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|Friday, November 27th, 2009|
|tentatively easing back into things
Bartleby is relentless in half-assedly attempting to revive the blog. I'll see your half-assed and raise you a lackadaisical, "mailed-it-in", "devil may care" attitude.
the Thanksgiving that never was has just come and gone. Alice and Wonderland, the new sisyphean labor I toil at, is like a black hole for holiday cheer. It is the Unicron of winter vacations, only instead of planets it eats my ability to be with friends, family and loved ones on legal holidays. It just ate Thanksgiving and now, still unsated, sets its sight upon the succulent main course of Christmas.
only the Matrix can light my darkest hour. "....you got the Touch!!"
work with me for a second here. The Autobots have lost the Cybertronian civil war and are now living in exile on Earth, where the Decepticons have continued to hunt them to complete the genocide of their race right? So, following the course of that logic, why exactly are the Autobots trying to stop Unicron? True, he is the devourer of worlds, but he's not really coming for Earth, is he? so what the fuck? It'd be like a desperate band of Jewish Freedom Fighters scrambling to prevent some horrible calamity from destroying Berlin during World War Two. I'm writing that movie?, it mostly involves a group of Jewish bad-asses reading magazines and sipping martinis, feet propped up on a coffee table in their mountain-side cave headquarters as Nazi's burn in agony as they're consumed along with their once glorious capital.
Bottom line? Autobots are Nazis. do the math.
but back to Thanksgiving, I did have the actual day of off, which was nice... ish. It mostly freed up time for me to sit alone on my couch and contemplate the litany of poor life decisions that brought me to that moment... If only I'd had a gun to clean, the scene would have been perfect.
No, in greater seriousness, my friend Nick invited me to his family's for the event, and I actually drove a goodly part of the way there, but it was 86 miles away from my house, and, at about 1 hour 20 of drive time, somewhere amid the arid, beautiful desolation of the southern californian mountains, just north of a place called lake Pyramid , I decided to turn back. I was either 10 or 50 minutes distant from my final destination. 50 minutes? turning back was a good call. 10? bad call. I will never know, and by never I mean not until I can ask Nick. Still, even though I never actually made it, thank you for the Invite Nick, it meant alot.
Interesting footnote to that story, that is the only place in America that I have ever been where there were literally NO available fm radio stations. There is a tiny pocket of the USA where not even country-western or mariachi music can be pulled from the ether. It is in the rugged, rolling scrublands of Southern California.
that's enough for this blog.
note: I acknowledge that my summary and analysis of the Autobots' collective actions in the Transformers Movie unfairly fails to take into account Unicron's machinations to steal/destroy the Matrix (the Autobot heirloom of leadership, and some might argue, a cornerstone of their culture and existence as a people). Taking this into account one might argue that the autobots had no choice but to temporarily side with their enemies to stand against a common threat to preserve their way of life. I would counter-argue that, as the only effective weapon against the world devourer, the matrix should have functioned as a sort of "nuclear option" in diplomatic relation with Unicron insuring Earth's safety, while still allowing Unicron to eat the shit out of Cybertron and the genocidal Decpticon pigs that rule it with an iron fist. Earth safe, Unicron alive and well, a whole fuck-ton of dead decepticons. Ka-CHING!
also, I will be home this weekend(an unsanctioned annexing of a piece of my life back from the production), but it's a whirl wind. Land Saturday at 6:20am leave Monday at 9:00am. 2 days to remember what cold and 'substance' feel like again. And then? a formless world without edges or anything solid that you can press against just to feel real again even for a minute waits for me.
somewhat we're all victims of chance, but really we're all products of choice. Where you're at, in life, reading this right now? it's where you chose to be.
|Thursday, June 4th, 2009|
Cain from Kung Fu (David Caradine) is dead. I met him once, at a wedding. he was drunk, I think. He was also dressed as a vampire at the time. He played Georgia on the piano and we talked about Ray Charles. He later stabbed the groom in the leg. With a knife. His girlfriend (wife?) was kinda hot. hot actually. I was dressed as one of the blues brothers which made me one of the only people there in a suit. The groom got patched up and walked down the aisle with a cane. The bride's wedding march was played on the electric guitar by a rocker in drag and slowly melted into the imperial march from Empire. My friends were encouraging me to try to make out with a 15 year old dressed as little red riding hood.
everything about the above paragraph sounds like a dream... but it happened. strange wedding. Also pretty damn Awesome. The cake was The Nightmare Before Christmas themed. Good times. Thoughts and prayers go out to his family (I think the bride is his Grand daughter? and does not know this blog exists... nice. hmmmmmm, perhaps a mySpace message is in order.)
I fully intended to write more, but it just didn't happen... Maybe tomorrow with THE END OF G-FORCE!!! And then a week off. Sweet Jesus, yes. No word yet on coming back to philly.
|Monday, June 1st, 2009|
|it's always darkest just after the light dies
I RECKON I'm going to construct a dueling blog's greatest hits in the nearish term future. For those who want to read my blog, or more realistically, want to want
to read my blog, but really just want to steal my oneliners and say them again as their own.
"other people have been using my wit to get laid since highschool..." -Shady
And chicks hate me. ...fuck.
But fuck it, if it means more readership I'll sell my children, and if I can't use my wit to get laid... well someone out there should. hence, to Bartleby and to anyone else in the great wide world who reads this thing. if there's something from this or entries past that warrants quoting, would look good on a t-shirt, or make a drunk girl giggle out at the bar, point it out in the comments. Then a master list will be compiled and I'll post it every month to 2 months depending on the density of the dueling blogs mutual quotability.
I pander to you lazy reader who's all like "...it's not that I don't WANT to read your blog, it's just that when I have the time there's like a million things I'd probably rather do instead... but hey, high five on the productivity, man. Keep it up."
Thank you for the high-five... dick.
This is the last, the last, the last week of g-force (that's 3 times `the last`). Then an as yet unknown period of time off, possibly forever. Retirement sounds really really good to me. Like really good. I could buy a house in some God forsaken corner (or more realistically the expansive open, empty center) of our great nation and chop fire wood and shit. Maybe work at target or something as a cashier just to keep my hate alive.
How about it? Can you see me as an Indiana home-owner / constantly furious, generally surly, customer service representative for Target?
It looks like the future. fuck-all, all I want is to fit in. ....Plan Indiana Target; that would be fitting in, right?
I'm torn between doing small, twitter-esque micro blogs every day in which, through the work day I just spew whatever percolates up through the unconscious into thought, and then post at the end of the day. that will result in alot more of these sorts of statements in every entry:
If I drink small amount of maple syrup from a shot glass between bites of pancake, does it count as a beverage or a sauce?...
that's the sort of thing that I've tended to write down in an e-mail to myself and then maybe expand on later, but there's no time for process man. Make this F-er immediate and ever more irrelevant!
