Monday, September 12, 2005

Talk about being hopelessly out of date-- man, a brave new world this is. As soon as I can shake off some of the cobwebs, I'll see if I can make more a go of this.

Brought up from the depths, to once again bask in the dim spotlight of obscurity. But isn't that the point, folk(s)? I/we are here to cast our shadows, and nothing more... after all, without a guarantee of an outside audience, this is just manifestation of ego, I/we reckon.

But on to happier things, eh? Better than 2 and a half years since an update... wow. I blame messageboards-- like commercials in my head, clipping the attention span into easily digestible 30 second nuggets. Anything longer would spit on the unwritten rules of internet brevity.

But I've never been one for the hard and fast, particularly when it comes to rules-- so I think I'll make a renewed foray into the realm of semi-anonymous self satisfaction.

Friday, March 28, 2003

Okay, this one has been bothering me for awhile, but it flits in and out at just those moments when I think I've got it pinned down, and might commit it to the nowehere... so before it makes way again, here it is:

How is it, that in post-apocalyptic visions of all kinds, when man has raised his hand in anger, and set loose whatever variety of weapon of mass destruction upon his fellow man, that those people, those strong, or willing, or unlucky enough to survive the home-brewed armageddon: are always riding horses? I mean, seriously.

Did I forget to read somewhere that nuclear/biological/chemical weapons don't kill horses? Crows and raccoons might make it, as they can subsist on diets of old sandwich wrappers and whatever else might be blowing down a deserted street at any given moment... but horses? They eat hay and oats and walk around in pastures. I'm thinking not likely, ya know? They seldom-- and by they I am now referring ot the "survivors" of whatever comet or celestial body that killed most everyone else-- drive in cars or ride all terrain vehicles, despite the fact that there would still be tons of those things lying around, many in excellent condition when compared to say, humanity, but seemingly the only people who dare to drive after the "big one" are "bad guys"... too many quote-as-identifier uses? Oh well.

Is it because they're afraid of ruining the environment? Perhaps nuclear struggle makes people Amish. Nah, I can't imagine the Peoples of the Wasteland churning their own raccoon butter out of concern for the "new" (look, another one) environment. We're too into our machines. At least the people of the Terminator-envisioned post-apocalyptic wasteland future didn't all decide to ride horses and live in huts-- they still had LCD screens and Chevy pickups. Which somehow actually makes me feel better.

I'm just frightened by the idea that whatever comes, if it's bad enough to wipe out those people that make a continual effort to keep us down, "the Man" as it were, and we're all cut free of the shackles of work and other involuntary confinements, that we'll all for some reason go all Henry David and run out into the woods (if there are indeed woods) with shovels in hand to dig our own root cellars and fight and subdue the mutagenic raccoons, so that we may drink their milk and track our progress in leather bound journals with quill pens, because all of the ballpoint pens will have been detroyed in the conflagration.

I'll stick to a laptop that I've converted to run on ambient radiation, and try to stay in the shade, because the rain stings and the same thing that runs my computer makes my skin kinda rosy and painful to the touch. But I'll not turn down that milk if you should offer me any.

Monday, January 13, 2003

Man, o man, o man, o man. Where does the time go, I wonder? Trickling down the slippery rocks into obscurity. Better'n 7 months since I last made my mark-- I blame internet discussion boards completely-- sometimes the words ask for feedback-- they crave it almost. Sometimes, on the other hand, it's just nice to let the fingers fly and care little of the outcome. It's late, I'm sick, I'm tired, but what the hell. I can never say no to a conversation with the ether.

Tonight will be a time of linking, when links come to attack. And i found both of these so entertaining, I had to share.

If you haven't seen it yet, you should. The Strong Bad emails alone warrant a visit. And if you have a free five minutes, check out this guy...

It just makes me smile. Maybe because Aussies are funny, or maybe for another reason I'm still trying to chase down. Either way. Jeez, is it time for NyQuil, or what?

Tuesday, June 18, 2002

Woo hoo, summer, right? Not much. Too hot, too bored, too many damn kids runnin' around that are usually under the blissful incarceration of school. Now nothing is safe. I like to pop in around every three months or so, whenever the whim strikes me. It's tougher lately, as the immediate feedback of the bulletin board has proved all too alluring. So here are the words saved for no one in particular, just a bit of ramble from the brain, etched out in a very temporary permanence-- there's not even any ink involved, you know?

And no obligations to stick to the plot, or be true to the character. Refreshing, to be sure. One day the site will crash, in the great Internet Cataclysm of (insert year here) and no one will remember any of this, not even me. It's an entirely new literary format, as far as I'm concerned. Now if I can onyl get people to stop making acronyms out of everything...

