20 December 2008

Clothing optional, but not recommended.

These are the most difficult brownies I've ever made. These brownies are not for the cooking lazy. They have more to them than is reasonable, in terms of steps and processes.

That being said, to my knowledge, so far no one has been convicted of non-consensual relations due to chocolate based inebriation and these brownies taste delicious while having the excellent effect of lowering females' (of the human species) inhibitions. This, if exploited properly, means they will take their clothes off for you without having to add alcohol. This may help those of us with ulcers, or fear of jail lovin', looking for la petit mort a deux (or trois).

Absolutely, undeniably, totally, and with great (platonic) love, and not for financial gain, appropriated from Alton Brown (the most entertaining cook on TV or in a book).

Ingredients:

THE CHOCOLATE
Cocoa powder: 1 1/3 cups (113 grams/4 ounces)
All-purpose flour: 2/3 cup (99 grams/3-1/2 ounces), sifted
Kosher salt: 1/2 teaspoon (3 grams/less than 1/8 ounce)

THE WET WORKS
Eggs: 4 large (200 grams/7 ounces)
Vanilla extract: 2 teaspoons (9 grams/1/3 ounce)
Sugar: 1 cup (198 grams/7 ounces), sifted
Brown sugar: 1 cup (227 grams/8 ounces), sifted
Unsalted butter: 2 sticks (1 cup/227 grams/8 ounces), melted


Processes:


Place an oven rack in position C and preheat the oven to 350°F. Prepare an 8-inch aluminum baking pan (see pages 180-183).

Note from Brainweevil: You really should read I'm Just here for MORE FOOD. Until then, position C is second from the top an one prepares a pan for brownies by greasing it and coating the grease in cocoa powder. As you were.

Sift together the dry ingredients in the food processor.

In an electric stand mixer fitted with a whisk attachment, whip the eggs at medium speed until light (both in texture and color). Add the vanilla.

Mix the sugars together, reduce the mixer speed to 30-percent power, and add the sugars to the eggs, incorporating thoroughly.

Add the butter and remaining dry ingredients in three alternating doses, starting with the wet and finishing with the dry. Fold in the nuts.

Pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake for 55 to 60 minutes. Check for doneness with the tried-and-true toothpick method: a toothpick inserted into the center of the pan should come out clean.

Remove the pan to a cooling rack and resist the temptation to cut until the brownies are completely cool. When ready, cut into squares with a pizza cutter.

Yield: Sixteen 2-inch square brownies

13 December 2008

How to tell if you're doing it wrong

1) Send the title link to your lover
2) Wait
3) Wait
4) Wait
5) If you are still waiting, don't despair - they may not have seen the link, yet.
6) Wait
7) Wait
8) Receive your results:
a) If they never reply, you're doing it wrong and they are too nice (or chicken,
or uninterested)to tell you.
b) If they reply "Yeah, the internet is cool.", you're doing it wrong.
c) If they decry the polled as loonies, you're doing it OK.
If they reply "No, that's just wrong.", you're doing it well enough.
If they reply "Well, that used to be true, but not since I found you.", call all of your friends and tell them you "Rock the cock!"
This statement works for both sexes. Trust me, I date a doctor.

08 December 2008

TIMMY!


Now TIMMY! no longer has to avoid this school.







Personal protection is his!




Let's just hope he doesn't use it on Jimmy (Look it up for yourself).

Weevil wept.

You gotta be kidding me!

Rock Band DLC for this week is all Nickolodeon pseudo-music. What crap!

04 December 2008

Uh... let us join in the Commemoration of St Barbara, virgin (bet you can't prove it)/martyr (yep)

In case you're too lazy (or wary) to click on the title link, she's the patron saint of artillerymen. I used to be one of those for a couple of years.

Also, it's the fourth of December and this is my fourth post.

After this post, anything seems funny to me. For a while. Quick, someone tell me a joke. Promise I'll laugh, just put it in the comments.

Horrible pedophiles!

For my dear, dear photographer friend and, to a lesser extent Zombie and Thumper (applied, yet? Closes on Friday.) and (dare I say it?) Epiphany. Those were some sweet nights that really helped me feel better when I needed a hand up. As opposed to a hand out. Damn you politics and nostalgia! Creeping into my fun post.




Plucked from endotoxin.

If you don't get it, for the love of God, don't click here.


So, so, so funny. Still laughing out loud.