So what say you? I love posting queries that always go unanswered, it's like that hang time after that first time you say "I love you". ah thats awesome, revel in the power over my sense of self ghost reader. revel in it.
please tell me you love me... please
extra credit to any one out there who can tell me who Ivo Shandor is without looking it up.
also, the subject line had nothing to do with anything! but sounds poignant out of context. And there is the summation of my personality... poignant out of context. ...my god that's gorgeously self contained.
|Friday, May 29th, 2009|
|ruminating on free time
WHAT does ruminate mean? Spell check's ok with it, so I'm guessing it's a word, but i'm really really far from certain I've used it correctly.
I wish I could some how do a medieval letter illustration (which i believe is called an Illumination) for the first letter of every entry. as it stands I've just tried to capitalize the first word, but I really think that that lacks the preposterously epic cast/tone I'm going for. To illuminate the opening letter of an entry entirely about tater-tot sculpture... There is my heart's desire laid bare.
Illumination... I wonder if the Illuminati began as a group of really pissed off over worked letter illustrators. The timing is about right. Ah boring nerds of inane history... given time you too can become sinister and cloaked in shadow.
much has happened since last I posted. I was born, or rather the anniversary rolled around again this Sunday past. There was celebration, but due to the incorporeal ghost my life has faded into (seriously, I begin to cease to exist. It's like Michael J Fox starting to vanish at the end of Back To The Future. I'll just fade away... on stage... at a prom for some reason... while playing Earth Angel) there was little planning, and thus little manifestation of celebration. But more than enough to make me feel loved. thanks to all for the calls, thanks to all who are my friends, and a special shout out to N and A for a delicious Salmon dinner and cake.
So, the end of G-Force draws nigh, and with my free time about to quintuple (or more) in the span of the next 2 weeks you kind of begin to look at what the hell you can do to fill those hours. What the hell do you people do with all your free time? So right now I'm envisioning new ludicrously elaborate projects, or revisiting old ludicrously elaborate projects that somehow never get finished... like cleaning my bedroom.
nay, nay. I reckon that one actually will happen. but then, awash in a rush of feng shui rich chi flow, what will I do with myself? There are several art projects I've been thinking on doing. Most notably designing a new Family Crest for the Slacker brood, at father Slacker's request. (replace slacker with my real last name in that last sentence, it's more stately) My pops got our family name's history and mythic coat of arms from a mall Kiosk over a decade ago. The coat of arms was dubbed "cheap" looking thus the crafting of a new family crest has fallen squarely on my shoulders. For a decade I've carried this burden with out progress. Now I'm thinking actually doing it would make a good Father's day present.
What should my family Crest be? Ideas anyone? I was thinking a Jester poisoning the queen... hmmmm... lacks heroism... ideas?
I also have some other graphic design ideas that bear exploration and I want to look into getting some larger than poster sized foam core printouts of some photos to hang in my apartment. It might be pricey, but I'm working 70 hour weeks so fuck it, I've got the money. There are some photoshop project to look into as well.
then there's the idea to build my entire apartment and all of my furniture in the 3D animation software i use, and then and rearrange my fake furniture in preposterous and fanciful ways. That might make for a really lame week night at some point! wee! anyway, free time increasing 10 fold. What should I do with it readers?
"ummmm.... how about maybe get back posting 3 times a week again? think about doing that any, jackass?"
Ouch, the phantom readers who live in my mind know how to cut. fuck.
so, free time, make it productive? Or focus on honing my team fortress 2 skillz? You be the judge
"ummmm... or you could maybe try to find a girlfriend?... that's what people do, guy. you know what they don't do? Measure all the furniture in their home so they can build a to scale 3D model on their computer... How about focusing that sex drive on... you know... SEX."
fuck. Phantom reader really is caustic. Ouch.
|Wednesday, May 20th, 2009|
|reading this will make you illiterate
Because I don't have time to write a proper entry, this is an e-mail exchange with my High powered Manhattan lawyer friend Steve. Everything he owns is made of endangered species.
You need to talk to my friend Shanna, she's looking for legal work in legal/intellectual property realm. Will send her your number.
Sent from my iPhone (made of rhino horn and sea turtle)
You do know that I am not a partner in a major firm, and that I'm also not even a lawyer... at all.
I, in fact, know literally NO lawyers in LA.
I don't really know that i have the qualifications to advise. Still though, I'll talk to some NYC lawyer girl on the phone... I don't even care if she's good looking. 500 pounds. face burned by acid. offer up some marginally relevant fake phone advice... eh, why not?
transcription of The Future:
500lbs Acid Burned Girl--"Hi I'm Steve's 500 pound acid burned lawyer friend, I want to get into copyright IP law because I hate the free exchange of ideas and think there's money to be made there"
Shady-"fuck right there is! sounds good to me. Legal attack dogs are what make my job possible." (that is actually true... huh. never thought of that) "How can I assist you?"
500Lbs A.B.G.-- "wheres a good neighborhood to move?"
S- "you mean for law?... like what's a good law neighborhood? What does that mean? ...I don't know. Santa Monica? I think I saw a tax attorney filing a deposition at a Starbucks there one time. And a litigator once practiced a closing argument on me at Burger King. Their fries are terrible... can i sue them for that?"
500-- "Ok that sounds made up... "
S- "do you always describe yourself as 500 pounds when you start a conversation? it might be psychosomatic, but I think I can HEAR the fat."
500-- "what makes you think I'm fat?"
S- "...I... welll.... uh... five HUNDRED...."
500-- "well, yeah, but I'm 27 and a half feet tall."
S-"...oh... is that like a condition?"
500--"No, I just really liked vegetables as a kid, that and my parents are giants who lived next to a nuclear power plant. Also I kill and drink the blood of a virgin every third full moon."
S-"and that makes you tall?, huh."
500--"no, I do that for my skin, and it's AMAZING. It's like my pores are invisible. When you're 27 feet tall, lotion's not really a viable option. Skin care's a bitch."
S- "huh didn't think of that"
500-- "no, you didn't. Sooooo, good neighborhoods?"
S - "well, now that I know you're not fat, My dick is.."
500-- "Yeah I'm gonna cut you off there, not to challenge your man hood or anything, but I'm 27 feet tall. Your fucking torso couldn't satisfy me."
S - "It's a good think my dick is bigger than my torso then"
500-- "...yeah no."
S - "Big mistake, but ...ok, suit yourself. Look to answer your question, I really think you're going to have a tough time finding a place as a 27 foot tall chick, I mean. You're kind of a monster?"
500-- "why because I have red hair? I've had to deal with this kind of prejudice all my fucking like. ASSHOLE!"