Tuesday, March 19, 2002

Turns out I have fans! Or at least one. Good enough for me. ;)

So I can't let my public down! So for today, I'll begin with the requisite disclaimer:


I think poetry is the stuff of hacks. And I have a degree in English, so not all of my talking is coming from my posterior-- some of it actually has some backing. So I have, in response to the "poets" of the world, who think that they should not be "read" but instead be "interpreted", and are actually failed prose writers who confuse rhyme scheme and meter for concision, created my own form of poetry. More accurately, two types, but I only feel one of them brewing right now, so it'll have to do. The first, and obviously more entertaining, is the 60 second haiku, which are more often thatn not dirty, and can, on ocassion, rhyme. I totally bypass the whole nature aspect. I mean, why follow the conventional wisdom?

So I'll lay down the other kind. The five minute poem. (What's with the time thing? Hey! That's a whole rant right there!) I made it through several college courses at the helm of the five minute poem. I just spew all the neat sounding and clever words I can in five minutes, and then move them all around until I make something synthetic and poorly thought out, so other Hacks can read said words and divine a grand mess of introspective bullpoop that I never even put in there. It makes me wonder what long dead Hacks like Frost and Whitman are thinking when they hear the over-educated pontificate over their synthetic, poorly thought out words. So pick a respectably inflammatory concept or topic, then make it all twirly, and it will dribble out looking something like this:

Once Again:

who art in heaven?
It's me again
once again,
staring at the last refuge
of the truly wicked.

words made from nothing
by me again
once again,
feeling shook
and bending eyes skyward.

whispered from one to another
to you again
once again,
and casting aspersions.

lost in our dakness
it's us again
once again,
ear to mouth

See how easy that is? I'm a sucker for the four stanza layout. It seems to fit the 5 minute bill best. Try it at home, kids!! Amaze your friends!! Horrify your parents and educators!! Write yours about homosexuality, or about how much you hate yourself, or how you think unkind thoughts about France, or maybe Canada. Use as few words as possible to make as big of a scary hairy mess as you possibly can! Embrace the raw Hackery of it all. Don't waste time with silly things like the segue, or character development, or hell, even with the character. Just put fairly random words together, making sure that they challenge a belief structure, or attack someone or something that you don't fully understand. It's awesome.

Thursday, January 24, 2002

Blam! Blam! Blam! NO, I really don't know where that's going. This morning, mired in that pre-9am funk, I had a swell rant a-brewing, but hours of boredom and complacency have fairly well obliterated it. I noticed that I had gone so long between blogs that my auto-cookie had dropped, and I actually had to log back in!! This cannot stand.

Today's update? Jan 24, 20 ought 2: Winter is cancelled.

Tuesday, December 04, 2001

Let's discuss the issue that plagues me-- yes, plagues me-- perhaps more than even all others combinant. I think that it is perhaps because I can't drop it-- you know, everyone has a harp that they simply cannot resist playing, so of course I must have mine. And I do. What is it, you ask, breathless?? Exclusivity.

I don't like even the notion of people who voluntarily segregate themselves from other people for any reason. But the one that chaps my ass more than all the others, so yes lads and ladies, the one that is the burning cherry perched atop my mountain of Ire, is the Faithful. And I capitalized that for a reason. I want to not confuse my rant against the Faithful with anyone who might actually happen to be faithful (small f) and genuinely beleive that they may get some sort of inner well-being by helping others or just not being a general shit.

I mean the "Faithful", that son-of-a-bitch on the road in front of me with the bumper sticker that reads "In the event of Rapture, this vehicle will be unmanned". What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Have I truly found it?? Have my driving-the-car eyes actually fallen upon the genuine article, a person so filled-to-the-brim with self-righteousness that they genuinely beleive that they are fit and ready to sit at the right-hand of their Lord Almighty, forever and ever? Never mind all of the shit that they do that contradicts all of the other shit that they do, whether it be before or after.

Or the little "truth" fish eating the little "darwin" fish. I can't really struggle my way through that wall of ignorance. I say people can beleive whatever the hell they want to beleive, with two caveats: don't try to sell your shit to me, and don't get offended when I tell you my beliefs, and they run in stark opposition to your own. Everyone has the absolute right to beleive and say whatever they want-- but just because 9 people say thing A and only 5 say thing B does not mean that one is more right that the other. It could just mean that 9 people has the capacity to be more stupid that just 5,or any other permutation you may feel capable of whipping up.

I get more jaded every single day-- and for good reason-- there's no such thing as my fellow man. I still live by the same core precept that I have adhered to for as long as I can recall: which is just to try to be decent to people. I don't go out of my way to piss anyone off (other than with my words, maybe), and I try to treat people with a general sort of decency, the basic way that I myself would like to be treated. Let me out of the fucking parking lot already! How much sooner can cutting me off possibly get you home?