Crap. Someone stop me.

Don't click that! For Captain Kabuki Man's sake, you cannot handle it.

My wyvern doctor is looking at me askance. She never does that. Although it is kinda like old times to have someone looking at me like I'm crazy.

Am I the only person who didn't know?

So I stumbled into a conversation about where it is and is not permissible to carry a concealed weapon today. Sample exchange:

A, "You can't carry in any government buildings... or schools... or anyplace they serve alcohol."

B, "So I can't carry it to the movies?"

A, "er... no. I mean yes. They don't serve alcohol at the movies."

C, "Dude, you're starting to scare me. [with all your talk of carrying a gun]"

A, "Dude. You can't carry here [at work]."

B, "Yeah, but I could keep it in my car until C gets off work and then be like, 'Dude, wanna go see a movie?'"

A,(and me, simultaneously) "No."

A, "Can't have it in your car here, either."

At this point I was done using the nuke box and made my exit before my IQ drained any more. Kudos to A for trying to educate B, I knew he was an idiot when we interviewed him.

So, while I ate my lunch, I read the RCW's on firearms. Yeah, I'm that much of a nerd, so?

I found that those things "commonly known as 'nun-chuk-as' are not legal to carry on school property.

And that you and I cannot carry a weapon into AppleBee's, but the nitwit who brings you your Tequila Sunrise can. Think about that the next time you think you want to complain that your "steak" is cooked like horse meat... er, incorrectly.

The next time I saw A, I told him this and he says, "Yeah", like I'm an idiot for not knowing.

So I tried another guy. He knew, too.

Eventually one guy said, "Nope, didn't know that. Did you know that kids eat for free on Sunday's at Hooters?"

The point is: I'm never going to AppleBee's again. Do you have any idea how dangerous a gun is in the hands of an idiot? Even a college educated, millionaire one?

Meet me at Hooters for wings and boobs on Sunday? I mean, really, where are they going to conceal a pistol that I won't notice it? Oh, right. On the manager.

I don't believe, but I love people who do

Not for all... in a different way than usual.

07 November 2008

I'm not really a nice person

C'mon, who's reading this that's surprised by that?

Despite the fact that it makes me look like a bad person, I feel that I must point out that at 0748 PDT on Wednesday November 5, 2008 I coined the term "Ebonomics". There, now you can pay me royalties when it becomes the new "Reganomics" or "New Deal".

Oh, and yes, having a life makes me way too busy to blog. I started blogging as a way to save my friends and family from having to receive directly all of the shit I would normally tell the person to whom I come home. Now I once again have that function filled (excellently, I might add {shhh... she's looking over my shoulder}).

Back to Ebonomics: Talking to a co-worker about his (not positive) impressions of the election, we began commenting on the fact that, had the streak of 44 white guys continued, we would be fired with extreme prejudice for spending the day talking about how great it was that that black guy didn't get the gig. Now, I wouldn't necessarily have thought that that was the thing to say, but I would not have expected to keep my job had I chosen to expound on it. Somehow the opposite does not hold true.

Particularly nice is the number of articles I've read about it that end with "now we can finally drop the race issue" or some variation. This after a couple thousand words obsessing about the "race issue".

Anyway...

Ebonomics is a bastardization of "ebonics" and "economics". That last bit about economics may have been a bit pedantic, no?

To listen to my arch conservative associates one would define it as such:

Men you don't know will approach you and take money from you forcibly. They will then take your money and spend it in the ghetto furthest from your house. It sounds like a mugging, but it's completely legal - and they know where you live and will be back.

Oh, and if you try to defend yourself with your God given (and constitutionally protected) firearm they will take it from you and anally rape you for your temerity... while pouring sugar in your grandmother's gas tank. Of course they're going to do that eventually anyway. That's the way those damned pinko commie liberals operate.

Whoa! Sorry. That vitriol can be seductive. I'm sure it's not so bad as all of that. The point is, although I didn't define it (not that I'll admit, anyway), I coined the term. I want my money when it enters common usage.

09 October 2008

Hey! Read here first.

Sometimes, when you click on the title of a post here at BrainWeevil.com, it redirects you to a highly relevant article. Indeed, sometimes the article is necessary to explain the content of the post.

Really. It's true. You can try it now, in the post I love you, Mom.

Go ahead.

You can do it.

I love you, Mom.

