What to write when there's nothing to write

Balls. I got nothing.

And one hell of a lot of that nothing at that.

Can't bring it to the dump, they won't take it.

Can't sell it on Ebay, cause it's Illegal.

Can't give it at Christmas, because children will cry.

Can't burn it.

Can't bury it.

Can't kill it.

Heck, there's only two things that I know to do with it

Carry it around with me

Or

Elect it.

But no one likes those options.

I wonder if you can write it.

Apparently so.

Yippie-yi-oh-ki-yay!

Butter and Razor Blades

Well, friends, ThanksMcGiving is right around the corner, and you know what that means: Time for me and Big MaMa Q to start baking up a storm.

You might just find yourself saying, “Myque, I didn’t know that you and your alter-ego cared!” well… there’s a story to that.

Breakfast @ chez Q (check) consists of buttered* toast and coffee, unless I am entertaining guests, in which case it involves bacon, eggs, buttered toast and coffee.

The last of my butter was gently melted within my nightly Macaroni and Cheese, and I knew that if I didn’t fetch some, I would be an unhappy ducky in the morning. (I also realized how fuzzy my neck has been getting, so I also resolved to purchase a pack of Mach 3 blades. Now I realize that this has nothing to do with the story, except I was amused that my shopping list for the day consisted of butter and razor blades, so I wished to share it with you.)

I noticed the packaging was different on my butter, but I reckoned that change was coming to the white house, it might as well be coming to grocery store.

This morning, I noticed my butter was of a funny color, a pasty, translucent white. I viewed the packaging expecting to see some advertising promoting some left-wing value like “No longer made with yellow 5!”** Instead, I realized that I had picked up a package of shortening, not butter.

Gingerly did I nibble my toast this morning. It wasn’t bad, but at 25% of my daily recommended dose of saturated fat per tablespoon, I don’t think I’ll be melting a chunk of it into my Macaroni and cheese any time soon.

So, Big MaMa Q and I have a task at hand, and a toaster oven to do the deed. If the results are… awesome. I’ll let you know.

Waffles!

*by butter I mean Earth Balance brand Non-Dairy, Zero Trans Fat Buttery Sticks
**This was a joke. Earth Balance Buttery Sticks have never contained Yellow 5

The Icy-Cold Grasp of Advice

A couple of days ago, I had a little dream where Old Man Winter and I were sharing a bowl of soup in my grandmother’s stone cottage. He nibbled on a warm, wet turnip while I explained that it wasn’t winter that I disliked per se; it was being cold. He passed me the spoon and told me it was a metaphor for life. He explained that being cold was uncomfortable, and if I allowed myself to be comforted by others and myself, then it wouldn’t be so bad. I ripped off a piece of bread and chewed thoughtfully. He then went further on that winter was also a test, a trial by ice to experience hardships so as to know when life was truly good. He slurped at the dregs of the bowl and I went on my merry little way.

I took him up on his advice this weekend. I treated myself to ice cream, I took long baths, I even talked to my Ma. It was a pleasant time, but a little voice in my head kept telling me that I was over-doing it. Thinking about this, Old Man Winter’s voice suddenly popped into my head.

“Well,” he said, “all things are proportional. How cold do you want winter to be?”

If that’s the case, I reckon it’s time to lay off the ice cream.

Spookyness

Old Man Bones was sitting at his player piano when Dead Fat John walked into the pub.

“Sit down,” Bones offered to the weary fat man covered in dust. “Have a drink. It’s on the house.”
John shook his head. He’d played Bones’ game before, and came up a few pennies short every time.

“No thanks,” he said. “I’ll just sit and smell the roses.”

“They aren’t actually roses,” Old Man Bones replied with a smile.

“Well then, I’ll stand until you finish playing.”

Old Man Bones sat. Dead Fat John stood. The piano played long into the night.

When it finished, Bones stood up. John sat down. The player piano stayed quiet.

Everything was quiet.

Cute Little Things

With one hand I type, and within the other, I hold my breakfast.

A week ago, I met my godson for the first thru third time. Little Silas. The parents even found newsy type caps for the occasion. However, I have learned from my other little cousins, it will take twelve years or so of infrequent visits for him to remember who I am. He looked up at me with big, blue eyes and spit-up over his fourth outfit of the day. I whispered important phrases of nonsense into his ear as he spat out his Iowa Hawkeyes pacifier.

On a side note, my toast tastes like bacon. Due to the fact that I haven’t had pork like products within my house for three months, I am ignoring the improbable nature of this claim and savoring the pure bliss.

My coffee tastes a bit like hot rubber… mmm. Bacon on the go. It’s like a road trip without the nasty cheese holding everything in place.

On the subject of cute, little things. My parents have found an abandoned kitten. They waited two weeks to name it - the family Veterinarian needed to determine its sex, then after finding out it was a boy, called it Sam. Sam has decided that he is a parrot, and sits proudly on my father’s shoulder. Together they harvested the fields this year, plundering the amber waves of they bounty once again. Whenever Sam gets sleepy, he just slides off into Dad’s hood for a little cat nap. It’s so cute I can’t hardly stand it.

Well you gang of ninjas, zombies and plutocrats, I gotta run. Keep the ice clean, and may the flamingos keep politics interesting!

The Speech

You can’t tell it from the way the hall is decorated with all its pumpkins and gourds, but Jeanne’s favorite color is actually green, and Jeremy’s just so happens to be red. Every time I think of these two it’s like Christmas.

I have been a fan of team Franz-Adams - excuse me, J-Adams – since the beginning and this feeling of fandom has only grown over time. I don’t know what I’m going to do when I have my Great-grand-nephews drooling on my feet. Jeanne and Jeremy, I reckon I can speak for everyone in here that I will love and support you from now until forever.

Sister, Brother (it’s so cool calling you brother) Here’s to you. Happy Holidays.

Happy Trails to Q

Good morning and how are ya?

I'm sorry for the lack of posting, my free time has been eaten by zombies – err, a story about zombies anyway.

Chuck full of pulpy goodness, "Lich: the Undead Wizard Rides Again" has been slurping at my mind and time since labor day, and with a probably-needing-a-good-polish-if-ever-it-was-going-to-be-professionally-submitted-anywhere-but-still-one-fine-chunk-o-words version due in late October, I've been cracking rawhide to make the drive a good'un.

Having both the western and the zombie apocalypse genre on the mind makes for interesting dreams, the wildest so far pitted a gigantic, old-fashioned locomotive against one of P. F. Chang's terra cotta horses. I don't remember who won, but it was an epic battle and I woke up Casey Jonesing Mongolian beef.

Well that's all for now, I got to hop on my subway and ride it into the sunrise.

Keep shooting straight, and don't let the rattlesnakes bite!

Dreams and Things

haHA! You thought I’d escape the day without a bloggie-blog, but I’m a sneaky ol’ cuss, now ain’t I?

indeed.
The Sox are being smacked around tonight, and my Jellyfish juice is extra tasty sour. However, I have leftovers in the fridge for the first time in probably 6 months. Huzzah!

So,
Last night I dreamt to amuse my brother that I would badly impersonate presidents of the united states. The thief of the show was going to be my Lincoln impersonation, wherein I would simply don a suit coat, top hat and stilts – but not long pants to hide said stilts. Apparently my modernized Gettysburg address (talking about the 20th century, perhaps?) was gonna knock the twenty somethings dead, but it was a bit square for an opening act. So, I decided to do another presidential impersonation – a rude moronic fool, who’d be so terrifically over the top and poorly done that Lincoln would be pure bliss. I chose for my president Rutherford B. Hays. Donning my only costume piece, a suit jacket (being beardless was part of the shtick for both presidents) I get onto stage ready to take space and amuse, and realize that the entire audience is full of children. Apparently some teacher heard there was a presidential impersonator, and decided to make a field trip out of it. yep, comedically cock-blocked by children. I started to deliver my speech, then gave up half way and engaged the kids by making outrageous claims about Mr. Hays, and having them give me the actual facts. It was kinda cute. I woke up trying to figure out how many score and years it’s been since 1776.

11 and 12 years. Not so sexy. However, It’s been 4 score and 10 since WWI ended…

here’s my secret for crazy dreams – When I crawl into bed, I say my prayers. The crazy stuff starts happening around 5:30-6am. Don’t know why, don’t know how. But it’s like going to the movies nightly and not having to drop $40 for tickets and popcorn!

Sweet Dreams!

Wherin the Pattern gains insight into the Weaver, Part 2

2 days until the Large Haldron Collider goes on line! So excited!

What's this, you ask? either look it up (for the facts) or read below. (for the fun) good keywords to google: CERN LHC alpinekat

Deep underground in the border of Switzerland and France… there is a Ring.

As far as particle physics is concerned, this ring is the king, in terms of size and energy.
This ring will find the elusive Higgs boson, which some call “The God particle”.
In the Darkness, this ring will bind lead ions together, creating a miniature big bang.

Man’s understanding of the Universe will change, and the nerds will be frolicking like hobbits.

Or the Earth will be destroyed in some form of catastrophic event. This is an unlikely scenario, especially since really, the LHC isn’t doing anything that isn’t already happening billions of times a second across the universe, and even right here at home.
So what’s the big deal? Well, the conditions within the ring are the closest we’ve ever gotten to creating the conditions before the beginning of the universe, more sterile than Outer Space….

Or God Himself will come out of the heavens saying, “YoyoyoyoyooyoyoyoyYOYOYOYOYOYOYO! What’s this mumbo jumbo I’m hearin’ about you kids findin’ particles of me layin’ round? It ain’t right, I tell you; you can’t be findin’ scientific proof that I exist! What are all the poor atheists gonna do? Ever think of that, huh? Why I got half a mind to smite you hairy-footed bastards right here and now!” To quell this apocalyptic fury, we, the mortals would explain that the Higgs particle is only called the God particle out of respect for the fact that it is the explanation of why things have mass, a fundamental question of science, not because we believe it’s truly particles of God.

Besides, if the world did suddenly get Ice-9ed by Strange Matter and wiped out all life on the planet, I’m sure it would be too sudden to notice.

So really we’re looking at either greater and profound understanding of the universe (the more likely scenario) or instantaneous annihilation (you have better odds of being crushed by a piano on your way to work this morning that this happening).

Don’t know about you, but it sounds win-win to me!

Wherein the Pattern Gains Insight into the Weaver, Part 1

“Yee haw!” Lord Two Tongued Cowslip cried to no one in particular. “This sure does beat the Mardi Graw down in Seattle!”