S - "red hair's kinda hot. How do you use a phone?"
500-- "Yeah, I have red hair, I'm not retarded, DICK. I know how to use a telephone."
S - "no, I meant. Someone your size."
500-- "oh, there are stores."
S - ".... .....really?... like... where"?
500-- "yes really. So you're saying Santa monica then? I'm looking for a place to live, other than your dick."
S - "Santa Monica? eh... why not. But if I can just recap here for a sec, you're a 500 pound, 25 foot tall, perfect skinned, acid burned, red head with a passion for copy right law"
S - "when God made you he broke the mold ...and then he killed himself"
S - "because he was clearly, CUH-LEER-LEE, fucking insane."
S- "...want to hang out when you arrive in LA?"
Steve, you have strange people call me sometimes... Where can I get emu feather jeans?
I work too much.
|Thursday, May 14th, 2009|
|of strippers and hookers part1
I WONDER how one would go about earning the title Slut King
quick shout out to Boz before we start. thank you for the 'coherent'! and... shady OUT!
...wait no, this is the beginning. hmmmmmm...
You know, I really like hot dancing girls. Oddly, I don't particularly like Dance clubs. I don’t particularly like strip clubs. I DO however like titties. titties and books. So basically I'll never be entirely comfortable anywhere I go until they at last, finally, FINALLY install a stripper pole in my local Barnes and Noble coffee shop.
Literature, latte, titties in my face.
now... i don’t know how YOU imagine heaven, but that, THAT would be pretty fucking close. A stripper in thong and heels, tiny green apron, Borders visor, maybe some nerdy-hot glasses and a smile serving me a cup of tea as i slide a single into her g-string. “T and Titties ( we have books too!)”
...oh fuck yes I am a genius.
You want to turn kids on to reading... problem Solved. The glow of warmth and well being I get as I imagine this neighbors Christmas.
I’m not really basing this on experience OR observation here but I’m pretty sure strippers love babies and jelly beans... Why do I think that?
I also just assume that stripping and hating men kind of go hand in hand. Like would it be possible not to? Hatred of men by the way is called misandry. I originally wrote "I wonder if there’s a stripper alive who isn’t a raging misandrist" but then I thought, who the fuck knows what a misandrist is? and I thus have revamped, with the added bonus that now my blog qualifies as educational!
misandry is the chick version of misogyny.
satyriasis is the guy version of nymphomania.
I’m so fucking educational it’s making my head spin. Parents out there. Let me babysit your kids. It will be magical for everyone involved. Yourself included.
Your children will surprise you for weeks.
...your baby, some misandristic strippers, fishbowl full of Jellybeans. I paint a scene like few others.
is the bookstore coffee-house stripper hotter if we add in knee socks and a pony tail? ...kinda think she is.
I really want to interact with strippers and hookers as though they’re people. I have this feeling like those stories will just blow my f-ing mind.
How does one invite a hooker to breakfast?
ummmm... ...is... ...is that like a riddle? or...
...you wrote "as though they're people"?... pretty fucked up there, guy.
"How does one invite a hooker to breakfast?"
|Monday, May 11th, 2009|
|The return, as promised
HELLO planet Earth. Rejoice, for I have returned to you, but if you think my time away was restful and restorative, yeah, think again. Because still, Still I have a soul-stealing, life-sucking guinea pig gorging itself on the rich gushings of my actively hemorrhaging heart.
Nevertheless, here I am! Come on, who out there thought may 11th was bullshit? come on! even I though it was bullshit. I was like, if you’re going to pick an arbitrary date for this thing, might as well hold off till june, when dessicated husk of the guinea pig sony has grafted to your spine finally drys out and falls away leaving you to contemplate the smoking crater of ruin the Force has transmuted your life into... (I hate living with me in my head.)
but its all good. weekend before last I took my first Saturday off since the start of February, and it was like drinking from the damn holy grail. It felt like I could talk to animals and deflect bullets. I was for a time, replenished... kinda.
But hey, kinda! Working this much is kind of like the classic Indian sweat lodge experience, only instead of attaining spiritual enlightenment and communing with my power animal, I dream of cutting myself and setting fires! Turns out my power animal is a razorblade and a zippo lighter.
I call them zippy and spark! and they go on hilarious adventures! it’s like alot like the brave little toaster... but PEOPLE DIE.
...but not if the G-force can stop them first. Aaaaaand so we’ve come full circle.
But if I can digress for a moment. Seriously here? big ups to Bartleby, who posted through the desert of my absence when I thought for sure it would mean the doom of the duel. Though I faltered, you, my friend, carried the torch tirelessly. Again, big ups.
you are the wind beneath my wings Captain Anal Bleed. For True.
And now I take up the burden once more... every other day. Mad internet ramblings. Welcome back.
So, until the day after tomorrow, I'll be here if you will.
I kind of really really want to see where the Tales of Zippy and spark could go. At the intersection of adorable and deeply unsettling... look, you'll find me there.
|Wednesday, April 29th, 2009|
HELLO planet Earth,
As some of you may have noticed, I've not been posting. Work is killing me. Possibly literally. I may be dying. It was 12s for a chunk of last week, which goes a little something like this:
leave house for work at 9:30 am. arrive at 10. work 12 + 1 for lunch. leave work at 11 pm. get home at 11:30 pm. Pray for the sweet release
guinea pigs are ravenous for my life and vitality it seems.
So all told, unless I'm to have every blog be me bitching and moaning about my work life (which is pretty much all I spew when I sit at a key board these days), I have to put the blog on hold for a tick. So I'm making it all official-like, which will make me feel like less of a jackass for not posting, and give you a sense of when it's not a waste to check back in. Because I can't live with disappointing people.
myself?... him I can disappoint endlessly, but not you reader. Thus, it's a hiatus.
I'll start posting again Monday May 11, 2009.
see you in May. God willing, by then the storm will have passed.
|Tuesday, April 21st, 2009|
|gettin all responsey up in here!
GREETINGS children and suburbanites. (there's a throw back to 2001 for ya!)
This one's gonna be a bunch of well past due responses to my partner in blog, Bartleby. I've linked to his entries where I respond to them. Read them if the over achiever in you is raging, but you can probably follow without... //Do you remember when Failure was still soul-crushing?
not really. I do, however remember when the sound of a distant ice cream truck filled my heart with a surge of euphoric longing and desire. I miss the happiness of ice cream. I miss being afraid of the dark...
I don't really know if you can count Failure as a companion though... That'd be like counting a tape worm as a pet. Can one count a tapeworm as a pet? I mean, they probably love me somewhat... right? I'm eating cake for both of us tonight little guy!!
"...awww who's a good tape worm... who's a sweet little wormy-worm..."