I'm sitting in my office at work. People are bustling back and forth,
going about important business... mostly. It's my lunch time. Soon it
will be over. Hopefully no one comes to see me in the next few
minutes; that would be embarrassing - even for a guy like me. You see,
while those folks are being busy bees, they are oblivious to the tears
rolling down my face. Sitting at my PC, I'm crying quietly; tears falling on
my keyboard like it were some futuristic equivalent of a glass of beer. Can't be good for it.

I am probably not through needing you, mother. So try not to die, OK?

14 September 2008

We never grow out of it.

Imagine:

It's nondenominational-mid-winter-gift-giving-day. You've just opened the gift you wanted with all of your young being. Your parents haven't had a moment's peace since you decided that this is what you want.

Somewhere deep down inside you know that this gift cost more than your folks could afford. That you should be more thankful for the act of the giving than the gift itself. Or maybe not. How many kids really think on that mature an emotional level?

The gift, though. This they understand.

So you have the thing. You cherish it. All other things are set aside as this consumes you. Interactions with other things becomes all about the new thing. Unless, of course, it's part of a set. Even then, though, it's still more about the new thing than any of the old.

Everywhere you go, the new thing goes. For weeks. Months, if it was a really great thing.

Then, one day, you play with one of your other things. Just for a few minutes. The new thing is still the best. Later that week, it happens again.

Eventually you will put the new thing on a shelf and it will no longer be the one.

It will just be one.

If you are a careful steward of your things, it may come back out to play occasionally. If it's a good fit with the others, you may even still incorporate it often.

Still... it is now one of many; no longer the thing.

We still do this same thing as adults: as the exceptional becomes the commonplace, the magnificent is taken for granted.

Is there a word for emotional entropy? Is this fading of interest as inevitable as it is universal?

Don't tell me you've outgrown it; I know you haven't. You do, too.

11 September 2008

This

is pretty much right on.

09 September 2008

Chances are

that this will be my only comment on the race (and it's not even really mine):

Kathleen Parker:
Palin is everything liberals have always purported to want for women -- freedom to choose, opportunities for both career and family and a shot at the top ranks of American political life. With five children and an impressive resume, Palin should be Miss July in the go-girl calendar.

There's just one hitch: She doesn't believe in abortion except to save a mother's life. That's hard-core, even for pro-life Republicans, most of whom allow for abortion in cases of rape and incest. Women who won't budge on abortion have hit fast-forward in their heads and, given McCain's age, consider the risk too great that a President Palin would load the Supreme Court with pro-lifers who would overturn Roe v. Wade. Whether that is a realistic concern is debatable, but what's perfectly clear is that feminism today is not about advancing women, but only a certain kind of woman.

There may yet be reasons to find Palin an unacceptable vice presidential choice, but making pro-life decisions shouldn't be among them. Her candidacy, meanwhile, has cast a bright light on the limitations of our old ideological templates.

Should Palin and McCain prevail come November, feminism can curtsy and treat herself to a hard-earned vacation. The greatest achievement of feminism won't be that a woman reached the vice presidency, but that a woman no longer needed feminists to get there.

Also...

Next Government Press Release:

"Deficit Spending Good for Your Children"

Perhaps Washington had no choice but to take over Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac, considering what we now know about years of self-serving lying by the management of both institutions. But taxpayers have been put on the hook for at least $200 billion in loan guarantees. Buried in the conservatorship declaration is word Congress may add extra subsidies to Fannie and Freddie to keep mortgage interest rates low. Washington has been involved in many loan guarantees, but never in mortgage rates. This all-new subsidy will make mortgage markets political on a permanent basis -- any time rates rise, borrowers seeking mortgages will demand taxpayers subsidize them. By shifting to taxpayers (and to our children, via still more deficit spending) some of the cost of borrowing, this may only further distort the mortgage market, encouraging buyers and brokers to generate imprudent loans and then passing costs along to taxpayers.

Note another aspect of the Fannie-Freddie takeover that politicians don't want to talk about. On paper, the takeover looks like a bankruptcy. In a bankruptcy, creditors receive preference (because they hold a promise of payment) while shareholders are wiped out (because equity positions are speculative and known to buyers to guarantee nothing). The Fannie-Freddie takeover preserves the companies' bondholders, while making shareholders appear to get clobbered -- the government receives a warrant to claim up to 80 percent of shares, which would slash a share in Fannie or Freddie to 20 percent of current value. But the government must exercise that warrant. If not, shareholders are bailed out too. As soon as attention shifts to the next screw-up, lobbyists for the rich quietly will twist White House and Congressional arms for assurances the warrants are never exercised. If this happens, average people will be taxed to protect the wealth of Fannie and Freddie shareholders. "We only wish [Treasury Secretary Henry] Paulson had gone further and erased all private equity holders the way the feds do in a typical bank failure … [share]holders deserve to lose everything." Who said this, some left-wing fanatic? The editorial page of the Wall Street Journal.