No one made any notice of the cowboy, for he was sitting in a padded and sound proof room.

“Not Fair!” He cried, “Yew just created me, and now yer throin’ me in the loon bin? What did I do to deserve that?”

Unmoved by his characters’ pleas, Lord Two tongued Cowslip continued to stay in the padded cell all by himself. This is when the cowboy realized the inner truth behind his creator’s action.

“Aw, I get it. God’s late for work.”

Watching with my Ears

Hello and good morning to y’all.

So, I listened to the last night of the DNC. Yes, listened as in radio. You may call me a Luddite if you wish, but I find television manipulates my emotion too easily. At this time in the political process, I need to hear what the people are saying, not just their words but the meaning behind those words. It really shouldn’t matter to me what others think about the candidate or speaker, yet often I feel when I’m watching the speech I’m getting swept in the political version of Beatlemania that the crowd feels. Emotion clouds judgment, and television raises the level of emotion by turning each speech into a montage of excited faces of mothers, rivals, and rarely the politician giving the speech. I strive to be a political Jedi Knight, free of all but the politics of the moment. You can call me Qbi Wan Canvotie.

This being said, I must admit there was nothing more cynically funny that watching the crowd wave their “unity” banners while Hillary gave her war cry for partisan politics.

It’ll be interesting what the Republicans have to say in response. I’ll certainly be listening. In politics, only fools don’t swing both ways.

A good thing to keep in mind when we’re choosing Senators for president.

Back?

It’s time. Time to stretch my fingers again over the ebony keys of this dream machine.Time again to whisper and say hello to all of you.

Hi how are you? What’s happened in your life since I went away?Not really away, more like an eclipse. Am I out of the Earth’s shadow yet? I’m unsure. But today might be a good time to wake back up.

So, pour a little whiskey on my grave to bring me back to the top. Give me a funny hat to shade my bald spot. In the elevators to work, you’ll find me, softly tap-dancing when no one’s there.

And a little voice will mutter, “Now where did I put that Q?”

It's Quiet, too Quiet...

No shenanigans waited for me on the subway. Nor the office. Nor after the office. These results give me mixed feelings. While I really hate early morning mayonnaise fights, at least it gives me something to talk about…

Unlike today.

Oh well. At least there’ll be doughnuts at work…

26 minutes of Thursday

It’s gonna be one of Those days today, my friends. I’m currently 13 minutes into it, and I can tell.

I woke this morning on the wrong side of the bed, upside down. I was using a different pillow and blanket too. Thankfully, the clothes I had on seemed not to change much. I opened the refrigerator door and got dive bombed by the canola mayonnaise. Apparently, the Happy cat bottle of wine and one of my bottles of Kombucha conspired for the canola to commit a murder/suicide of my metatarsals. My foot (for once) wasn’t asleep on the job and dodged the descending jar of mayo; murder averted. However, upon impact, the lid experienced a loss of structural integrity, and my kitchen experienced what it would be like to be the studio of a bad performance artist as Mayonnaise splattered across the room.

It’s now 13 minutes later and noting more extravagant has happened. This pleases me as all I’ve done is sit at my computer, compose this blog and nibble a piece of toast. I’m going to take it as a sign to go into work early today. Who knows what shenanigans wait for me on the subway!

Waffles!

Red, White, and Q

Hi there friends,

I started thinking about the American Dream the last few days, and what it all meant. What I realized is that while everyone who has ½ an art in his/her heart will at one time or another try to define this elusive altered state of consciousness, I'm unsure I've ever heard of anybody talk about the American Reality.

Come to think of it, the American Reality might be more elusive than the dream. What's real about this country? Our main export is our culture, mostly coming out of Hollywood – a land of illusion. Our military superiority? Since the late forties we've scared the world with threats of Atomic Doom, and in turn are intimidated by the posturing of the "enemy block." Economics? It's all a mindset. The stock market is nothing but speculation of the future, and the resulting wealth of the company. A dollar has its value based on the same factors – what other countries think it will be worth – not backed up by anything material, just dreams. I've voted in every election since I was eighteen; and since my state has always disagreed with me, I have never voted in any election.

Ok Mr. cynical, so what is the American reality? Does it have to be depressing? Does it have to be about lack of health care, teenage pregnancy? Does it have to deal with house foreclosures
and shootings in churches, and trains not running on time?

No. I think the American Reality is defined as "What it is to be an American."

Right about here, the liberal on my sholder (looking like a collage professor) has started retching, while the conservative on my other sholder has (looking like my Grandpa) is giving me the thumbs up. Since I love both these people and hate it when they start fighting (I always seem to get stuck in the middle.) I gotta wrap this up quickly.

"What it to be an American" might be the biggest American dream of them all - except when it's a personal definition as long as no one speaks for anybody but themselves, it's all true. It's all American. E pluribis unum, mother's brother.

Granted, this is just what I think. What do you think?

Art, a rant inspired by "The Dark Knight"

Art is a scam.
For those of you who believe that life is but an illusion, this should come as no shock to you. However, it's been my experience that it is this set of people that would rather dip their tongue in battery acid than admit I'm right.

Is it art?
A good question. Lots of smart people have written lots of stupid things to answer this question. My answer is easy, cynical and simple, born from nearly a decade of Coffee shops, Theatre, and second-hand art school experience. Art is subjective. The nature of Art within an object/action is found solely within the viewer's mind. Anybody who tells what they feel is or isn't art is expressing an opinion. Anybody who tries to tell you how to feel about the artistry of an object/action is a moron. When it comes to art, everybody's right, because art is a judgment.

Art is more valuable than its components.
Very few probably look at "The Scream" and appreciate that it's a mixture of various toxic metals originally suspended into oil spread across a piece of cardboard. Very few people probably look at Michelangelo's David and bemoan the fact that it wont get its original market price because so much of the marble has been chipped away to create a naked man Art is an appreciation of an action/object, not of simply the components, but how the components exist, often in relationship to each other. The more artistic one feels the action/object is the more value one will assign it.

Art is useless.
This statement isn't exactly true; however, what idiots commonly call "high art" (painting, sculpture, papermaking etc.) doesn't have a practical function in everyday life. Owning a Ming vase won't ensure you'll wake up on time. The Venus de Milo isn't going to help you make breakfast. The Pollack painting on the wall is not going to keep me warm in the winter time unless I set it on fire. The most practical use for "high art" is in terms of investment. Odds are if the action/object has a high enough art (people continue to think it's valuable) then its value will rise over time. Koons' Rabbit is nothing but a stainless steel baseball card.

Art is a scam.
The job of the artist then, is to convince others (and commonly themselves) that the action/object that they have created has value, i.e. is art. The artist who makes a living with their art does so by selling it to others. People won't buy a useless object unless they somehow find it valuable. In other words the job of an artist is to convince people that a useless action/object that they've made has value. The funny thing is, as long as the viewer believes that the art is valuable, the art remains valuable. The artist is not the conman. The art is.

First Thing on My Mind

Good Morning, Friends,

I see a red door and I want to paint it black, because it’s reasonable to do so. You can’t go off having a second empire-type house black as burned ravens with a red door. It looks at the very least like a gate to Hell, or a very angry monster. Scares off the neighbors, you know. Not that they were all that brave to begin with. It was foolishness, they thought to eachselves, why would anybody want to buy a house strait from the Addams Family? Well, I’m here to tell you that aside from a thing or two festering in the attic – this house has it all, including a whirlpool acid bath! What more can a guy ask for? Another bucket of black paint, I suppose.

And a chili dog. Can’t ever have enough chili dogs.

Woofles!

Ramblin's

Good morning friends,

If nature were Narnia, Aslan would be having a lobster dinner tonight! However, I no longer resemble the big cat; my whiskers have whisked themselves away – frightened by me gesturing at them with a razor with spoon-like dullness. It was the personal hygiene version of the mob scene from Frankenstein – without the torches.
If ever he had to witness such a face-mangling debacle I bet ol’ Sweeny Todd would be turning in his pie.

In other news, I’m gonna call my absence “Summer Break”. Me Ma came out to visit, a great time as always. Got to cross Boston with a top hat full of books! How cool is that? The secret of me Ma is that she sees everything. The trick is trying to get her to tell me what she has seen. Usually asking “What do you see?” works pretty well, but I suspect she’ll soon notice that I’m always asking her that, especially in social settings and grocery stores. If I ever become a crazy old sage, or a mother (?) I hope my children will ask me my view of things while I’m feeling up avocados and checking the dates on the milk. Reason 231 why I don’t want kids…

If you’re in Boston, go see the Free Shakespeare in the park! If you’re not in Boston, come to Boston and see the Free Shakespeare in the park!

Tootles!

A Truthfull Account of a Fictional Encounter

A fellow in a jaunty, silver cap walked down the street in my neighborhood yesterday. He had a silk bag slung over his shoulder and played a harmonica as he walked. I could see the holes in the soles of his shoes.

As he passed, I noticed that he cast no shadow.

Sitting on the subway, the same man entered the car I was in and sat right across from me. He had put the harmonica away, but was still humming a happy little tune.

I looked him in the eyes, and his humming stopped as he broke out into a great smile.

“I know you,” he said, his voice like ripping paper.

“Well,” I replied. “You passed me on the street.”

“That’s right, that’s right!” He shouted, startling an old woman two seats away. “You’re the guy with the funny brown cap!”

Indeed I was. As a matter of fact, I was wearing it right then.

“The Street’s been buzzin’ about you,” he continued, “I had to take a little look for myself. Seems alright, white socks, black shoes ok. Do you have a harmonica?”

“With me?” This conversation was making me nervous.

“Yeah.”

“Two, actually”

“Good Man,” he exclaimed, standing. “Keep it up. Before I go, you got any questions for me?”

“Where’s your shadow?” I winced as it tumbled from my mouth, too personal. Too personal by far. He gave me a wicked grin.

“Lost it in a poker game, Son. Take care.”

He stepped out of the car, the doors closing at his heels. The old woman he startled earlier glared out the window at him until we pulled from the station. I sat with my hat in my hands until my stop, and then I went to work.

A PSA for Today

Ladies and Gentlemen:

Change is in the air!

LAh-May, not Lame

Gold Lame, Gold Lame…

Every time my alarm clock went off this was the first thought that went through my head. I'm not sure why, I think my dreams involved lettuce.
Last night, I realized that my evening had turned into a real-life version of the previous postings.
While there were no giant caterpillars or secret milk police, people and opportunities randomly came out, and soon I'd be deep in a conversation with a friend who I hadn't seen in months, all because I was trying to find a BoA in Central Square.