It's like the sense of humor has evaporated. And now at least, people have a big goat that they can blame all of their ills on, whether it's plummeting interest rates as a result of terrorist acts, or guilt as a result of terrorist acts, or whatthefuckever, I don't give a shit. I'm just like what I had hoped everyone else in the land was like: I can't understand senseless violence that isn't funny. The three stooges are funny. Bugs Bunny getting Daffy Ducks' bill shot off (again) is funny. Killing people because Your God is Better than My God is imbecilic.

And I can't help but draw angered comparisons in my head. It is oppositional beleif enforced with violence. But no better or worse that someone overtly threatening my eternal soul (there's a laff) because I don't read or endorse their Holy Book. Add hypocrisy to it. Exclusivity and hypocrisy. Of course, I just wanted to put the word there, because they always run hand in hand when they get the idea in their heads to run.

I take note, late on, that this is my crux-- my hinge point-- my Rant Fulcrum, if I will, and I will. I have thought long and hard, and I don't think that I really hate anyone-- I mean sure, it's a word that get's thrown around cause it's convenient, like "God"-- a word that even I myself use to express an incontrovertible dullness of thought. I realize it even as I say it-- it is the utterance if what my grandmother would refer to as lazy language. To say God for me is paramount to saying Crap, Doody, or Fuckshithell. My brain, moded on lazy, unwilling to find the words to make the tthoughts I think into unretractable spew. Which is perfect for the forum of one. You know, in the mode of the holiday season, where pagans and non-pagans alike gather round to express their capitalism.

Which, forgive me or not, is the way God intended it.

Wednesday, October 24, 2001

I got into a notion again. You see, much of my inhereted kinfolk have what I would call a stange prediliction towards religion. Which is not to say that they live their lives by the credos that they so vehemently adhere to, but I'm not here to name names or point fingers so I'll just get on with my diatribe and try not to scrunch too many feelings, particularly those who live in close proximity to my person.

This really started about a month and a half ago, with that whole WTC tragedy, and some bizarre upsurge in the amount of people packing the churches and congregation halls, apparently harboring the idea that airlines are least likely to crash into churches-- but I have no true insight into that, so I'll leave it. What I would like to remark upon is the irony of it-- someone, certainly smarter than I, once remarked that prayer is the last refuge of the wicked-- as illustarted by hordes of non-churchgoers flooding the churches under the guise of praying for the souls of the departed, whether they knew any of them or not. When in reality, and I don't care-- I'll say it if no one else will, they're praying for themselves. They are afraid now, of whatever dastardly deeds they think they have done, of whatever metaphysical or actual crimes that they may be guilty of, of popping open a powdery envelope and choking into the great beyond.

Which is utter shit and I know it, and you know, and I hope that they all know it too. Because we are all still more likely to slip and fall in the bathtub, or get mowed down by a drunk driver, and there are no candlelight vigils for slip-and-fall deaths. Sure, sure, I know about the whole deal with drunk drivers, yadda yadda yadda. I don't drink, at all, so I can't condone those who operate motor vehicles under the influence, but I also can't condone the SUV piloting Cell-phone addicts that drive like there is a nest of fire ants in their crotch either. Just what is so fucking important that it can't wait?

But back to praying for people that you don't know. It falls into my general category of General Religious Participation. Prayer is one of the things that you do. Because it assuages you. It makes you feel better. A hand tied fly at the end of a fishing line does nothing until it is cast, so by that logic I presume a prayer does nothing until it is made. Unfortunately, that hand-tied fly has a better chance of hooking Nessie, the Loch Ness Monster than that prayer does of changing the falling attitude of a random dust mote in the church basement. Words only have power to those who are listening-- do you see where I"m going with this?

The world affects everybody-- we all live in it, on it, subsist off of it. We cannot, in any manner of conscience, speak sweet, assuaging phrases out of the same mouth that we use to bite our chunk out of the planet. Cause apparently, money can buy us out of everything except dying, and all of the prayerful are scared shitless that they're wrong, and maybe they'll plummet into a pit that leads into eternal nothingness, or perhaps they'll have to come back and pay some kind of a fee for all of the nasty shit they did the last time around.

But say I'm wrong, and I end up burning like a torch. At least my conscience will be acceptably clear.

Saturday, October 20, 2001

There really is nothing that quite compares to the pleasure of having altercations with inanimate objects-- particularly those that I have myself paid for. Generally differing from day to day, I fight with the car, with the damn computer, with the humanoid looking automatons at the Carl's Jr. up the street. Always to no avail.

Speaking of which, I actually bought that third DVD player. They win again.

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