BW: So, yes. Raving liberals said that. They are the press, after all. Anyway, back to Gregg:

Stock prices rise on news that corporate dividends will now be billed directly to taxpayers.
Anyway, get a load of the headline on the Treasury Department announcement of the takeover: TREASURY AND FEDERAL HOUSING FINANCE AGENCY ACT TO PROTECT FINANCIAL MARKETS AND TAXPAYERS. We're reaching into your pockets for hundreds of billions of dollars -- to protect you!

Gregg says...

"Hold Your Horsepower:

Gasoline demand has declined slightly since 2005. And a few months ago, Congress enacted the first tightening of vehicle fuel economy rules in two decades; barrel prices of oil are declining. So far, so good. But oil is still well over $100 per barrel, versus about $74 at this time last year, and gasoline still costs nearly a dollar more per gallon than at this time last year. The longer-term picture is bleak. In 1973, America imported 6 million barrels of petroleum daily. Currently it imports more than 13 million barrels each day. Yesterday I heard a radio announcer say, "Now that the gasoline price crunch is over …" Don't make the mistake of thinking for one minute that America's petroleum addiction is even close to fixed.

For cars, SUVs and light trucks, there are two forces at play in oil-addiction trends, but only one is generally recognized. Everybody knows the fad of big vehicles increases petroleum needs -- according to the EPA, the average weight of passenger vehicles has risen 30 percent since 1988, while average MPG is down. The other factor, little acknowledged, is horsepower, which has risen even more sharply than weight. Twenty years ago, the average new passenger vehicle sold in the United States had 120 horsepower. For this model year the figure is 230, almost double. There will be no fundamental change in oil import levels until horsepower numbers change.

Like weight, horsepower depresses fuel economy. Simply knocking a third off the horsepower of new U.S. passenger vehicles would, in about a decade -- as efficient new vehicles replace wasteful old ones -- eliminate approximately the amount of oil the United States imports from the Middle East. Yes, it's that simple. Race cars need lots of horsepower; suburban family cars do not. Excessive horsepower causes the United States to be dependent on Middle East dictatorships, engages military commitments to those dictatorships, drives up the price of oil and pushes down the value of the dollar. Horsepower is also the enabler of road rage -- rapid acceleration allows cutting off, drag racing and sudden lane changes. Road rage entered national consciousness as a problem in the mid-1990s, exactly when the horsepower ratings of new vehicles began to spike.

Yet nearly all auto companies selling in the United States continue to introduce overpowered cars that require far too much fuel. The problem transcends brands, whether domestic or international. The new BMW 550i sedan has 360 horsepower and records just 18 MPG. Pontiac's new 361-horsepower G8 GT is a small car that gets just 18 MPG. Only in America do small cars waste gasoline. Ford's new Taurus sedan has a 263-horsepower engine which delivers only 22 MPG in its front-wheel-drive variant, an awful 19 MPG in the all-wheel-drive version. The Taurus isn't a sports car, it's a family car! Toyota's new Camry, another family car, offers 263 horsepower and just 22 MPG. The Dodge Avenger, a family car, when ordered with the optional 255-horsepower engine posts just 18 MPG. Infiniti's 320-horsepower FX45, Cadillac's 403-horsepower Escalade and the 500-horsepower Porsche Cayenne Turbo achieve a dreadful 14 MPG. (All mileage figures in this column are the "combined" numbers that blend city and highway driving. Under real-world circumstances, especially stop-and-go commuting, many drivers average well below the official number.) Plus, the more horses, the more greenhouse gases. According to the EPA, a Porsche Cayenne Turbo emits 13.1 tons of greenhouse gases annually. Check any car's MPG and greenhouse numbers here.
A 1968 Corvette -- which had less muscle than a typical 2008 family car.
Less horsepower would mean better fuel efficiency, diminished petroleum imports and lower carbon emissions but, inevitably, reduced acceleration. Don't buyers crave speed? Most cars are already too fast! Thirty years ago, the average passenger vehicle did zero to 60 MPH in 14 seconds; for 2008, the average is about 8.5 seconds. That new 263-horsepower Ford Taurus family sedan does zero to 60 in 6.5 seconds -- the same acceleration as the 1968 Corvette with the famed 427 big-block V8. The new Camry and Honda's comparable new Accord do zero to 60 in about 7 seconds. Acceleration of this type is not needed for everyday driving; such power is useful mainly for speeding, running lights and cutting others off. Lexus has aired ads boasting that its new IS-F model, with a 416-horsepower engine, does zero to 60 in 4.6 seconds; the new 480-horsepower Nissan GTR is even faster at 3.8 seconds. Both have dismal mileage ratings. Lexus is telling the business media the IS-F is intended for the United States and won't be pushed in the company's home market of Japan. There, the IS-F's road-rage engineering and 10.2 tons of greenhouse gases released annually might be controversial.