At lunch, the 23 enigma came up, and I tried to explain it to some coworkers. During the middle of it, I realized that it's a parable in wooga-wooga. Much like Jesus' Golden Rule and Wicca's Rule of three, the 23 enigma is a lesson in resonance, i.e. if I focus on something; it comes back to me magnified.

Why do unto others as you would do unto you? Taken as a simple way to behave in society. It's not such a firm idea. People might not wish to be treated the same way you do. What would happen if a masochist slapped you every time you saw him/her? How long would a Nymphomaniac be allowed in society if he/she tried to have sex with everything that lived?
These are crude and extreme examples, but illustrate the problem. However, by focusing on the way I wish to be treated, I can notice more clearly when that happens. Some might even argue (I'm looking at you, Wiccans) that what I do is given back to me in a greater amount than I give it. The 23 Enigma creates a bridge between these two trains of thought.

The 23E approaches this phenomenon as more of a psychiatry issue. If one focuses on anything, the number 23 or simply red cars, one will naturally notice when they appear, which will lead to more focus, which will make more appearances – not that there will actually be more 23s or red cars around, it will simply seem like it. However, this is where the existentialists (or anybody who loves the matrix) would jump in and state that since reality is simply one's personal experiences and truths, then actually there ARE more 23s and Red cars there.

So, are people actually treating me more in the way that I wish to be treated, or am I simply ignoring when it's not happening and focusing in on when it is? For me, the answer is "Yes."

Waffles!

Three Days of Whiskey and Wine - 3: Ending

Alarm and cacophony awoke the couple on that Sunday. The Sun, nightcap still on its head, barely saw them leave their hovel and return to the woods where the great worm left them. Singing platitudes and making offerings, the couple re-entered the worm’s hole, and soon again knew no more.

The man was the first to awaken, alone and across the river. He wandered into a house of wise men, and listened to them speak about one another, laughing to himself when the wisest lost his temper.

The woman found herself near the home of the tall, quiet one. Hefting the umbrella she bought with his belongings, she went off to pay him a visit. He was drinking wine, in a great house, by himself. She joined him and laughter, loss of self and allergic reactions became reality for a little while. The quiet one quite liked the umbrella, and put it in the refrigerator for safe keeping. She put on some music and began to dance with a chair. Silliness overcame the both of them and they knew no more.

The man met a former fellow philosopher, and they spoke of the absence of time over coffee and strawberries. The combination left them giddy, and as they got up to leave, the friend stole the keys to a ride, and promptly left black marks behind as they sped through town. The trip was exhilarating; dodging Caterpillars and people, reaching speeds not reached since their younger days out west, they found themselves safe and in the woods in no time.

Inside the trunk of the car, the two discovered a package of corn nuts, a package of pistachios, a flask of whiskey and two types of juice. Leaving the ride behind (but taking the keys with them) they wandered further into the woods and had a picnic with their ill gotten gains.

The day passed.

The sky was reddening when the philosopher decided to leave the shaded woods. The ride came to life, and the philosopher was soon gone. The man wandered back to his hovel gently nipping at the flask of whiskey. He wondered where the woman was, there were great stories to tell. He nipped at the flask, nip… nip… nip. The whiskey was gone and the man knew no more.

And that’s the three days of whiskey and wine. I’ve got more if you want them, tell your friends to bring the Templeton.

Three Days of Whiskey and Wine - 2: Lies

Half the day ceased to be before the three awoke. With a minimum amount of searching, the couple found food that the quiet one could eat. He could only eat non-living things, while in the couple the man preferred food that was alive, and the woman couldn't stand anything with legs.

Under the hot, hot, heat of the post-noonpoctalyptic sun, the tall quiet one became a mirage, promising his return as he melted into the sewers. The couple gathered the belongings he left behind; a corn cob pipe, an old silk hat, to lumps of coal and a button, and used them to barter for an umbrella. They then climbed atop a slow moving caterpillar as it ambled its way into town, and kissed chastely under the bumbershoot's shade.

The caterpillar decided to quit moving in front of a poster showing a lobster composing on a typewriter, a glass of whiskey in its claw. The couple went their separate ways at this point, she to find bleach sold by munchkins, he to escape the heat within a giant cow. Above them, the sky buzzed with the wings of giant mechanical insects. The hooded milk police were out, enforcing the practice of calcium absorption. This left the woman feeling distinctly ill at ease.

The couple found each other by the bronze artist – who, horrified at what his art had become, used himself as his greatest casting. When discovered, the city put him on display in a public park, near the library. The couple embraced, then noticed that they had drawn the attention of a man in a hood. Terrified, they raced for safety, dodging giant beetles and caterpillars, as the great mechanical moth (glowing red in the setting sun's light) cast its blazing glare about the city for the lovers.

The couple stopped before a massive anthill built up behind the glass tower where they had watched the sky explode the night before. The hooded police were frightened of the insects that stood as big as people, and would not come near – but the ants would capture and devour the couple too, if they discovered. They slowly dug into the dirt, covering each other to escape notice, and waited until the hooded ones became bored. Unfortunately for the couple, a giant worm appeared and swallowed them whole before the hunt was over. The world went dark, and the couple knew no more.

Miraculously, they lived. The worm left them soiled but unhurt, above ground in a wood not far from the couple's hovel. They washed, and ate, then passed wine between them as they laughed themselves to sleep with stories of their day.

Time passes, the stars encircle the sky. Day 2 weakens and slips away.

Three Days of Whiskey and Wine - 1: The Truth

Pull up a chair kids, and pass that Templeton. I got a story to tell you.

You see the sky Friday night? This is what life was like, 3 days of laughter and sneezes, all weekend long in this ancient city.

The tall, quiet fellow rode into town against the sun as the happy couple scavenged for food along the dumpsters. They could have done better, but the man was antsy, agitated. He kept muttering “Outta time, outta time.” They’ve been out of time for a long time now, but the man hadn’t seemed to figure it out yet.

The quiet one found them as they gathered his scraps and together they climbed the glass tower to watch the sky as it darkened and exploded with color. The three were suitably impressed and passed between them fermented liquids of questionable origin. The tall and quiet one declined his companions’ offer of nourishment.

Once the sky quieted down, the three scampered to the couple’s hovel. Standing on the roof, they howled and danced under the moonless night to the cracking and popping of their bones and distant explosions. Rum flowed like urine. Eventually, they tired of such ecstasy and spoke to one another about the nature of heroes and kings until sleep nibbled them to a deeper sort of unknowing.

Time continued to slip by as the first day came to an end.

Where's the Myqueie?

Hello friends,
I'm sorry for my quiet.

This week Time and I have been at each other's throats. Probably has something to do with deadlines, but if so, I missed the memo.

Dream and I, however, have become the best of drinking buddies. Don't know what's up with that, but as long as I don't end up hung in a closet, I'm enjoying the ride.

Waffles!

Choir Tripping

10 years ago today, I found myself in England. Soon I was eating black pudding and fish and chips! Soon, I was spitting on the pastor who ended up marrying me. Soon, I saw my first July 4th parade that had nothing to do with America’s liberation from England.

This was the largest city I had ever been to. This is where I realized how hard living as an actor would be, but also how glorious it would be to live like one. This is one of the many places in my life where I can say “it all started here.”

Waffles!

Straight out of Left Field

Ladies and Gentlemen, sit back in your seats, it’s time for another adventure of Q and Adam Sandler in “It Really Bums Me Out when You Mess with My Zoloft” starring Rob Schneider as Zoloft, Kim Kattrel as “Perky, the Wonderschnitzel” and Adam Sandler as “The rude but lovable homeless guy who sings songs to the alligators in the sewers!” This week’s adventure… “Something that sounds better on paper!”

AS: dood, you got a quarter?

KK: no. get out of my face and take a shower!

AS: *sings a rude but lovable cover of … “My Sharona” at the Wonderschnitzel, who begins to cry.*

KK: (sobbing) that song reminds me of my Mom.

AS: I only have this plastic bag as a Mom.

KK: here, have a quarter.

RS: You can do it!

AS: Hooray! Now I can fly!!! *in a montage to the sounds of Portishead, we watch clips of Manny Rameriez hit home runs interspersed with AS purchasing lots of Alka-Seltzer, ingest it and jump around*

RS: Hooray! You can do it man!

KK: do what?

AS: Fly, dood. The bubbles make me UP. *Magically, the bubbles turn AS into a helium filled balloon animal* Yay! Now I can befriend the pigeons! *sings a song about being loved by pigeons. During it, he floats away into the rising sun over the city.*

KK: Thanks Zoloft, you saved the day.

RS: Prime-Time!
Coming soon to a dreamscape near you!

Waffles.

Not Wanted

They kicked in. Whoo-doggy, did they ever kick in.

My dander is up this morning, friends. Not over anything important, about a simple little movie known as "Wanted". In it you watch a typical modern drone turn into one of the greatest assassins the world has ever seen. It's like the "Matrix" gone evil with 10 years of technological improvement. The critics love it.

Nobody has any problem mentioning that the whole ruckus came from a comic book. However, what really skins my goat is how the entire reason for the comic in the first place doesn't exist in the movie. This reason is superheroes. Yes, superheroes, or the lack there of.

Imagine a world where up until 1986 the world we saw in the pages of the funny papers was really the world. The super-villans finally united and together caused a massive battle, eventually causing the extinction of the superhero. Then, in a stroke of brilliance, shifted reality to this one, where "The Detective" was only an old actor who played that part in a campy 60's TV show and the evil "Professor's" archenemy also was an actor playing a part paralyzed by a horse riding accident. The only one who knows that the world was changed by this pact of evil are the supervillans themselves, who have become a giant secret illuminati-esque organization. Wanted is the story of Wesley Gibson's introduction and ascent into the ranks of the "Brotherhood" to replace his father, known as "The Killer."

Yes, it's grim and gritty, and in the rock and roll world that is comic books, this is a profanity-laced gangsta rap. However, it's also a love ballad to the DC Universe, recognizing the men and woman who are daily ground under the heel of those striving for Truth, Justice and the American Way. To leave the Comic Book theme out of the movie is the same as doing an adaptation of "Hamlet" where the whole revenge theme is left out, all you'd have is a movie of a whiny kid would doesn't like his step dad and has girl troubles. This is the same as a film about a whiny kid who becomes a part of a secret society of assassins who kill by the whims of the fabric in a textile mill. Blech.

Imagine it, Morgan Freeman as Lex Luthor – who, twenty years ago, actually beat Superman. It makes my mouth water.