......seriously here for a moment. going back and re-reading that... the image of someone caressing their stomach, while cooing baby talk to a parasite growing inside them, coiled in their intestine... seriously creeped me the fuck out. Seriously.
A person should not be able to creep themself out. *shudder*
//I'm still owed something like $7,000 from a client.
I'll say only this. They're called enforcers Bartleby. The client'll pay in dollars or they'll pay in pain.
//I'm going to eat pancakes for the first time in years in a couple of minutes.
feeding a tape worm? No. I teared up a bit reading this, both in sympathy (really? years?)
and in envy. Where the fuck are my pancakes? Does anyone in Los Angeles read this thing? Because I'm eating waffles tonight, and sans witnesses I fear I'll gorge myself sick, purge in a parking lot and repeat. Oh sweet tears of shame, oh sweet sting of bile, oh delicious caress of smooth maple syrup... bulimia... you remain my closest friend.
//Euro douchebaggery is the finest form of douchebaggery
maybe, but based on the merit of pastry making abilities alone the Eros are entitled to at least LITTLE bit of arrogance.
You watch C-span, Bartleby? Like not for a project or because you lost a bar bet, but recreationally? Seriously? Sweet Jesus man, hear me as i speak right now. Three words... Massive. Life. Overhaul. ...Invest. Life is too damn short to consume c-span as entertainment. it's like huffing gas.
..like huffing gas or maybe like starting an art installation based on bathroom wall penis-etchings. Why are men compelled to gouge cock into the walls of bathrooms? Cave men painted scenes of spear hunting. Modern man gouges cock. ...evolution is bullshit.
(you know, when I started writing that, i really didn't think it would end in my disproving evolution, and thus anally fisting Darwinists everywhere. Particularly since I'm more or less 100% on board with that whole evolution thing. But there it is... theory disproved! so... would you say I anally fisted myself? and by accident? This blogging thing... It's an adventure!)
//You need to get piss-faced drunk more often
My organs groan in protest at reading this. this advice isn't really... good... in the common sense... Or even in the uncommon sense. This advice is bad. But a libation or 2, and the blog does flow, and elsewhere the inhibitions are lessened... Sometimes sacrifices must be made, sometimes in the form of organs.
//Kutner's gone. No more Indians at Princeton-Plainsboro....
if you don't know what we're talking about, and wondering what a "Kutner" is: what's up with Kutner
This was a bad decision on the part of Kal Penn. I'm positive The Cause
of The Obama
is better served by working House and donating 80% of your salary.
From each according to his ability... to each according to his need, or so the old wisdom goes. His ability put him on house... Now he's a white house tour guide... Way to make a difference there Kumar.
That "from each, to each" bit... fucking commie bullshit's what that is. But so is quitting your prime acting gig for your ideals. People who pursue an ideal past rationality/practicality/common-sense infuriate me.
//A friend said that your brain hurts after excessive alcohol consumption because of the alcohol starving your brain of water and sugar
I've always just assumed that small beings that live inside me are trying to burrow their way out while my immune system is weakened... tunneling into the space behind my eyes, as the light can filter in through there so its the obvious exit point. Not yet skull gremlins... the eyes hold firm.
I do wonder sometimes what I've lost though. Your brain is dying at this point in your life... What died that night I wonder? what tender memory of yester-year was lost at the bottom of a shot glass. A man can never know what he no longer knows, because the brain is a container and a container knows nothing beyond its self. There's no such thing as a sunset to blind man. What worlds surround us that we haven't eyes to see.
...accidental anal-fistings abound!
"i might as well have said that I should have had sex with fire. "
I keep forgetting if that whole bulimia thing is a joke or a cry for help?... Help? ....hahahahaha! Oh me... I'm so unconventionally callous...
|Saturday, April 18th, 2009|
Is my blog more readable when high? ...readers? Thoughts?... because it’s CERTAINLY more writeable when drunk!
I’ve gotten a few comments to that effect. I think for me reading it high would be like reading it sober, only... dizzier.
Echoes of Illness: I’m astounded in the past few days at the human body’s ability to produce mucus. I am a fountain. I thought for sure the well of it inside my sinuses would have long since run dry, But no! Mucus springs eternal!!! At this point it’s starting to feel like I could irrigate a Saharan nation to a glorious green Eden. ...With my help northern Africa can bloom again.
Question... Number of times you've hit caps lock vs number of times you want to lock caps? five THOUSAND to zero?... OMG, me TOO!!!
Seriously who the F even put that thing on the key board? At this point it's pretty much exclusively a fuck-up for the shift key. And yet there it is, enjoying a prominence and size entirely inappropriate to its station. how 'bout throwing the question mark a bone and giving it that prime real-estate.
How does this persist? What mad-minded fucker in the corridors of power is all like...
"caps lock?... unused you say?... hmmmmmm.... well then, how about.... right next to the shift key!!!.... MUAH-HA-HA-HA-hahahahahaha!!!"
And there it is, baiting me. Silently lying in wait like a land mine to detonate the next fifteen words I type. I hate that thing, I hate it solid. Good place for caps lock? how about F7. ...yes either F7, or in FUCKING HELL.
Think of a time in the last 5 years where you were like... "you know what this e-mail needs.... CapsLock!..."
"ALL CAPSLOCK!!!! "
"Good thing it’s right there next to shift where I can hit that shit by accident and find myself screaming at the top of my lungs in chat rooms."
the cliff's note version? fuck Caps Lock. fuck it forever in Hell.
The thing about writing this Bartleby is not quality, it’s not consistency. ...It’s time. it’s cutting out a piece of the week and saying this time... here you will build a thing... And that thing will be pointless. Here's to building sand castles as the tide rolls in, eh Bartleby? eh readers? cheers...
"I loved a girl once... a million years ago....
On weekends she would defend the land of Hyrule from the tyranny of the evil Gannon... she unlocked the secrets of the tri-force... and my heart... *sigh*..."
---"really guy? blog about caps-lock? Keeping fishing there, slapshot... the hook is empty"
Also. Kate, you have challengers for your mad "my only reader" cred. Malav... Matt... word up gents. Thanks for stopping by. Big ups! (and big ups to Joc too!)
|Friday, April 17th, 2009|
IT'S been since Easter Bartleby, and I'd feel more bad about not having posted if I thought anyone had noticed... How about it phantom readers? Anyone take note of no post on Monday? No Late post Tuesday? Wednesday's come and gone... thusly, I must post today, Friday, Saturday, AND Sunday. to be back on track...
yeah, that's not gonna happen. But I will aim for Fri and Sun. Will Monday's ever be made up? Maybe, maybe... we'll aim for it early next week to appease my non-existent reader base, and the equally illusory sense of commitment to self... and to you Bartleby. Everyone I write this for is imaginary! yay! (I love you imaginary readers!!!)