In addition to reducing fossil-fuel use, dialing down horsepower would reduce highway deaths. Researcher Michael Sivak of the University of Michigan's Transportation Research Institute has found that highway fatalities dropped sharply earlier this year as gas prices shot up, with highway deaths declining 22 percent in March and 18 percent in April. (Note: You can reach the Transportation Research Institute only by car.) This spectacular decline in deaths, receiving little public notice, came about, Sivak found, mainly when drivers slowed down in order to improve MPG. High-horsepower vehicles encourage speeding, because they make soaring above the speed limit feel effortless. If horsepower were reduced by sensible amounts, there would be less driving 80 MPH in 60 MPH zones, or 50 MPH in 30 MPH zones. Sivak's numbers suggest that if America became sensible about speed, perhaps 8,000 lives per year could be saved. Eight thousand lives per year would represent more Americans saved than if all incidents of drowning were eliminated.

Federal legislation to regulate the horsepower of passenger vehicles, perhaps by establishing a power-to-weight standard, would reduce petroleum consumption, cut greenhouse gas emissions, lower U.S. oil imports, strengthen the dollar, and take some of the road-rage stress out of driving. So what are we waiting for? Whatever your answer, don't reply, "No one can tell me what I can drive." Courts consistently rule that vehicles using public roads may be regulated for public purposes, such as safety and energy efficiency. NASCAR races occur on private property -- there, horsepower is nobody's business. On public roads, horsepower is very much everybody's business. You'd be laughed at if you asserted a "right" to drive a locomotive down the freeway. Where is it written we have the "right" to operate an overpowered car that wastes oil and pollutes the sky?

NASCAR cars need high horsepower, cars bound for suburban shopping malls do not.
Meanwhile, all the talk lately has been about getting drivers into hypothesized future vehicles that might get excellent mileage, such as plug-in hybrids. Even assuming such cars someday are in showrooms, the payoff is greater for getting people out of low-mileage vehicles right now, because low-mileage vehicles are disproportionate consumers of fuel. Assume an average year of 12,000 miles traveled. The driver who trades in a 15 MPG SUV or high-horsepower car for a 20 MPG standard-engine full-size car would reduce fuel use by 200 gallons. The driver who trades in a 20 MPG full-size car for a 25 MPG midsize would reduce fuel use by 120 gallons. The driver who trades in a 25 MPG midsize for a 30 MPG compact would cut fuel use by 80 gallons. The driver who trades in a 30 MPG compact for a 35 MPH current-technology hybrid would save 60 gallons. And the driver who trades in a 35 MPG current-technology hybrid for a 40 MPG advanced plug-in hybrid would save 40 gallons. By far the best oil-reduction bang for the buck lies in people giving up large SUVs, pickup trucks used for commuting, plus any type of overpowered vehicle, in favor of driving regular cars. The math is presented in detail in this paper by Richard Larrick and Jack Soll of Duke University. This suggests that instead of tax policy being focused on credits for buyers of high-mileage hybrids, and federal subsidies being focused on the development of high-mileage hypothesized future designs, tax policy should reward those who junk SUVs in order to buy regular cars. Tax programs to encourage drivers to junk old high-polluting automobiles were successful, so a junk-your-SUV program might work, too.

05 September 2008

Horses + bruised? ribs + tires = a day off?

