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.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Friday, June 27, 2008
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!
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!
Thursday, June 26, 2008
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!
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!
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
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!
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!
Friday, June 20, 2008
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!
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!
Thursday, June 19, 2008
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!
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!
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
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 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!
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
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!
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!
Monday, June 16, 2008
... 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!
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!
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
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!
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!
Monday, June 9, 2008
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!
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!
Saturday, June 7, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, June 6, 2008
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!
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!
Thursday, June 5, 2008
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!
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!
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
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!
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!
Monday, June 2, 2008
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)