Hello planet Earth... did you even notice I was gone?
"yeah, we did... And why so late asshole"
Well I'd love to say it was the still detonated remains of my once pristine computer, or that I was making sweet sweet love to Milla Kunis as the painting
predicted, or that I was in the everglades trying to start a letter writing campaign to make the manatee the premiere commercial livestock of the next century
(seriously here for a minute. Do you ever wonder what manatee tastes like? ...sea cow = sea beef in my book).
But truth be told I was doing none of these things... I was working... alot. And at the end of the day, all I want to do lay on my living room floor, stare at the ceiling for 1/2 an hour while breathing deeply, and willing myself to stand... and it only takes 30 minues! Woo!
Then we make toast with butter and cup of tea, Watch 1 hour of an overflowing, filled to bursting tivo. And like that... I am replenished, restored!... accept for that I'm not... Right now I am so burned i am a cinder.
I am a man of ash.
I have written a day or two though, which should make blog recovery go
forward, but it's all been abnormally incoherent, and I haven't the drive to clean it up. Now, right now you might be thinking, "that's fine, just post the un-edited stuff...." OOoohhhhhh, that would not be good dear reader. See what you are reading has been edited... HEAVILY.
I actually did go back to look at old stuff in an effort to slack tonight by just cutting and pasting to skate through the day. This was a very big mistake. what a jumbled stream of consciousness mess of word-vomit. it's difficult to even skim through and not feel like you're losing your mind. it's like a tar pit for your brain. it goes like this :entries... ent-trees, tolkien, orthanc, more thanks, no thanks, snow tanks, pakistan, afganistan, azerbaijan, rumplmanz, liquour... mmmmmmmmmmMMMmmm. liquour. snicker, candy bar? peanuts stick in throat, halloween!, trade reeses's like gold, peanut butter chocolate, hate them, bait them, mate them, wait... mate them? breed candy bars? cross breed? candy seed. golden steed. magic horses. yes, we agree, magic horses.
So from "entries" to "Magic horses" in like 2 seconds... only this is for 15 pages.
Bartleby has seen it in e-mail form and I have gathered from news reports he spoke in tongues for three days. And at the close of the third day his mad ululations
are said to have led to insanity, mass suicide and miscarriages among women in all those unfortunate enough to have laid ears upon it... bummer for them, right?
But I think it's kind of how I think, which is a good thing because it's that random, free-association that helped me realize that our soil depends on porn
it tends to either go like that or like this.
entries.... titties, titties, titties, titties, titties, titties, titties, titties, ...wait... world peace?... ....through titties Anything is possible... titties, titties, titties, titties... and so forth...
this is below even my lowered standards of self, but hey, entry!
|Sunday, April 12th, 2009|
...IT'S what my grandmother would have said, so I guess I'll have to say it for her... "He is risen! The tomb is empty... Hallelujah!!" ..it's a Christian thing.
I had intended to post... I really did. but the vision trance produced 5 pages of a rant on Christianity, some of which I think is really pretty damn entertaining actually, but I wasn't really feeling it as a post today for some reason... (too incendiary? too thought provoking?)... i don't know, maybe someday.
It's weird being a Christian sometimes... particularly when it seems like I'd make such a MAGNIFICENT atheist. I mean truly, magnificent. like Richard Dawkins
caliber. but sadly, no, I remain on team Jesus, despite my apparent bounty of atheist potential.
(For some reason, my mind always confuses James Dyson and Richard Dawkins... which makes sense actually, because the one guy is trying to kill God and the other makes a really amazing vacuum cleaner. ...I think you could see where I'd make the connection)
Why? Why Team-J? and What for 5 pages of a rant? Well... The rant cliff-notes go like this.
Part 1? there's just as much close-minded superiority, hypocrisy, and borderline zealotry among the anti-christian camp, and pretty much exactly like "those crazed christian-people" they seem absolutely unable to see how ignorant and self righteous they sometimes are.
Part 2? alot of "those crazy Christan people"... they're really really just piss-poor fucking Christians. And really, sometimes by "piss-poor fucking Christians" I mean "ignorant, sanctimonious, delusional, hate-mongers", but only sometimes. So I somewhat understand and share the anger of the anti-Christians at times. ...Really, those F-ers do such a tragic disservice to the message and the teachings of Christ.... its fucking criminal.
so, my Easter Sunday-school lesson to you? it's pretty simple. Jesus, was a cool guy. If you met him? You'd totally want to hang out with him, and he'd be all like "Oh hell yeah, man! pull up a chair... actually, hold on, take mine. I'll go grab one from the back. ...Hey, can I get you a sandwich or anything?" And then you're chowing down on the immaculate PBnJ, chillin out, talking about 80's cartoons and the Brady Bunch theme and whatever, and you'd walk away later all like... "Fuuuuuuck me that guy was cool...".
Also? if you see a Christian being an asshole? Yeah, they're fucking doing it wrong. because again, Christ?... cool guy. So that's your target Christians. Stop fucking it up.
I had intended this to just be me saying "happy Easter" but got carried away in explaining the rant I'm not posting... Still though, I'm going to attempt to not count this as one of my entries and post again tomorrow, and as well on Monday; however, should slack-assery assert itself, this may retroactively become an entry again.
I think I have pretty violent insomnia, because it's 6:30 in the morning and I'm Wired, but oddly, I'm embracing rather than fighting it... oh borderline manic-depression... the mania does so much good for me!
and that Dyson dude... that man LOVES vacuum cleaners. They are his passion... like not a joke... for real. "The Vacuum is civilization"
|Friday, April 10th, 2009|
|All filler and no killer...
Bartleby, I think I'm realizing it’s going to be impossible to post 3 and 1/2 times a week and have even one in 3 entries be anything even marginally worth reading. The upshot though is that I end up writing a shit-ton more than I post and the just try to filter through the thought-fark after to assemble something that is
(note, both A and B are optional)
So coming out of my vision trance tonight, and looking at what I thought-bled onto my PC, this Alice-in-Wonderland-esque chunk of dialog somehow found it way onto the page and it requires less editing/effort than the rest at 2 in the morning, so I'm calling it an entry and going the fuck to sleep. ...also on my vision trance, I painted me railing the shit out of a cheer-leading costume clad Milla Kunis, so let hope this shit's prophetic.
-This place doesn’t make very much sense.
--hmmmm.... True, but that’s ok though, because it’s not trying to make sense. it can’t really be failing if it’s not even trying. And not failing to make sense is pretty much the same thing as making sense in the first place.
-Well... I .... You ..... That’s just being silly....
--...silly? seems perfectly logical to me. The less a place trys to make sense, the more it can’t help but not fail to do so. It’s working for me right now, isn’t it?