Background information:
I parked a truck and fifty-two horse trailer at my home last night. Said trailer had a horse in it when I went to bed.
Earlier this week, it became uncomfortable to breathe deeply and downright painful to sneeze or otherwise abruptly flex my chest cavity due to a mysterious ailment in my ribcage.
My minivan has a slow leak that left the tire flat over the course of not driving it this week.

Today (beginning around four forty-five):
Left for work with truck and trailer. Ten minutes from home: Sparks. Lots of 'em. Coming from somewhere at the back of the trailer. Pulled over; Blow Out. Spectacular. Most of the tread wrapped around the axle. Nearly the entire sidewall intact, still on the rim.

Look for tools:
Star wrench? Check. Spare Tire? Check. Cool little ramp to lift the axle so I don't need a death trap (AKA "jack")? Check. Painful to move in a twisty way? Check. Pain exacerbated when bent over (as in changing a tire)? Check.

It is less than tons of fun to try to change a tire with bruised? ribs. I say, "bruised?", because I assume I would be far less functional were they broken.

Tire off. Spare tire... Hmmm, that nut seems to be awfully long winded. Oh, never mind, the bolt is turning with it. Seems a certain Montana weld did not hold.

Now I have to call in the big guns - dun da da dun daahhh!!! Pops to the rescue. Not the speedy rescue, of course. You get what you pay for, and I treat that poor bastard like family.

Whew! Glad that didn't go smoothly.

Three hours later, I call to tell Eddie that I'm not going to make it to his last day of work, because I don't want anyone to see me cry when he leaves.

Now my ribs hurt. I'm going to take some drugs and lounge.

03 September 2008

Not, in all likelihood, for the... uhhh... "adults" in the crowd.

That means you, Pops, for sure.

My theory of naturopathic medicine is getting around, it seems.

While I'm posting in a not-for-Pops sort of way:

the new Savage Love has Sherman Alexie as a guest, Pedro.

02 September 2008

Art?

I maybe agree with this guy 30% of the time. This time, however, I am in full agreement with his consternation. And, yes, for the record: This woman is scum, but her right to be scum must be preserved.

LEONARD PITTS JR.


You can't blame Karen Fletcher for deciding not to fight.

Had she lost, she faced the possibility of five years in prison. Under the plea agreement she accepted in early August, she got six months of house arrest, five years on probation and a $1,000 fine. But if the agreement allows Fletcher, of Donora, Penn., to avoid the more onerous punishment, it also allows us to avoid what surely would have been a violent collision between morality and the Constitution.

Karen Fletcher is a pornographer. And not just any old pornographer: the 56-year-old woman specializes in the rape, torture and murder of children. Indeed, children as young as infancy.

Here's the twist: no children were hurt by -- or even involved with -- Fletcher's pornography. She was prosecuted under federal obscenity statutes for writing fiction depicting the violent abuse of children. Fletcher has said the stories were her way of coping with sexual abuse she herself suffered as a child, a claim somewhat undercut by the fact that she was profiting from her work to the tune of 30 subscribers paying $10 a month to read the stories on her website.

All of which leaves me feeling . . . irresolute.

On the one hand, you have a woman doing a repellent thing with no discernible social value. By all available evidence, Fletcher's imagination is a garbage barge ripening under the sun. The world of arts and letters -- the world, period -- is not diminished

by the loss of her work.

On the other hand, you have a writer prosecuted -- in America! -- for something she wrote. That demands a ruminative pause if not, indeed, a full stop.

And here, I was going to draw a distinction between words and pictures, to say that Fletcher's sin, awful as it was, involved ''only'' words, not graphic, stomach-churning images. But that would have been a hypocritical cop-out from someone who makes his living with ''only'' words and has spent years proselytizing for their power. So let us concede: Words have weight.

No, the question here is not whether Fletcher's work is suitably repugnant, but whether the government has a role in regulating it or anything else whose production does not cause injury. If her stories did not harm any children, does the government have a compelling need to restrict them?

I don't know that it does.

You may well disagree, and you'd have ample ground to do so. But you'd want to be careful that ground did not become the proverbial slippery slope. If offensiveness alone is reason enough for government to abridge the right of free expression, then what protects Stephen King, whose novel Pet Sematary includes the grisly desecration of a child's grave? Or Vladimir Nabokov, whose novel Lolita depicts a middle-aged man's sexual obsession with an adolescent girl? Or, indeed, any writer whose work travels dark paths, sheds light on dank and shadowed corners of human existence?