Oh well. Just another excuse to cut back on my popcorn intake.

Waffles!

Jumping the Tracks

My friends, my rhythm has been lost to the masses.

Lack of coffee apparently equals lack of postings. Add into the mix earlier-than-usual work meetings, sadistic and commonly malfunctioning alarm clocks and a infestation of monkeys and you would have a pretty good idea of what the week's been like for the Qster.

And now, I just did a silly thing. Michael, really? A hand full of Espresso Beans at ten in the evening? You had better go take a nap before they kick in.

Good night!

Stepping Lightly

I finally bowed down to the pressures of Big MaMa Q's will today. Hot-espresso bean chocolate isn't all bad, but kind of groundsy. I suspect he will want me to run the chocolate and beans through the Espresso machine next time…

Down by the waterfront in the big city of beans there is a shack called the Barking Crab. The crab is one of the most authentic looking fish joints here, boosted by the authenticity of their shell-cracking devices, i.e. big rocks. It must give the servers nothing but utter delight telling the snooty tourists "you see that big rock that's holding down the tablecloth? Use that to break open your ($40) lobster." It's such a popular spot to get one's caveperson on, that the wait is usually somewhere around an hour or so; these were lucky people this weekend, for a shenigans was happening across the street.

The people were reveling in the Summertime sun and day, bands were playing, people were dancing and bearded folks dressed as a caterpillar/butterfly combos roamed the waterfront at large.

In the water roamed the jellyfish. Tons of em. A silver clad girl in a cat mask and I were really excited to see them, everybody else just seemed a bit bored. On the main stage Irish step dancers were kicking up a storm (the Indian dancers claimed that their prayers to Ganesh(sp) were keeping the storm away, a nice balance)

Yow. I don't know if I've ever seen a step dancers feet in motion before. Boggling. My companions mentioned riverdance. I mentioned Papelbon after winning the pennant last year. http://youtube.com/watch?v=YbzBTgYOoIg&feature=related

Now, I'm sure they couldn't throw a 90 mph fastball, however, they beat the socks off the Soxs' closer in their step-to-my-loo. It was like their feet had taken caffine. Big MaMa Q would be most pleased. For myself, I know what I'll be trying to learn to do in the mirrored elevators at work!

Waffles!

Bork! Bork!

Big MaMa Q is whispering to me.

He says “Go ahead Myqueie-Myque, put those chocolate covered espresso beans into the coffee machine, it’ll taste great!

Big Mama Q, you haven’t led me astray since we made Zhang Chowda (a bacon-flavored avocado soup) but I think I’ll pass on this wilde hare ala mode.

I could just eat the espresso beans, but then again, it’s hard to dip one’s toast into a cup full of
solid chocolate lumps.

Now BMQ is saying to make a Peanut butter and Espresso Bean sandwich. He’s an evil one, that Big MaMa Q.

I first met the Big MaMa Q, at the Dining Center back @ UNI, he preached to me about all kinds of things, weirding the living daylights out of my comrades. The Gumbo to bitter and thin? Add a thickening/sweetening agent! (Lucky Charms) Breakfast cereal too watery? Add whipped cream! Zhang Chowda, Salty pancakes, sloppy-egg hash, Big MaMa Q and I had more low budget culinary adventures than the Phantom Gourmet.

Tara and BMQ don’t really get along. It’s funny, the performance artist is constantly disapproving of the culinary misappropriation of kitchen items, and is constantly stomping on the artistic license of my chef friend. I think it’s mostly that she has to eat whatever frankenfood the Mad Qook creates. In this, I do not blame her.

Now My alter-chef-ego is trying to tell me what kind of wicked awesome hot chocolate I could make if I took a cheese grater to the Esp. beans and added slow amounts of steamed soy. I am finally tempted.

Have a great weekend!

The Black Spot

Good Morning!

I beat my alarm clock in the race to wakefulness today. To spite me, it started to alarm right as I took my first sip of my morning coffee. There is nothing worse than having the peace of sipping an espresso quietly out of a sake cup shattered by a cell phone's rendition of "When the Saints Come Marching In" at top volume. Err, scratch that. Espresso spilled onto your lap from being startled is much, much worse. Man – those sake cups keep liquid hot like lava!
So, last night as I drifted off to sleep, I realized that I hadn't turned my alarm on for the morning. My bedroom has neither clock nor window, so ensuring that I get up at a proper time is a responsibility of an object that sits on the kitchen counter. This ensures that I need to get out of bed to turn the obnoxious thing off. However, last night it also ensured that I had to get out of bed to make it nice and obnoxious for today.

When I sat up, I noticed the black spot – a dark round patch floating about 5 feet off the floor in front of me. At first it thought it was just my eyes, but ultimately the spot stayed in the same place, not following the motion of the head. It remained there as I turned up the sound on my phone and as I crawled back into bed.

After a night of dreaming about having the ability to freestyle rap the flood waters out of Iowa, I awoke to find the spot was gone. Freaky-tiki.

Waffles!

The 25 Ways He Broke Me

Holy cats,

The town went wild last night after the basketball game. Down the block, kids were waving a C’s jersey like a beach towel at the passing cars, causing the drivers to honk in joyancy. There seemed to be a lot more emergency sirens than usual, too.

Kenpo Ben, after showing me 22 new ways to break me, requested that we head to the pub, order some nachos and watch the Kelly green monsters at work. Apparently, he was going for numbers 23 and 24.

Sitting on a church pew behind an enormous plate of food, I shivered in anticipation. Truthfully, I was shivering because they had the air on too high, I needed to occasionally go outside and warm up.

For the record, 3 hours on a church pew isn’t much in the way of comfort either. What actually made the game more than idly watching a team I didn’t like play a sport I don’t care for was the people. It was standing room only at James’ Gate last night, and every time Ray Allen sank a three, the place shrieked. I wonder about the interior of a pub like that. Does the screaming weaken the structural integrity of a building, leading to a phenomenon known as “brings down the house” or, like a violin, does the constant squeals, yells, and applause make the timbers of the joint resonate producing both a stronger bar and a better sounding one as well.

Regardless, last night Ray Allen sank a lot of threes. The place did not fall down. My ears are still ringing.

Work is gonna be fun today…


Nachos!

The Glass Man

Good morning to all you folks and friends out there. I hope your electronic dreams are coming true today.

I'm having a crisis of style today, and not just in the ever present fasion sense of the word either.
I'm rather sponge-like when it comes to reading books, I find myself speaking and then writing in the forms of the authors that I've been eating at the time. Currently, me word doodles resemble much like terry prachett. An example:

"A distant bell rang (in the distance) Mortimer raised his head warily. Distant bells (in the distance) usually meant trouble. Creator trouble. He sadly eyed his slightly-sipped goblet of milk. Sure, he could finish it, but really, if one's going to have milk in the first place, it should be savored, like a bitter wine. Besides, chugging just led to gastric distress.

A disembodied voice (also from the distance) said (distantly) It's okay, finish your milk. It does a body good.

At least he's reading Pratchett right now, Mortimer thought. "Things get decidedly messy when Ellis and Morrison get involved. Mortimer took as much time as he possibly could savoring his milk. A distant foot was tapping (irritably, in the distance, than stopped.)

"Just a moment," the voice (distantly) said, "my wife wants a word with me."

Now, while this is infinatly better than 90% of the gobbility gook that I usually produce (in particular where Mortimer is involved) I feel like a thief who, unable to find a voice for himself, steals others and over time assimilates them as his own. It's depressing. You might even want to call me Low-Q-tis, the Borg, but please, please resist the urge! Go take a nap instead, sleep seems to help…

Perhaps the resolution is to then write in layers, not unlike the style of the flemmish painters, or perhaps I just need to make sure it's not published until it sounds like me. I bet a shower and a shave would help. A glass of milk would be nice too. with some cookies.

Chips Ahoy!

... And we're Back!

Hi friends, sorry for the quiet. My brother Rob was in town, and the shenanigans were hot like Toasters. Unfortunately, someone forgot to plug in these toasters, but nobody's perfect.

Highlights include:

I realized that people under umbrellas look like jellyfish. Hip-hip hooray!

The Amazing Mr. Buff Will Blow Your Mind had an impromptu performance on a balcony. This is a Shatner-esque type band consisting of my brother on percussion and me on spoken word/vocals. In the words of a couple of too-honest highschoolers who once saw it in action, "Myque, I saw you perform. It really wasn't good." Ahh youth. What we lack in everything, (except drumming, the Buff is pretty good at that) we make up for enthusasim.

However, when twin harmonicas showed up later that night, I think people would have rather listened to cats being skinned alive.

Got to see the Sox in action. Even Tara liked the game. Score one for the home team!

Got to see the local Beer Brewery. Even Tara liked the beer. Score one for the home team!

Realized that eating too much ricotta cheese can happen. Ouch.

My friends got married on the banks of the Cedar River (covering half the wedding site's parking lot) by a preacher man holding the holy text "Lord of Chaos" by Robert Jordan. To conserve water, the urinals were filled with ice cubes. The only thing more awesome is if I could have been there.

All and all, I'd have to give the weekend a certified "more fun than Wall Drug" rating.


Waffles!

Beat by the Heat

Hi, my left-handed compliments to three part chai.

It’s hot, wicked hot,
I forgot how hot it could be
And you see, it’s not that bad when I work,
For work has AC.

You think that’s bad? Be glad you didn’t see the other “verses”

Oi, the heat it rots me brains!

Later.

This one goes to 11

So,
This morning - while writing my last blog, I happened to drink nearly a quart of black tea sweetened with nearly a quarter-cup of sugar. This made me REALLY productive @ work!
Until it wore off. I don’t think I’ve ever had to concentrate so hard to sustain a simple conversation. Lesson Learned.

This being said, by the time I was on the bus riding home I was in this great sober-but-drunken state where I said a couple of the best statements to crawl out of my mouth in some time (mind, I do admit to being sober-but-drunken for the rest of the blog)

They were:

Oh, Possum! (I commonly use “possum” as a doppelganger to “awesome”)

And

“More fun than a sack of Haggis”

Imagine my wonderment when I got over speculating exactly how much fun was more than a sack of haggis, and started to speculate exactly how much fun was its opposite

That’s right. less fun than a sack of haggis. Possum, indeed.

I realized right then and there a 10 step scale-of-fun was needed for the goodness to be truly measured, and started composing in my little head what the 10 steps of fun might be. The item or thought needed to be specific enough to not need any qualifiers, for example while I would love to put Death at the bottom rung, it’s way to vague. Death by chocolate isn’t anywhere near as horrendous as Death by gas chamber. Death on stage is too subjective. Terry Pratchett’s Death is great. "Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey"'s Death is a chump. See what I mean?