-I.... You have a rather confusing way of talking...
--Perhaps it’s that you have a confusing way of understanding. maybe try to just listen now and again. Not failing isn’t exactly success, but it’s certainly success-adjacent.
-Well I’m very sorry, but I’m still not seeing this place making very much sense.
--Ah, no need to apologize for being obstinately closed minded, I imagine you can’t help it and are largely unaware! How fortunate for you! You are obviously somewhat deranged though, and how sad for me. hmmmm... I suggest you just stop trying to understand and you’ll be hard pressed to help yourself.
But in all honesty you’re right, this place doesn’t make much sense, and thank heavens it isn’t trying to, or I’d just be lost. Now, It would be nice if this place wasn’t trying to make haste. Or make pine nuts! Let us hope. I can’t image a place trying to do those things so its safe to say we’ll be enjoying pine nuts any moment now. Cup of tea?
Feeling a bit dizzy-headed she did have a cup of tea.
I haven't read all of your last post just yet bartleby, but what I did read I seemed to warrant answers. I reckon I'll try to make that happen.
Until day after tomorrow.
|Wednesday, April 8th, 2009|
HELLO planet Eart.... is anyone even reading this thing?
...I’ll see you on Thursday. That’s how this is going to end, so in an act of wishful thinking, that’s just how I'll begin it, and we’ll hope the middle and beginning manage to somehow fall out of me as I type. Sweet Jesus I’m tired. I’m pretty sure I'm sick actually... Ah hot virus... you course through my veins strengthening me... Making it infinitesimally
more likely that I will survive “the end times”
It's all going to be random from here on out... be warned.
Work: I don’t really make guinea pigs talk at work, you know. I really make CG robots have wires, which is proving a tangled, hacky mess, but I’m am too damn work-worn to shame-savor. I don’t think work-worn or shame-savor (to savor shame of course) are words. But they fucking should be. I’m rocking it Shakespeare style. Don’t have a word? Make one! Liquispect! Promulgamate! Squind! ...Fuck me those are good. I’m squinding just re-reading them.
Country Music: To be honest, I’ve never really given country a fair shake, and there are those who would say minus a fair sampling, I don't know shit... fair enough, but I reckon you don’t always need to actually soak in a shit-pool to know you'd probably prefer not to .
asexual reproduction and alcohol:
You know, for thousands of years of human history, alcohol has served as The Grand Social Lubricant. For your ancestors and for their ancestors before them. So what I’m saying is that getting shit-faced and pairing off to hook up is not just a way of life, it's not just our heritage... its essential to the survival of our species...
...I am so fucking tired my eyes feel like they’re trying to eat the inside of my skull.
Where was I? My ancestors getting shit faced, and humping? Oh God... That really IS where I was... I’ve shamed my self and my ancestry. But really I was talking about YOUR ancestors. Among MY clan, each of us ritualistically builds a bird shaped boat in the autumn of our 35th year in which we sail to Protean Isle! There we spin a chrysalis
and asexually reproduce. It is called The Multiplying! ...once, the horizon would be darkened with the ships of my brethren... we are diminished with the long march of years...
On an unrelated note, I don’t think I’m allergic to anything, like literally nothing at all, which, all things considered, is almost like a super power in the modern era. So maybe I am the product of asexual reproduction on protean isle after all... yeah, maybe.... seems unlikely...
maniacal laughter and mustache wax: muah-HA-HA-HA-haaaahhhh...
Diabolical... I’d be an AMAZING mustache twirler, but unless I’m going the ring-master route, or Way-gay, I don’t really know if it’s ever kosher to rock the curly-Q `stache. Thoughts? Is mustache-wax even still a product? Where would one go to procure such a thing?
I wonder what it was like for the last poor arrogant mustache-wax baron; smug, lofty, secure, neck deep in smoking hot 1800's bitches wearing lingerie heavier than modern parkas... He’s mustache twirling... He's Scrooge McDuck-style swimming in his money bin. Then Bam! Over! His factory is closed, his neighbors' upper lips clean shorn. He's thinking about asexual reproduction and bird shaped boats...
Times, they were a-changing fucker... You reap what you sow!!!
Ok, I think i gotta sleep now.
I couldn't work this in but... country... "cunt-tree"! tee-hee!!!!!
...So tragically adolescent...
See you on Thursday
|Monday, April 6th, 2009|
|swollen brained and sluggish
HELLO Planet Earth. Love me.
Saturday at work was a treasure... and by treasure I mean stab wound to the face... I didn't even try to hide the hang over. My brain felt thick, and swollen. My thoughts felt weirdly viscous and slow, it was like thinking through syrup. I stumbled into work bleary eyed and nauseous, my hair a brunette mushroom cloud rising above the devastated, leveled city of my face. Pretty much all communication took the form of rough grunts, maybe the occasional monosyllabic moan. Basically every firbre of my entire being screamed at me to go the hell back to bed.
And though the drinking was 2 days ago now, the effects kind of echo and linger... My throat and sinuses still taste kind of like an acid burn, which makes sense what with them being, you know... burned... by acid. After vomiting in the street and, unable to drive, sleeping in my car, I woke at 4:30 in the morning, confused, freezing cold, shivering and weirdly contorted my front seat. I managed to limp my way the rest of the way back to my apartment. ugh. Alcohol. I'm finding sometimes she's a jaunty, merry dance partner. And other times, she's a harsh, unyielding bitch. Bitch put the screws to me on Friday.
and now, 2 days later, swollen brained and sluggish thoughted, (thoughted is not a word) it's for me to slowly rebuild a shattered sleep schedule and the fidelity of my internal organs over the coming work week until Friday next. So I can blast the shit out of them again! You've got to build it up before you burn it down.
I guess the old wisdom goes "everything in moderation, including moderation." But That's really just kind of a way for excessive hungover assholes to justify binge drinking in the name of "LIVING!", and to continue recreational poison consumption at will...
...eh, everything in moderation, including moderation.
On the plus side, my friends have been good about getting me out of my comfort zone lately, which is a good thing, because it's easy to stay in your apartment, it's easy to be comfortable, and you must always fight taking the safe, easy course. That way leads ever downward into stagnation.
"The bear is limping."
As for the late update, my still not functioning computer will remain my whipping boy. I can add a new hard drive to the price of my ambition... and by ambition I mean fucking idiocy. It's strange to have gone this many days without porn consumption, I wonder if it's affecting me psychologically...
as for the Altar of Bowie
, Bartleby, sadly I'm not all that David Bowie savvy. Seems like those who know, know he's awesome. But I'm not part of the club. anyone out there know where to start on the bowie odyssey?
see you tomorrow
|Friday, April 3rd, 2009|
|an Angel... no really. Angel.