What is the line where obscenity ends and art begins? And who gets to say?

Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart once famously said of pornography that he could not define it with legal exactitude, ''but I know it when I see it.'' Many of us would doubtless agree with him.

But that standard, which works reasonably well among individuals, has potential to be a cudgel in the hands of government, particularly a government prone to extraordinary and even extralegal means of enforcing its vision of morality. So the prosecution of Karen Fletcher is a discomfitting thing.

I make no case for her as a great artist. My concern is for tomorrow's great -- or not so great -- artist whose work deals in the repugnant and the disgusting. To be sanguine about his freedom and Fletcher's fate requires that one trust government to understand and respect the difference.

And I, for one, do not.

14 August 2008

The man said...

I once met a man.

I was dating his daughter.

He said to me, "There are two things that I need to know about you: You treat my daughter well enough in her eyes that she wants to keep you around. And you treat my grandson as well or better. That is good enough for me. There is one thing you need to know about me: At a word from her, I'll kill you."

Then he went into a lengthy description of how he thought he could peel the skin from my subcutaneous fat and said fat from my muscle and, possibly, most of the muscle from the bone before I died.

Great guy. I admired him a bunch.

06 August 2008

Irony? and fauna

So today, for the first time in twelve years, I rode my motorcycle in full body proper attire: helmet (duh, governor says I must or he'll sick his henchman on me {apparently it's an issue for certain doctors [and mothers], too. What is it with the people who care about me and helmets?}), reinforced gloves (and silk liners - it's dang cold riding sixty {ok, seventy [ok, ok, eighty]} miles an hour at forty degrees ambient), tall leather boots, leather jacket, and chaps.

Yup, the kind without an ass.

As I set out I thought to myself, "Self. Would it be ironic if, today with this unprecedented level of protection, I dumped my bike at speed for the first time?" I have trouble with irony. We've made it way more complex than the dictionary definition: "result which is unexpected".

Half an hour later (it's a long, long road to work) I saw a beautiful buck from a distance of approximately half a highway lane. I'd tell you all about how pretty he was, but I was unable to count his points due to the distraction of the doe on the other side of me that I could have, without hyperbole, (yes, I can work without it sometimes; just don't like to) touched with my left hand.

That was good for the ol' adrenal glands.

03 August 2008

Because no one believed Pops...




For Thumper and Zombie: don't look directly into the moon (after all, it is reflecting the sun's light). Look to the right; you'll find it much more humorous.




Whose eyes are burning right now from the soap they rubbed in them?

Seriously, I was totally coerced into this and it will be a temporary thing.

Well, it looks like the roulette wheel came up with your number this time and you will not be subjected to the cowboy moon.

25 July 2008

People are stupid

The highway I drive on to work is generally two lanes with passing lanes on the hills (occasionally) and four lanes for the last couple of miles. Coming down the hill that leads to the four lanes (about a mile of down, then up. Er, in this direction anyway.) I found myself (and the seven cars ahead of me) going, I shit you not, fifty in a sixty. OK, so not that slow, I know. It was, however, rush hour and I was, until this point, doing a very respectable seventy-two. Not really. I was going fifty-nine in the sixty mile an hour zone. Honestly. Really. Anyway...

So down and then up... and here come the four lanes... and suddenly the lead vehicle (Which I could see by virtue of being at the top of the hill when he was at the bottom.) is going seventy miles and hour.

Fifty to seventy! In a quarter mile. I can see from the top of the hill: nothing! Not one damned thing that might explain the speed change. I hate people who do this. I would shoot (carry a LAW just for the purpose, even) them were it not for the fact that they would then present a road hazard in front of me of significantly amplified proportions.

I said "people" are stupid, didn't I? As opposed to "person", huh? So, to justify that, here's another idiot (this one homicidal):

I had the wonderful feeling of finally being in a three way the other day. Turned out to be more exciting than I had imagined. Uncomfortable, too. Back highway lanes were not intended to be occupied by multiple vehicles moving in different directions, I think. Dude passed a car in the Northbound lane at the same time I did in the Southbound lane. Could he not see my headlight in the early dawn (prior to sunrise by a good forty-five minutes)?

Ass.

23 June 2008

I begin to suspect that it may be illegal to ride a gigantic stuffed animal in public.