With that, the list of fun from 1 (the least amount) to 10 (whee!)

1. Reading Heidegger
2. Crystal Meth
3. A Sack of Haggis
4. Being Single
5. The Quadratic Equation
6. The Legend of Zelda
7. William Shatner
8. Learning Ninjatsu
9. Senior Skip Day
10. Wall Drug

There you are friends, your very own "Q Scale of Fun". Please steal and use in your own life!


waffles!

Why One Should Never Cross Red Shoes with Jellyfish

Hi there,

Iowa, let's have a swap. I'll take ½ your cold and rainy weather, and you can have every other day @ ninety-five. Deal? Heck, you can even send me my brother for a weekend to sweeten the deal.

And that's my final offer.

So, as I may have mentioned I'm making Kombucha – but disaster has struck the home of the jellyfish Q in the form of a pair of red shoes.

No, I did not have the dance/dance fever in any of its evolutions.

My lovely wife used my kitchenware to dunk her "Ninja Shoes" in laundry detergent water. I tried to rinse the jugs, and they did look clean, however, my next batch of bucha was bubbly – not fizzy.

Horrors upon horrors.

So I'm trying to resuscitate my jellyfish, it sits in a fresh bath of healthy bucha, and pleanty, plenty of sweet tea. Meanwhile, I'm trying to ensure that I'm not drinking the laundry soap, so far all my batches de bucha have hit the sink. The mutant alligators in the sewers of boston have never felt so good!

As for my wife's ninja shoes (meaning they have split toes) I haven't seen them since the incident. Either they fear my wrath (which is just plain silly. Even I don't fear my wrath) or the Dred RaRa Blackskirt (haven't heard that one in a while eh?) booted them to duty at the Y, and I'll see them when her membership runs out. Yar, they'll rue the day they grumped up the evil that is teh Q. So help me bob, I'll make them dance on the bones of my dead jellyfish's water. (???) at least they're red shoes. That'll be easy for them.


Waffles!

A lazy Saturday

So… Tara and I had late night espresso to try to fix our aching stomachs (we both ate WAY too much tasty burger in Harvard Sq.) and now, at one-thirty in the morning, we're having a domestic frenzy. Dishes have been done, the house has been lightly picked up, and Tara is having an underwear fashion show with the fifteen or so pair she picked up yesterday. Yep. Fifteen. So far, the two times she came out looking like an Art Kyd version of Wonder woman have been my favorite.

She just said "oop, found another superhero pair"

They were so fabulous, I made up a portmanteau on the spot: Joyancy. That's right joyful and buoyancy. A warning to the wise. When used, be careful not to make reference to viewing of bums, else it's 20 cracks across the noggin for you and your Freudian-slipping tongue.

Ow. My poor noggin. Silly tongue.


…


now it's a quarter to five in the afternoon and my teeth hurt from biting a rouge clove in the French toast this morning. By this morning I mean an hour ago.

Now we're actually cleaning the house. Smashing pumpkins on the Ipod. Not a fan, never really a fan. I take it back, Tara is doing the Laundry, I'm in the middle of letting some dishes air dry, and the Ipod has gone crazy. Honestly, I'm expecting it to gain consciousness and try to convince us that it is an Elder Cog (was supposed to be God, but I like Cog better.) and that we should sacrifice cats and invest into petrochemical corporations to appease it. perhaps the late night espresso hasn't yet worn off.

Tara returns with Laundry. I love hot, freshly dried laundry – except when it's 93 degrees outside. This is a bit boggling to me, since it was in the low fifties last night. I wonder when the horses run. I want to know whether or not big brown streaked across the field or not.

Myque, that was juvenile and a bit gross.

I'm sorry. Really I am. I blame the Ipod. It's gone crazy. In fact I'll be right back!

...


The Ipod and I had to have a little talk. I fed it cake, and it fed me Cake. A win/win situation, that is until Tara shows up and wonders why her Ipod is buried in her Red Velvet cake that she was saving… I hope at the very least she puts on her wonder woman pants before pounding upon me. It may be abuse, but at least it'll rank high in Joyancy! - to be honest, the only thing true about this previous paragraph is that the ipod was playing Cake (Frank Sinatra) while I wrote it. not it seems like it's switched to the violent femmes. Mmmm. I feel so joyant right now.


Man, this has grown into quite a book, and not only that, but a tell-all type memoir at that! Huh, I had better wrap it up then.

I wonder if the horse won yet? CNN tells me that Clinton endorses Obama, and that Boston is up by 2 over Seattle, and that Wonder Woman found a dead body in the Potomic, but nothing about the Horse that UPS loveth so.

If I owned a Horse called big brown, after studding him, I'd dye him pink.

Thanks for coming over!
Waffles.

Fried-yay!

Happy National Doughnut day!

Astronomers claim that the universe is doughnut shaped…
Perhaps this is the true meaning of the “Big Crunch” theory?
Ug. Never mind. Crunchy doughnuts sound gross and painfull.

Oh well, it’s Friday, which is good times. If you have a birthday today, have a good one!

I gotta go call my Ma!
Laters!

It's about time!

I forgot to turn up the sound on my cell phone today, so I didn’t hear the alarms.

My bedroom has no clock nor windows, but I can tell the time by the light on the wall – except when it rains, like today.

This is why there will be no book today.

Sorries!

Elephant Poop

Good morning! How are you today? It's been one of those weeks where the writers are all blocked up tough luck Lucas is what I say. Tough luck indeed. And with that, the … something.

Witnessed a local circus on Saturday. Ariel silk dancers, hula hoopers, contortionists and jugglers galore. Google the Madcap Rumpus Society for more about them.

As a child, I have been told that my favorite part of the circus was watching the elephants poop.
I wonder if it's still the same – in the big top, things are so glamorous, so glitzy, so immortal that the intimacy that the rumpus society requires is gone. It's the difference between NASCAR and the local circuit – with the local, the performers are no less professional, but the audience can relate to them better and thus be better amazed that a "punter like them" could do such amazing feats.

I wonder if this is part of what Brecht was getting at when he claimed to want to make theatre like a sporting event; the closer to street theatre one gets, the more the audience will identify themselves with the characters... ug. The theory beast is raising its head. Time to wrap it up before I fully ascend my soapbox.

Last night I dreamt that I was 18 again. It was all back, the farm, the plays, the former GF, all of it. I wonder now, if I had witnessed Emperor Norton back in high school, would I have taken the same path? I'm guessing that I would have run off to join the circus. And yet, 2 to 1 I'd find myself at 28 bemoaning that I never studied theatre. All I say to that is better late than never!

Waffles!

from the archives of the silence of the Q v5

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Hey! It’s the bard’s birthday! Happy birthday Billy jiggley javelin from all us living punters in the
21st century. You are still the greatest.

And of course, I notice the 23. sigh.

And what else. In a bouncy mood today, like a rabbit in spring. Or even better, a rabbit made of springs! I got my bunny back yesterday – man, have I had adventures since she left, man has she had adventures since she left! The biggest atrocity I heard of was that she went to the island Java, and only drank instantized coffee. That’s globalization for you.

I wonder if Captain planet and the planeteers would have been for globalization… probably not. Is globalization akin to a minstrel show? A non native culture steals another’s identifiers and then uses them for enjoyment and art… yes, but I think intent has a lot to do with it. I’m not insulting the indonisians by drinking a cup of coffee. Yet at the same time, by drinking java from java I’m depriving the Javans of their java from java. I’m helping rob a culture of its signifiers, and thus making that culture more weak and trivial when compared to my own. This might to me explain the acceptable/unacceptable use of some of the more heinous words in the English language. I, not being of a specific culture and using such a word steals it from the other, weakening and trivializing their people. They, however, can use the word all they wish because it reinforces their boundaries and identity as a people? I dunno. It seems fishy to me.

So glad I’m not posting this one. It’d be a hate-mail supreme with a side of fries.

short and sweet

Good morning my friends,

It’s Friday! You know what that means….

Doughnuts!!!


I love Fridays.

the united bits of Q

Sorry for my lack of postings yesterday, I was being doused by a fire hose.

Oh no! you may say, Q did your house burn down?

No friends nothing like that, it's just that I've realized that my body's gone on strike, and I'm sick of those damn picket lines.

To you, this makes no sense. Let me explain.

Much like the season 4 episode of the simpons (where the workers strike at the power plant) this whole business started with a dental issue. I need to fix me teeths, and haven't gotten around to getting it done. Apparently the body of my body has had enough, and decided to unionize. They make their demands clear, nearly every Dream I have, in one form or another, tells me to get my teeth fixed and other things I need to do.

Apparently, the united bits of Q have decided to escalate the issue. I realized that I have been staging walkouts on myself. It's been months since I last shined my shoes. I cant seem to keep this beard off my face. My umbrella leans brokenly against a wall, my teeth need to be fixed. The hallway needs a fresh coat of paint. All these things are issues that can be fixed, it's just that upper management isn't so much inclined.

At least I haven't had to resort to scabs crossing the picket line, I get the heebie-jeebies just thinking about that.

On the plus side, I can feel upper management start to slip. Profits are falling, personal appearance is decidedly unattractive. The sink is full of dishes. It's time to talk with the union.

Time to meet some of their demands. Let's see what we can do about getting my teeth fixed.

Across the pickets of signs and cells the yell goes out, "Pick up the shoe shine boys. It's time to go back to work!"

Waffles!

Dreams of Mu(sic)

Hello, happy belated memory day!

I am pleased to announce a new arrival in the Myque and Tara Household. No, she’s not preggers. Nor did we get a cat. Really if you mixed the two, you’d be a bit closer, louder than a cat, cleaner than a kid.

Yesterday, Tara bought an accordion.

Powder blue and mother-of-pearl with chrome accents; this is the ’57 Chevy of polka instruments.

It just screams for rhinestone-studded leisure suits and perhaps an Elvis wig. It’s perhaps the coolest looking musical instrument since the invention of the air guitar.

My friend Ben (of Kenobi fame) heard about it and said, “Wow you could make a band, because you’re so good at making up songs MyQue”

Kid’s gotta get off the crazy pills. My songs are about cock-blocking, coffee drinks and Jackie Chan. My nasal-ly voice makes me sound like an android. Add to it an accordionist…
He’s right. We’d be the second coming of TMBG! (Only this time we’d stand for Tara and Myque’s Bizarre Grouping. A bit of practice and we’d be hotter than Emperor Norton’s Stationary Marching Band, the Old Scratch Revival Singers and Lester’s Place combined!
This would be impressive, given that Lester’s Place doesn’t actually exist. Perhaps it would be our mulligan keeping the average down for us.

