudo-smarties that keep shifting their standards? What if you were already part of that group? You wouldn’t go shouting about it, “look et me, me is part of a nashinol ‘tard club”. It would make you look like a stupid beast.

As for the move from amoeba to man, amoebas can live forever (they reproduce by splitting and essentially cloning themselves, the child is the parent, thus in a stable environment they never die), people die after a few years on the job, what kind of promotion would give you more cells and less life? Doesn’t seem like a promotion to me. I wouldn’t see a move from skinny general practitioner with an auto-renewable contract to fat brain surgeon who is just about to fold under a massive malpractice suit as a very good thing. Also, if more cells is a promotion, amoebas become trillions of identical cells pretty fast, plus, over the course of eternity they can be more cells than any dude can be in 70-80 years. Besides, I’m not counting, but those amoebas are still out in force doin’ their thing with no new job openings in sight.

My point with all of this is that if I had evolved, I wouldn’t be going around telling everybody. What is up with these “people”? I suppose that’s why these guys are so obsessed with their education. Resumés, diplomas, documentation, theses, all to get a job you could have had without all that extra work if you weren’t always yelling, “I’m a funny monkey!” all the time.

I’m a real man and a high school drop-out, I can say that proudly because I rejected a system created by “people” who keep their ancestors in cages to watch them throw poop and masturbate. I rejected that system on the first day of kindergarten (the first day I was introduced to it). It has all of the earmarks of a system designed by lower life forms that aspire to be real men.

They think that just because they can operate video equipment and televise their grub eating competitions that we’ll be impressed. Well it isn’t impressive to see humanoid life forms eating bugs and drinking blood because we expect more out of the animals who look like us. Try to get out there and live your life on your own merits, perhaps you can evolve gut osmosis that allows a six-pack of Bud Light to be placed on the belly and absorbed. Even though it is disgusting to drink, absorb, or become one in any way with Bud Light, I have to admit that I’d like to see more programming of that ilk on the tube. It is a bit tacky, but hey, that’s what you are.

What really gets me is, why do so many of these guys get into the sciences anyway? I’m just getting tired of hearing about how smart they are compared to their brother ape. I’m getting tired of hearing what great evolutionary employees they are due to their varied and extensive genetic pedigrees. If you have information just present the information, if you have skills and abilities just write me a bullet list. I don’t need need to hear how spider-grandmother helped your ancestors make fire, or that your uncle used to have gills, in fact, you can call it evolutionary bias, xenogenetic discrimination, heterophobia, or nepotism, you still aren’t getting hired by me monkey-boy!

Personally I don’t want to go to a doctor who might start beating on his chest mid exam or trying to eat ticks off my back, I would probably ask a duck-boy to do my taxes before I’d ask an ape-man to unlock the secrets of the universe, and I have no use for an employee that gets caught in a sneak attack by an ice-age every day before work.

New location, new hours!

2007-02-19T06:57:00.001-08:00

I used to eat my first meal of the day at about 11:00am or so and would often eat my biggest meal of the day as late as 12:00am. Since moving into the country my sleep habits have changed considerably. I still don’t get very much sleep, but I sleep a bit more and I fall asleep at least a couple hours quicker than in the past. I eat breakfast at about 6:00 to 7:00am and my biggest meal of the day is at 3:00 or 4:00pm. I often have a beer with lunch, but sometimes I’ve switched and had my beer with breakfast. But since I don’t feel like drinking after 6:00pm very often anymore, I guess it’s just a natural rotation. So I have completely shifted to buffet hours. Add to that crazy Andy Rooney oldguybrows, weather predicting shoulder, bad hips, thinning greying hair, floaters in my eyes, high blood pressure, forgetfulness, difficulty hearing, almost paralyzing fear of the sun, sleeping in a coffin, and a few other odds-n-ends, and I finally have the whole old guy package, plus a great start on the vampire package sans retirement plan and thirst for blood.