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.