And if we got sued for name/copyright infringement by the Johns d’Awesome, we’d change format, add a harmonica, clarinet, a fiddle, a turntablist/sound artist and a tap dancer (cuz somebody needs to keep the beat) and rip up the nu-punk scene as Auntie Oxidant and the Free Radicals.

You heard it here first kids. Keep your eyes peeled and your ears tightly plugged.

Waffles

under the weather

Hello and good morning. I think I'm getting the morbis.

The Collary morbis? Yep. That one. Straight from my Grandpa's mouth.

Eww…

My grandfather, like most grandfathers, was an amazing man. He used so many uncommon phrases, "Tougher than boiled owl" "Finer than Frogs hair" "nether-neither" "schmear case" and when one got sick, "Collary Morbis". (he also liked to tell dirty limericks to his grandsons, most of which I never learned because they were said in the proximity of my grandma – who would cut him off before the good parts)

"So what, you might say, old men are awesome. They teach you the importance of jumping over brooms, dowsing and republican values. Besides, collary morbis doesn't exist, it's just a made up word like andrewvinegararcha(nd)(m)ahalfmalatmalutmelinioapennyahootahootofbrassnipnapclipclapwilliam."

For the most part I'd agree with you… until I started to study the presidents. Zachery Taylor died of… the Cholera Morbis. Not actually Cholera, the CM was more like an extreme form of the flu, or better yet food poisoning. I was so excited to find that out, I did a jig.

It flips my switches when things that aren't supposed to be real suddenly turn out to be so. It makes the world a bit brighter and spookier place.

In closing, I don't actually have the collary morbis, my food last night was poison-free, though most defiantly tasty. I do however feel a bit under the weather and will follow my advice of my grandma's, "you're sick? Drink lots of fluids, dear. And for pete's sake, stop dipping that cheese sandwich into your Tomato soup! That's disgusting!"

Sniffles!

the effects of (no) coffee on blogging

Hello friends and neighbors, it’s Wednesday. I used to love Wednesday, then I began to hate it.

It’s a lot like politics.

Hrm. Not a lot to say right now. And not a lot of time to say it.

Louis, the left handed lungfish, had a serious jones.

All louis’ Friends would say oh gee there, lou. Have you had that checked out?

Louis would twirl his droopy mustash and laugh heartily.

This weirded his friends out, who, slowly, one by one, abanded the laughing left handed lungfish.
A good thing too, cuz the Jones is contagious like a stick!

If I were coco crisp, I’d have just been hit by my own bunt.

Yow.

From the Archives of the silence of the Q v4

Monday, April 21, 2008

Nope, it's Monday before I blogged on. The weekend was nice. I need to write my responsibilities down lest I forget them.

Dean, the running machine is aracing through the beantown today on his little mid-forties feets and hopfully will complete the marathon in 3:05. lotsa props to him.

I'm a tired little bucky this morning, stayed up too late having adventures. True, most of said adventures were centered around retriving my bike from is pet carrier, but there were side
missions of taking out the trash and some internets viewing as well.


Waldo, the walrus, was a sad piece of meat.

What's up with me? He wined most juicylly. I should be a happy thing. All I desire is my little blue bucket and a fish to eat t within. I has my bucket. I has my fish. What's wrong with me?
Then he realized. He was living in a zoo, and the penguins were mocking him.

Silly penguins, he thought. I'm gonna eat them up! so, waldo waddled to the side of his pen, and on the other side of bullet proof glass (with penguins, you never know) sat the tuxedo'd birdies playing cards and shooting crap.

The objective truth to the matter is that they didn't pay a lot of attention to their bucket-lovving
neighbor, but a walrus needs to feel important; so they occasionally pretended that they had an opinion.

Like the time they posted obama stickers all over their tank. Silly birdies. Nobody knew who obama was in 1992.

Spite! Cried waldo, watching the penguins roll for souls. Spite is what you are and all that is! Well, I spite you back too! And I has a bucket!

This irritated the penguins. That night they got together, and created a plan to teach poor waldo a lesson.

In a week, using only some handy tack, a bottle of spritzer and a couple of incriminationg photos of the gamekeeper's wife the penguins had their revenge.

They took waldo's bucket away.

Moral of the story: never be beligerant to gambling penguins.

Waffles!

i thnk we missed chimney rock!

Wow, Monday. I don't want to exchange you for another weekend day, but I'm not sure that I'm convinced that's it actually a weekday…

Anyway. This weekend seems to have been a big one for many people.

Happy Birthday to you, I love and miss you.

Happy wedding to you,

And Happy graduation to you too!

Three years ago in a beat up minivan, my wife and I embarked on a quest. A quest for knowledge, a quest for excitement, a quest like… Oregon Trail, but in reverse.

We lost ann to the heroin, Jed to gentrification, Johnny D. to the Yankees, and had to be still for a few weeks while james healed from a broken heart.

But we made it. hit the print button and gather your proof at the bottom of the inkjet – Tara has her diploma. Holy cats in heat, our quest is over.

To celebrate, we meandered up Tremont street to a little bar that was soon filled with art kids, drag queens, and drunken ballerinas. Yes. Drunken ballerinas. Lots of drunken ballerinas
they were like butterflies…. At a cocktail lounge.

This liquored mix of drinking, dancing and awesome kept us boozed and amused all night long.

And this is why I'm gonna be late to work today. Yeah, Monday.

waffles

Punt!

Good morning!

I have no idea about writing today, which usually leads to some good stuffs.

Today, however it's leading to a big pile of garbage…

For the last five years or so, I've felt like I needed a plan, a scheme, a dream to work towards and to inspire the people about me. Maybe it's my age, maybe I had too much stardust in my eyes, but I look around and see that life is like a gondola, and we're all just punters, pushing off the mud at the bottom.

I want to rip, I want a revolution, I want dancing and laughter in the streets, yet I don't have a plan, and besides, the Tao Te Ching tells me that force is met with force, in the end, there would be no accomplishment. Do men truly build our age, or is it that the age builds our leaders? Both, neither? I dunno.

And yet, there are times where I wake up and realize that my goals are being met, and I'm not even really noticing it happen. What would happen, I wonder, if I dreampt bigger? Lived with wider eyes, and a larger smile? Actually learned what sacred play was all about?

Guess there's one way to find out.


Waffles.

the Godfather, part Q

Friends, I didn't sleep hardly a wink last night – which is a good thing, considering that if I had, the eye that stayed open all night long would be might bloodshot by dawn.

Yesterday I found out I was gonna be a godfather. Holy moley. It was like waking up next to your wife knowing that it wasn't all just a wonderful dream after all.

If you think this is gonna be a mafia post, you're dead wrong (tee-hee)

So I wikipedia'd godparents and found that they are responsible for the child's religious well being. Since I'm here, writing this, you know what that means…


I'm gonna instruct my godson in the ways of the First Church of Common Sense!

Milo," he'll ask (kids for some reason are incapable of calling me Michael) "What's God?"

"Ice cream," I'll reply, knowing that any kid young enough to not be able to say my name right really wouldn't be able to sit through my lecture of probability and comparative theology, and that ice cream would make a great distraction.

Five years later, my Godson is in grade school.

Kid, I'd say.

Yeah? He'd ask.

Keep your shoes tied. I'd reply.

Ok, he'd say and then ask, Mortimer (which would amuse the blipeepers out of me) what's God?

And I'd say, "some say he created the universe, some say he created the internet. Some say he died for our sins, some say he died in a plane crash near storm lake, Iowa. Some say he's not a he but an it, them or she. I say it's time for ice cream, what do you say? I won't tell you mom.


Five or so years later he's a sullen teenager

Pay your taxes, I'd say.

Whatever. Would be the reply I'd get.



Pause.

Myque, he'd ask (way too cool to call the 40-something me Mortimer) what's God?

I dunno. I'd say. You want Ice cream?

that's for kids. He'd say.

"Right. "

Five or so more years he's an adult, or at least mostly done with college

You pay your taxes? I'd ask.

Yep, and I saw the dentist last week too. He'd respond.

Good man. I'd say.

For the final time he'd ask "Q, what's God"

Do you have any thoughts? I'd ask.

A couple, he'd reply.

"What'd you say we talk about them over a bit of ice cream?"

"I'd like that."

And my work would be complete… at least until I found out that he had a moral delimma stemming from the fact that God; a Sweet, Flavored, Frozen Dessert, came from the most evil of Beasts, the unholy Cow.


The First Church of Common Sense: Using distraction to avoid making big statements about theology and therefore hopefully promoting independent thought since 2005!

introducing Natcho Bill

Hi fellows and comrades! I'm natcho bill, and I'm here to tell y'all a tale so cheesy, y'all eyes be waterin' like yeh rubbed the with jalapenos!

Aons ago, there lived in the desert a turtle. It was et. By an eagle. The eagle was seen by them native desert dwellers as a god, sometin to be prayed to, worshiped – ya know? One day, another tribe was passin' through and casually shot the eagle right outta the sky!

The first tribe was awfully perturbed by this breech of conduct by their eagle killin' neighbors, so
they went to their local wooga-wooga man, who nodded his old braided head, and told his clan he could help out. A few days later, the old man was seen running around like a loony, scaring the tribe so much that they shot him dead.

As for the killer of the eagle? Well it just so happens that old mr. scorpion walked up and stung him on the foot. Now, some scorpions are deadly poisonous, but this ones' poison worked a bit differently. It was still deadly, but the venom in this particular sting made the shootist go on a hallucination vacation first. The dude for the rest of his days thought he was a turtle, and eventually died screaming that he was being eaten alive.

as for old mr. scorpion? Nothing happened to him. The people knew better than to kill the messenger.

moral: what goes around, comes around.

This is Natcho Bill, riding into the sunset. Y'all take care.

fun, fun, fun!

Hello friends and family, it's the effervescent, ever-present Q speaking to you this morning out of both sides of his fingers!

So, Sunday night, a few of us were sitting around and realized that a game could be played, a game of half-sense and with much delight we began to play.

The rules were simple. A judge spoke a word that needed a definition, the other players tried to define the word in a way that the judge liked best. After the judge awarded the prize to one of the definitions, then the title of judge was moved around the group to another.