I have to make this the short short version because I increasingly have to choose between entry punctuality and going out and living a life even vaguely worth writing about, and it is better to live than to be punctual. But with that said, Bartleby
is burning through entries at a terrifying, maniacal rate, and so I am compelled.
Battlestar Galactica Finale!!!! --- WOOOO! So this bitch is basically naught but battlestar galactica babble, so if that's not so much your flavor, Stop reading now, and I'll have saved you 3 minutes. There's spoilers below about the finale. If that manner of thing is going to bother you look for
below, that indicates BSG talk is, at last, at it's end,
The Finale! WOOOOOO!! at last! I've had some time to think about it and I think I can safely say this was the most awe inspiring and really(there's no other word for it) soul-expansive seventeen hours of televison I've ever seen. Some people might call it "pompous, nonsensical drivel" or "weakly attempted high-minded masturbation, that manages to make the audience actually regret enjoying the previous 3 seasons" but those naysayers are just critically minded people fairly assessing what was on the screen. Battlestar Forever!!! SO SAY WE ALL!!!!!
interminable, and dull? Maybe, but why go out with a bang when you can go out with a long plodding, painfully drawn out whimper... We, as an audience, are made to feel the same emotions as the members of the fleet, which is to say a lost hopelessness. It was shrewd of the show's creators to make it so painful to watch like that! Kara Thrace
was an Angel... no really. Angel.
Baltar's halucinated Six?... again, Angel.
I know, right! Fuck me that's powerful! This is the thinking man's sci-fi! And at the end how the whole "All along the watchtower" thing became so much more than a lame and obvious mystery gimmick that appeared to be going nowhere, and suddenly snapped into perfect focus when it's shown how closely the final 5 were tied to that song. And then it's playing on the radio when we flash forward one hundred and fifty thousand years into the future, which happens to be present day New York city. Gimmick? You sir have no soul.
Opera house! opera house!!! my nipples could cut class just at hearing the words!!!
What?... So, the crew of the Galactica abandon technology to become cave people in prehistoric Africa? Genius!
I'm so achingly fucking hard, I need to rub one out after remembering how just spiritually magnificent the whole thing was. As a person, I am changed.
eh, Ok... point made. Rant finished... was it good for you? I think I need a cigarette.
aiming for upping our L.B.Q.
--"morally ambiguous?... not exactly..."
--"you wrote a blog entry about the series finale of some show on the sci-fi channel? huh... I'm thinking of a 4 letter word... begins with an "N"... No?... ends with a 'oh My GOD you are SUCH a nerd'..."
|Thursday, April 2nd, 2009|
|the cosmos ate my homework
In the wee hours of last night tip-tap-typeing away on a laptop so massive and ancient it's basically the Univac of portable computing world. The thing could not weigh more if it were hewn out of solid granite, and it generates more heat than my stove. Holding it on my lap was like gently braising my balls in a slow cooker. I'm fairly certain if left unmonitored, there's a good chance it could super heat, spewing deadly radiation for miles, eventually forming a molten mass that would burn it's way through the earth's crust `til it once more fuses with the mantle. Fortunately for the native southern california wildlife, the behemoth thing seems to be powered by either hand crank or water wheel, so the chances of it getting out of hand are slim. In truth the battery died somehow, despite it's being plugged into the wall, and so, Though it be a slack ass standard, I'm going with "the cosmos ate my homework" excuse. Hence, late blog.
So still no computer, still living in circuit strewn mess. plan B: lap-top
nearly killed me, and turned out to be a plan of great ambition
. So what you're reading is what the work day and my willingness to stay after has crafted.
The entry that was, and was lost, was brilliant. The entry that will be is... legible. Barely.
Writing a LJ entry when the journal entry just doesn't want to be written is a brutal brutal experience. It's like wrestling with a raging wild boar. only INSIDE me.
Where as sometimes, the entry basically just writes it's self, and is effortless. Which, conversely, is like slow-dancing with a raging wild boar.
remember slow dancing? there's really no place for it past the highschool dance other than the occasional wedding, and there you feel like a jack ass, because you're basically just shifting weight from foot to foot in slow motion to Cyndi Lauper's Time after Time, and it really seems like you should have evolved beyond that at some point in your adult life. (evolved beyond the slow-mo weight-shift thing I mean, because lets face it, no one evolves beyond Cyndi Lauper's Time after Time) But yeah, weddings. And that's it. Perhaps a slow dance theme party is in my future.
This of course couples well with my "Tuxedos and lingerie" theme party. Because women love men in formal wear and men love women in very very little... and heels. Every one wins!!!
I should host a late night talk show.
I think I like theme parties in theory but they never seem to happen in practice. Like, your Alice in wonderland party will always end up with you dressed as the Mad Hatter and your friends in street clothes making fun of you. Of course, for men all theme parties are really just a stealthy means of fetish fulfillment (man did I want to fuck a girl dressed as a slutty Alice...). But I have yet to think of a clever way to repackage a bukkake party. I never really get the turn out I hope for, which is to say anyone at all.
Tonight: Bukakke party at Joe's! You bring chips, I'll provide salsa...
you don't get alot of takers, but you do learn alot about your friends.
(Ok, I feel the need to break character here and interject with a second of seriousness, bukkake is absolutely repugnant.)
turns out that writing about not being able to write has a way of filling a fairly reasonable blog entry. Well holy fuck.
a couple general notes, Captain Anal Bleed / Jihad johnny has finally settled upon a name, he shall be called Bartleby or on rare occasions The Man-In-Orange, or MIO for short. Knowing myself, I'm likely to just continue calling him captain anal bleed and jihad Johnny at this point. or possibly all 4 interchangeably as it keep things alive in my mind and makes this as unreadable as possible for pretty much everyone I know.
And I kind of wish I had spent 5 hours at a dog food seminar yesterday (I do NOT believe a dog can digest corn by-products, no matter what the makers of dog food by-products insist). Instead I beat my face against a visual effects wall for 10 hours and left work face-broken and frustrated, the digital problem still firmly intact. Today has gone less fucking horribly.
I love you.
next, the BSG Finale... revealed! Non-BSG fans have nothing to look forward to.
...maybe hot yogurt party? eh?
|Monday, March 30th, 2009|
|negative intelligent squared
---"wait, fuck, so that subject line is a double negative isn't it?... so I'm saying I am
--"...I think you asking has me leaning toward No."
IF you've ever thought: "replacing the mother board, RAM, and CPU on my computer?... how hard could THAT be?", and then just dove in head first without reading up on it because: "eh... research is for pussies... I'll just fumble my way through", Yeah? well then you are a fucking idiot.
I am a fucking idiot.