For example:

Hackenspat:
1. the name of the condition wherein one is entirely covered in erectile tissue
2. a type of ice cream wherein the main flavoring ingredient is two married cats.
3. an old rural phrase that means act of coughing, sneezing and farting all at the same time.

(we liked definition 3)

the hardest word to define that evening was the word "cheese" because it was hard to make up a definition for a common item. The best nonsense came out of my mouth for me when I stoped thinking and just let a syllable soup pour off of my tounge.

Mmmm mmmm, words!

So, if you're bored and don't happen to have the "ice house skull of destiny*" handy, give it a try! The worst that could happen is that you discover, to your horror the six-fingered Jellico name of your nephew's cat. If that indeed does happen, then simply lock yourself into a closet until Sir Andrew Webber's lawyers go away. It worked for me.


Meow!

*the ice house skull of destiny was simply a skull shaped candy bowl owned by the ice house (all theatre houses need names) that contained a pile of papers, each one with an idea of some sort for an activity to alleviate boredom. A group would each write an idea or three to place into the skull, and then randomly pick three idea out of the skull, choose one and discard the rest. Most of the time the ideas sounded lame and unappealing. Once started, however, most of the time the ideas were all a lot of fun!

from the archives of the silence of the Q v3

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

Oh-ho! The ides of april! If I had an internet connection, I'd share it with you!

Yes, I fully realize that I could download the blogs @ work, but I dunno, I don't really like to keep much on the DL espically downloads, and if I got caught I'd be on the disabled list.

Last night I revived a summer tradition, lying on the floor of my living room and listening to the
Red Sox play. I have found that taking a nap in the middle of the game seems to help the Bosox's success rate

While I don't think Bosox is helping me look any better, at least it's keeping me young at heart and young in vocabulary. I wonder if I can use my fandom cursing as a toilet – cuss at the games to not cuss every where else?

Eh. That just sounds crazy.

Speaking of crazy – I'm a one man marching band!

That's right, me and my harmonica have been marching up and down the streets of JP to and from the T stop, playing along and having good times. I think the people find it weird, but, you know, f-em. Yesterday, we held down a simple beat for the peeps in the street to add their song.

It was glorius!

Apparently harmonicas look like handgun ammo clips in airport X-ray machines. Security guards apparently get disappointed when they find out that you're carrying a harmonica, but aren't very good yet.

The first song I should learn is TMBG "doctor worm"

And with that – the secret of getting better? Let the instrument express itself through me, not the other way around. Especially when I'm just playing around.

So, now you know of my forest hills marching band, if you see me – please join in or drown me out – either way we'll have a parade!

Tootles!

now you see me...

Hello friends, it's Saturday.

It's Saturday, and I don't really have much to speak of… but I'm sure the inspiration bug is going to start playing with my elbows anytime soon.

Ah, here it goes!


I've apparently wanted to be invisible lately. For once in my short life this has nothing to do with wanting superpowers. It's just an observation.

I've been wearing more black than usual, and keeping my hand in my pockets to a degree that I'm starting to feel a bit ashamed of the obscenity of it. I've drifted towards the far side of the hallways with a bit of a hunch, and my walking pace has doubled.

Either I'm trying not to be seen, or I'm trying to emulate L, from Death Note.

Due to the fact that I'm not playing with sugar cubes right now, nor am I crouching in my chair, I'm going to have to side with the former.

The worst part of the whole thing is when I forget that I can't walk through walls. I don't know how many corners I've bounced off of lately. It's become a bit of a joke at the office.

Which brings up another point. Do you know how hard it is not to skip down the office hallways?

It's not that I'm a big black-clad smurf or anything, but I like to add a bit of a hop into me step now and then. This week there's been a client stationed near my cube neighborhood, and so I've had to put a stop to my bouncy shenanigans.

It's okay. It makes me less visible. If I got rid of my habit of always wearing white socks, then I'd just be another cube-dweller in the crowd… once I stopped bouncing off the corners of the walls.

Wallfulls.

I can't wait to show Morpheus

Yo,

So, I'm not a violent person. Sure, I've hunted deer before, but the kill isn't really the thrill for me. Sure, I was also on the high school football team, but I couldn't play defense because I was too nice. Truth be told, this Jalapeño bagel I'm eating right now is a bit too aggressive for my tastes.

And yet, I'm being taught a martial art that puts emphasis on kicking people in the balls, and demonstrating forms named things like "Sword of Destruction". If I wasn't such a pansy, I may find this the greatest thing ever, just for the humor factor.

It's called Kenpo and its being taught to me by a friend of mine, a philosophy/psychology major named Ben.

I know what you're thinking, but think about it. If I had been Jedi mind-tricked, would I ever know?

If Alec Guniess ever kicked Darth Vader in the Balls, I bet he'd hurt his big toe.

Ben would tell his cinematic self that kicks in kenpo are delivered with the ball of the foot not the toe.

Alec would reply that yes, he knows, but hurting his big toe is much funnier.

Then D. Vader would kick at Alec and it would be all over.

I can't wait for Ben to teach me how to turn my opponent into a pile of laundry!

To kenpo's credit, it's not ALL about nut shots. For example last Wednesday, Ben was quoted as saying. "and if he's that much bigger than you, kick him in the nuts and run away!"

So if on a random weekday evening you happen to come across me in the Arb jumping around in funny looking clothes with a gangly young Jedi barking orders my way, you now know what's up. join us! It's great exercise, helps connect your mind/body and puts your metaclorian count through the roof!

da.

From the Archives of the silence of the Q v.2

The bananaman is speaking.

My friends, I doubt that I'll be online and with the ability to transmit at all levels when I return from the wilds of the west, but regardless of that, I write and transmit with the best of thoughts and intentions out there, like a stone into a pool, like a pool ball pushed by a Q, I can sense that the world is shaped by me being here – yet like a silent tree that falls in the woods, I understand that I do not yet exist until rabbits make a home under my trunk.

But the last thing I want is to unload any baggage on you, and just claim that it was a thought that came by on a carosel.

At least I don't have to stab anybody or beat my wife, for that matter. I do, however really like clambakes.

There, trunk unjunked. Which is a good thing too, I'm off to the iowld blue yonder tomorrow. Exciting stuff, no?

So, my friends and neighbors, I am heading out and off for a couple of days.

Yesterday, I had to give reality the money I borrowed from it, plus interest – it's not like reality is a bad guy, he's been known to break a few kneecaps here and there, and must be one of the greatest serial killers ever apprehended, for the most part he enjoys watching you struggle and roots you on.

I asked him one Sunday morning over brunch why he let us go through our daily motions if the end was always the same; wouldn't it be easier to set up a machine or a collection system that makes it so the soccer game we call life is a bit more regulated, and less head-butty.

"I'm not a puppeteer, you don't have a hand up your bum unless you're into that kind of thing. You all get to make your own system, and I'm like the busboy who cleans and sets the tables after and before you eat. Besides, I like soccer games where people headbutt each other."

He then conseeded that in the restaurant analogy he made that he was also the food, the movements of the fork, the soup – the soup bowl, the fly in the soup (with a divulgeance into time and the quantum membrane theory) and everything within the restaurant.

So, ok, I say, if you're here, then this is the only reality, everything in this restaurant is all that exists in this moment?

Not nescesarliy. All that is within this restaurant, and all that is connected to it, and then all that is connected to that is all that exists – which weaves a web the whole universe wide actually.

Ah ha! So you admit that this physical universe is the only reality?

Hardly. We are connected to other universes through the knowledge that they exist. that meant that our universes are tied together, however faintly – by little thought strings, which means
this soupy fly is connected to superman of earth 48 and the kyrpotinite bullet that lex luthor is using to kill him.

Oh, I said dejectedly. So…. Why are you here sipping coffee while waiting for pancakes? If you're the only reality, shouldn't you have better things to put your conciousness on than this place and time?

Haha! He chortled madly. That's the thing! Even though I'm everywhere – there so many different variations that I don't know how many facets I have (in fact, he did know – but simple mathamatics couldnet handle it (take a google to the googleth power then understand that the value raises expodentially through an infinite time loop – then multiply it by the colors of the visible deltawave color spectrum that at the end of ALL time and space equals 1) as a matter of fact, there's eight of me here between the two of us alone!

Eh? I said. Then he told me. I woke up next morning with a spitting headache – I think someone had gotten the straitjacket a bit too tight, but he was there to loosen it. I just wish he'd take off the silly batman cowel.

Waffles

Never Forget!

Good morning!

How are we all today? I trust that the sleep was welcome and relaxing, yes?

Good.

now, from here on out, I'm going to step into the landmine infested penguin breeding ground that
is a political rant, so wise people might want to skip this article and come back tomorrow.

Ok, you asked for it…

I'm getting really sensitive to the fact that charities have a "Monster of the Week" mindset when it comes to disasters.

Ha ha, you might say, "Q made a Godzilla reference"

I was sitting in church (yes, church) the last couple of weeks, and every time someone mentioned the food crisis, I had to roll my eyes. Not because I don't think it's a massive problem, but because I bet the concerned parties were crying about the horrible conditions of… darfur not all that long ago.

So am I saying the food crisis is a bunch of BS?

No, not at all, but I'm betting nickels to knickers that this week, all I'll hear about is the terrible tragedy of Myramar, and this is what gets me grumpy like the anthisis of Santa Claus.

People refuse to give charitable aid to the extent of completing the problem, it seems to me, because it's no longer cool.

Or even worse, they stop giving because they've already given to that problem.

Honey, one twenty dollar check and a couple of cans of Campbells isn't enough to stop the food crisis.

Nor get China out of Tibet

Nor global warming

Nor the tragedy in Dafur

Nor the desolation in New Orleans.

When's the last time you thought of the Tsunami and its victims?

Now don't get me wrong. All of these are noble and good causes for charitable work, but for pete's sake people, pick one and STICK WITH IT even after it stops being cool. Stick with it, even if it makes you seem like a one-note hippy with an old time lost cause. Keep the faith brothers and sisters, helping people in need and saving the earth is never a bad idea.

The only thing worse than loosing your house to a giant storm is having the new house you've been promised be half finished when Aid and public interest dries up on your peril.

Waffles.

In which Q finally speaks of the Kombucha Mushroom

Under my sink, beside the whiskey, lives a jelly fish and its children pickled in a gallon jar of tea flavored vinegar. Drinking the vinegar gives you super powers

By super powers, I mean bacteria. Sometimes a bit of cellulose. The occasional yeast.
I am of course talking about kombucha mushrooms.

I first learned of Kombucha from a fella we'll call Wild Bill. Bill drank his kombucha that he grew in his basement with half a glass of orange juice. He once offered me a glass of the brew while I was dating his granddaughter.

"What is it?" I asked

"Golden Mushroom Tea…" he said all mysterious like a New England sage.

"What's it do?" I asked

"All kinds of things!" He proclaimed. "It helps your guts, it boost your immunity! They've been dinking it in china for thousands of years!"

He missed one important bit of the benefits – that it makes the drinker potentially one with the universe, but that's ok. Wild Bill was awesome, and that's what matters. However, once he warned me that putting any metal in it of any kind will instantly turn it to poison, I became a bit of a scaredy-cat and declined my first taste of the wonder drink.

Fast forward 4 years and now I've got the beantown blues and the red sox fever. Tara comes home one day and says "check it out! It's kombucha!"

I say huh, what?

She says "Grandpa's golden mushroom tea!" and takes a big swig.

I became a big fan. Even started growing my own under the sink, next to the whiskey. If I do it right, it tastes and fizzes just like a hard cider, don't even need any juice to go along with it. Yes sir, it's the good stuff.

Now as far as having it make one one with the universe, perhaps you may be thinking that this magic mushroom has the psylibic properties, and sadly, this is not the case. There are arguments in the wooga-wooga community that perhaps the initial sickness that signifies the onset of a shamanic lifestyle may be that the "little guys" are trying to speak with you. Listening to them may make one closer with the universe.

Listen to the little guys. Drink Kombucha tea.

At the very least it'll help yer guts.

Waffles.

from the archives of the silence of the Q

Hello. wasn't really impressed with my post this morning, so one from the archives of my internet-less time for y'all:

4-3-8

The internets are hiding from me today, so I get to write in the silence that is this page.
If I were a squire I'd aspire to acquire the ire of my sire – woo hoo for punk rock pageantry.

I'm jamming on a book that's all about the punk/rave scene of the last 17 years of the 20th Century, and I'm glad for the lack of authority of my work. If such authority did in fact exist, then I'd be crusin' for a bruisin'.

The next three sentences were regarding how reading a good book can rewire the brain – but you don't have to take my word for it…

(Du-da-dah!)

Hi I'm q and I just finished reading "trickster makes this world" by some genius dude whose name I can't find because my internet's down. "Trickster makes this world" is full of strategies for life as it gives an in-depth analysis of the trickster archetype in mythology. I highly recommend this book to anyone who likes reading textbookesque literature and who have hard-ons for Hermes.

(Du-da-dah!)

Hello my name is Iago Gonzales, chief recruiter of the catfish crusaders (formerly the fastest growing evil organization in the world) of the outer space division. I just finished reading the principa discordia by malclypse the younger, and true to my nature I refuse to capitalize or denote the title of the book. The principa discordia stands everything religion stands for on its head, and does it in a style that leaves me rolling on the floor. Hail Hodge! Hail Podge! Join the Catfish Crusaders in space with me and learn the secrets of the original snub!

(Du-da-dah!)

Umm, is this thing on? I'm zdEve and I read a book once. It was death note and it sucked. The idiots who put it together put the pages in going the wrong way – and no matter how hard I tried to read it into a mirror, it just didn't make sense. The fact that it had no color sucked my nuts. But the concept of it was cool, I guess. I like to watch it on adult swim. At work sometimes I wish I could walk on the ceilings. Just, you know, jump up there and walk around. I bet I'd fall through the ceiling tiles if I did. I bet I'd set off the sprinkler system – WET TSHIRT CONTEST!!!. I like wheatgrass. It reminds me of home, without the roundup aftertaste. I highly recommend you go into a hippy place and get a shot to gross out yourself and your friends. They say it's healthy too

(Du-da-dah?)

Well before we start any butterfly effects – ah heck. Let's start the butterfly effects!

Waffles.

Wake up Earth, Wake up!

Thirty years ago in the city of Beans, the Man wished to put a highway right through the middle of town. He cleared the way, He was given the ok; and then one day the people said, “Stop! Whadda think you’re doing? We don’t want a Highway, those are no fun for no body. What we want is a Subway, whaddya say?” the Man thought about it and eventually said ok. To celebrate (or protest, I’m not sure which) some funky cats of the “think global act local” persuasion had a party. A big party. An environmentally conscious party they called Wake up the Earth.

30 years later it’s still going strong. There’ll be puppets and music of many different types (Emperor Norton’s Stationary Marching Band is a particular favorite) food and activities for all ages.

This all happens today, parade starting @ 10ish, if it doesn’t get rained out.

If you find yourself not in the Plain of Jamaica today, well, there’s always horses… or the wearing of silly hats.

Have a mint julep for me, please.

and it shaked when he laughed like a bowl full of jelly

Oh man, the mystery Q has all the teeth and fangs out tonight!

Not to fear little ones, like a fitzgig from The Dark Crystal my yap is more than my trap.

And so, Kombucha.

Kombucha is a type of “mushroom” (actually a colony of bacteria, yeasts and celuose – more like a jellyfish than a mushroom) that makes this crazy health juice. Drinking it brings in helpful digestive bacteria and strengthens your immune system.

Yeah, it’s great stuffs, and sadly with my teeth and fangs out the way I do, I’m not gonna be able to get as riffed as I can, so there you go. A teaser for a blog that may or may not exist.

Muhahaha.

Jellyfish, on the other hand, amaze me. Jellies have been in existence since the beginning of life on this planet, before the fish, before the reptiles, long before mammals jellies ruled the school that is big mamma Earth. As temperatures rise, oceanic living conditions will improve for Ms. J-fish and her backup singers, and like a good old fashioned mafia rub-out, will eventually replace every living creature in the world’s wide seas.

Mr burns the jellyfish is rubbing its tentacles saying “Excellent.”

Bill and Ted the jellyfish (in the band wild scallops) also say, “Excellent,” but in an entirely different way.

My wife, sleeping above me, is softly snoring. It sounds exactly like a human imitating an Inkjet printer. If she were a jellyfish, the others would find her a bit eccentric because they have no concept of inkjet printers.

Oh well, their loss. I kinda find it cute.

Waffles.

I forgot to mention that i'm left handed!

Have you ever seen the Great Race? In it, Jack Lemmon plays a nefarious do-badder named Dr. Fate and has the evil man’s version of a bond car and is always telling his lackey, Max (played by Peter Falk) to “push the button”. Shenanigans typically ensue.

I find myself in the villain’s role here and there, and for some reason, this morning I want to riff on it.

Funny, I was totally going to riff on Kombucha, and it’s potential to make the drinker one with the universe….

Anyway, I have the proper traits for a classic bad guy:

I wear black. I have the funny voice. I’m short and have poor upper body strength. I prefer dark over light. I dislike cold temperatures and will bundle up accordingly. I make potions and elixirs. I wear a hat. I like it when people push their boundries. I’m kinky, kinky, kinky. I don’t like violence done to me. I’m rarely the best. I have googly eyes. I’m unconcerned with both modern farming practices AND global warming. I enjoy meat - the redder the better. I enjoy sports. There aren’t any English words edited out of my vocabulary. I wear white socks, even in Boston. Garlic does unpleasant things to me. I’m a white male American in an apparently heteronormative relationship who works for a global corporation. I voted for Dubya in 2000. Tobey McGuire is my archnemesis.

However… I am lacking in one major area. I don’t have a minion. I lack in the lackey department.

I have a wife, but she’s more like Eddie Izzard’s version of Pavlov’s Cat. If I ring the bell, she goes to sleep, or wanders off, or rings it back at me.

Oh! I also don’t have a cat. What kind of good villain doesn’t have a cat?

Any way, my lack of attracting second hand types typecasts me as lackluster, second-hand at best.

I guess that’s ok with me. I find myself in the hero’s role here and there, too, but for some reason this morning I don’t want to riff on that.

I may riff on my harmonica later. I play a pretty mean harmonica…

Muhahahahahas.

p.s. I have been blogging all of April while I’ve been banished from the internet at home. perhaps I’ll do a “best of” post and leave out all the emo bits. Man, it’s good to be back.

my brother is a fundamental part of the universe

Hi fans friends and flavinoid-induced blog readers,

Today my little brother turns 23.

Now, 23 has always reminds me of Michael Jordan, a boyhood hero. Later in life, I noticed some of them comics I was a reading seemed to have that number show up in all kinds of places. I even entered a raffle at work for some hockey tickets because the row was the number 23 – and yet had to give them to someone else because I couldn’t find a friend who liked hockey… I was even tempted to see the Jim Carey movie - - mostly because I like Jim in serious roles, though I believe I dodged the bullet by missing that one.

Finally, as I was perusing the new Tank girl series of comic-type books (I love it when Ash Wood draws more than just naked girls and robots) I hit the answer it’s the 23 enigma! A quick cross-reference at the infallible wikipedia gave me the scoop on this most mysterious number.
The 23 enigma is akin to Bokonan’s religion in Kurt Vonnegut’s Cat’s Cradle. it’s a lie that describes the universe, in this case that the number 23 is a fundamental part of the fabric of the cosmos. Take a look around – the harder you search, the more you’ll see! It works with the number 42 too. Especially well with the letter “E”

Now, as a member and founder of the First Church of Common Sense (it’s been a while since I brought up that one, eh?) I must point out that much like Ta’ver’en, Granfallons and the liberalness of the Democratic presidential candidates – the 23 enigma is a head game. Yes, you can convince yourself that 23 is the meaning of everything (perhaps tomorrow I may try – but don’t hold me to it) I have, and it’s been swell – but really, will it get you any further than taking the passing milk truck as an icon that you should buy a lottery ticket?

As a side note, if the number 2323235 ever won the power ball, it’d prolly have to be split at least 23 ways – better stick with your cat’s birthday like you always do.

Really – if you can play head games with yourself, why not play ones that allow you to focus on some of the more useful parts of life? For example – If you dislike stupid people, focus on the lie that states that stupidity is the natural chaos-state of the universe and that intelligence, prudence and silence is a sign of an enlightened being who knows that focusing on the stupidity of the unwashed masses during a sporting event is as useful as despairing at the muddiness of your backyard after a rainstorm.

How about something more simple (simplicity leads to profoundness)

Your cat has special POWERS.
Comic-type books will lead to enlightenment.
Television is educational – even after Fred Rogers died

It’s that easy. Brainwash yourself! Save the government and entertainment networks the trouble!

Happy birthday Rob, I hope that 23 is as wonderful as a doughnut filled with illuminated Bavarian Crème.

Fritters.