And while I do not at present have a working computer I do have an array of shiny, elaborate looking circuit boards, and all manner of wires, screws, sockets and microchips strewn about my apartment. with electricity they sometimes spark and beeb. I'm living in a damn mad-scientist's lab. I need one of those tesla's ladders and a lab coat. Any one? ...maybe goggles.
And all I wanted was the same porn I normally get, only FASTER! no... No, what I actually wanted was that sweet sweet team fortress 2 just a little bit more concentrated and purified. free-basing TF2. And like all drugs it was my pursuit of More
that proved my undoing.
I do hope this doesn't end with a wiped hard drive. There were some photos on there that were dear to me, and several hundred gigs of music I'd prefer not to reacquire. And there are people and events in my life, some of them people who were and still are really important to me, and those photos are all I have left...
...are you reading this ladies? ....soulful much? Heart of a poet? So throw some damn skank my way already!
end result though is that my aforementioned fucking idiocy may result in a late blog or 2 this week. The writing I can do. The posting... that may prove another matter.
why do chick comedians alway mention their vaginas?... virtually always, take note.
---"would you at least say that I'm maybe just unconventionally stupid?"
--".....no, Fucking Idiot..."
...still managing to evade illicit incarceration.
|Saturday, March 28th, 2009|
|call of the...
OK Jihad Johnny, I don't know if I'm missing something you've posted, but this marks post number 5 for me, with only one Late day(which, true, I have not yet made up) to your 2?... 2 posts? One an actual LJ entry and the other just a comment to mine. ...my disappointment is engorged... and throbbing. Get on the stick there captain.
You know, I strongly suspect that your "Matterhorn" entry was cut and paste(d?) from someone else's Blog, because to the best of my knowledge, you do not now, nor have you ever lived in Newark, Captain Anal Bleed. And you Don't have a dog, and you don't work in IT, nor for a health care provider, and your parents aren't pressuring you to patch things up with an ex named Carrie who's going for her PhD... I'm pretty sure copying someone else's blog doesn't count, and I cry foul. Now you do indeed make quarrel, sir.
Unless you're simply lying and this is just some character you've created, in which case I couldn't possibly approve more...
mine will be an immortal sun-dial manufacturer living in Providence Rhode Island, who collects antique porcelain horses and is absolutely convinced this whole "watch fad" people seem so into today is bound to blow over in another century or 2. his great enemy is a family of migrant worker gypsys, that his sinister machinations have tormented for generations without their knowledge or understanding. I name him Turner Botaes.
and like that.... creation...
I have plenty more to write, and likely will, either in an extensive edit or a second entry but for now the bar calls... like the wild. Mind you I heeded the bar's call last night, bleeding me of 55 dollars worth of alcohol, several hours of my life, and a just little bit of that vitality which gives me that impish twinkle to my eye. ...Several hours of my life, time I could have used to sleep, the better to be rested, the better to serve my Guniea Pig task-masters at work all day on a Saturday...
and on that note, the bar beckons all the louder! WOOOOooooooo! alcohol!
-Turner Botaes ...revenge never dies.
after a quick proof read, ..."Get on the stick" should never directly follow "engorged and throbbing"...
And Tonight? is it to be Last-Night: The Sequal? Will our hero, Shady, again end up finding his way to a swankish, wood paneled, watering hole in the Valley to rub elbows with a gaggle of super-hot, gold-digging, late 20-somethings awash in a sea of wealthy, 50-something, gold chain clad Armenians? Tune in Monday to find out!
...a toast to absent friends...
also, hi Rachael! seems damn near every one was still checking back on LJ from time to time. it's like 2002 all over again! ...only everyone's married.
I'm dueling blogs with this guy, Captain Anal Bleed/Jihad Johnny: http://wcgeorge.livejournal.com/
this is partially a response to his entry here: http://wcgeorge.livejournal.com/2113.html
|Friday, March 27th, 2009|
|The captain awakens!
so, apparently there's alot more people still floating around livejournal land than I had initially anticipated. Boz, Moo... long time, good to see you. (You live in a pet store Moo? 70's sit-com hilarity!!!)
So to explain what I've got going on here, i sort of entered into a pact with a friend of mine (who has actually requested the alias `Captain Anal Bleed`... ...really man?... Captain Anal Bleed?) to write a blog entry back and forth every other day, and, not wanting to fuck that up so early in the game Right now I'm filling this thing out, out of obligation more than inspiration, which means that it will be brief, generic, and uninspired... lucky you reader!
hopefully though it kind of works out (the blog thing in general I mean, make no mistake, this entry is fucked), because the messages to the captain kind of end up being to every one. It's just nice to be able to just respond now and again, because... well, sometimes its obligation over inspiration, and commenting on other people's nonsense is just easier than whipping out your own.
Right, so moving on. When you're pushing pixels for the man, making Guinea Pigs talk, and fight Crime, and what have you (yep, thats what I do for a living... G-Force BITCHES!!!), lost in OverTime Limbo as I am, your life-blogability-quotient, or LBQ as I've just decided to call it, really starts to fall all to fuck. So video games and TV... LET'S BLOG!
the media consumed that made the previous entry late:
Team Fortress 2... Team Fortress 2 is a computer game and it is fantastic. Fantastic. It's an orgasm wrapped in a rainbow.
Battlestar Galactica. I have only the so called finale left to me, and I equate my anticipation for it with my anticipation for taking out the trash. It's a functional chore that needs doing. And like taking out the trash, when it's done I'll have rid myself of foul-smelling clutter.
Man, has that bitch gone down hill. I'm guessing there'll be time travel in there for the finale somehow, either that or Appolo will become the Star-Child "my God!.... It's full of stars!" And I will crow to the last of the hold outs who can't let themselves accept the fact that just because the show was great 2 season ago doesn't mean that it's still good now.
Nah... to temper my own words and for fear a random nerd in internet land stumble across this and smite me down in nerdly fury, the show is still good (still really good on very rare occasion), but it's a shadow, a SHADOW of it's former self. and it's because it used to be so great that I slam it now; but if I'm to be honest, even now, diminished, it's still pretty good.
Captain A.B.? Lot of testicle talk in that last entry for a man who has proposed no alternative to "Captain Anal Bleed". That said, mad props on the ball-dropping pun.(are people still giving out props? They're not, are they? well shit... hmmmmmm.... "Big Ups Ya Self!"). That said what's the new film thing you're doing? On the flip side, You could be doing feature film visual effects 80 hours a week on a movie about a crack squad of government-sanctioned commando rodents set to thwart the nefarious plot of a megalomaniac appliance baron...
and on that note, Paco-OUT!
...what ever happened to Kylie and Rupert?
"this didn't really end up being all that brief... but uninspired? that you've got it in Spades!.."
...so very tired.