I crossed the path of a police officer today. I was headed North; he south. About a block after he passed me, he made a rather abrupt u turn. I thought about it for a moment and decided that it was a possibility that he was coming to investigate my unusual ride.

I was less than thoroughly comfortable with being inspected more closely; and the giant stuffed horse I was riding seemed to be of the same opinion.

So we made the next right. This put us on the road to the library. Fine. I like the library. Perhaps the horse will, too.

I know what you're thinking. "How can you be so sure that the officer was looking for you?"

I'll tell ya:

1) He was headed South.
2) Shortly after seeing my trusty steed and me, he was no longer headed South. He was, however, still headed in a direction parallel to mine.
3) At the same road where I began to head West, so did he.
4) As he drove by Tonto, he was moving so slowly that had he lost any speed at all he'd have been going East.

What? Where was I when he drove by? In the library, of course. Abandon Tonto? No, he didn't want to go in... something about libraries having strict "no animal" rules. I tried to tell him that he's not a real horse and I know for a fact that this library (at least) does not have a rule against gigantic stuffed horses. In fact, they have one that resides there. Then he began ranting about how I was going to trade him in a new horse because I didn't "love" him. And how if I did "love" him, he'd be a real horse by now and this whole illegal riding thing would be a moot point.

Oh. You weren't thinking, "How can you be so sure that the officer was looking for you?" You were thinking, "Where the hell did you get a gigantic stuffed horse?"

Well, that is because I know this girl who will do anything for a gigantic stuffed animal.

I was at a yard sale today run by a morbidly obese lady with gaps in her teeth, food on her (navel rubbing) fun bags, gas leaking from one part of her or another, and two beautiful daughters who apparently have never met a stranger before. I'll give $5 to the first person who can explain truly hideous people having darling children without resorting to any discussion of recessive genetics or adoption. As I attempted to extricate myself from their yard (the blender was "in the house" and I was welcome to come inside) before I lived my own way through Dylan's "Motorpsycho Nitemare" when I fairly stumbled over Tonto the wonder steed.

Laying there like a fuzzy rug to be, he promised visions of much, much depravity for me. I had to have him.

I said, "How much?" Jabba the mom said, "I'll throw it in with the blender, if you come on in and get it." So I pulled out the $20 bill I'd been keeping in my pocket for the last week without quite knowing why I'd gone to the trouble of folding it into the form of a paper airplane, tossed it at her, lept astride the horse (who I immediately wanted to name Silver, so I could say... well, you know..., but I decided he was far too kemosabe for all of that) and away we went.

Two blocks later, we passed a policeman driving in the other direction.

I think you know the rest.

19 June 2008

I think my iPod needs to see the geek squad

I think it's broken. I haven't heard a sad song in over a week. OK, I heard "This Love" by Pantera yesterday, but that was on the radio so is not really germane.

The pod has 15k songs on it, 4k+ of which are country. My pod specializes in sad songs - ask anyone who knows me.

This week, though, not a one. It's starting to get on my nerves.

17 June 2008

The Dr. says I'm not cooperating when I'm rocking the table while she's operating

Forgot to do something (anything, really) with the roast left out to thaw. Now there is no dinner plan for the night. After prepping the roast (slits for garlic; seared roast; a bed of onions, carrots, and sweet potatoes; hard cider for wetness), it was decided that a picnic is in order.

Ordered sandwiches at the deli; one no onions, one no mustard; received both.

on both. Discovered this in the park.

Back to the store.

Lady says, "Oh. (checks the order slip to see if we're lying {we're not}) I'll refund that for you."

!?

I don't understand. How will that kill them? Oh... starvation, I see.

No, please make them again. Right. Puzzled look. Pause. "Oh. OK?"

Back to the park. Did I mention it takes 10 minutes to make a sandwich? Each time, apparently. For the math challenged, that's 40 minutes of standing around. Daylight's a wasting.

Cell phone rings. It's an emergency (of course it is, it's an emergency phone). Somebody's goose needs cooked.

Uh, I guess it has a broken leg. Sounds synonymous to me, though.

Discussed the exorbitant (really, fair and competitive, but come on... it's dinner. If you're going to spend hundreds of dollars on a bird, shouldn't you get to fly someplace fancy and eat foie gras? It's a GOOSE!) costs (and ridiculous after care) of fixing a broken leg on a goose. The lady seems to think it's some sort of pet (it doesn't even have a name).

Picnic moves to the animal hostel to warm up the x-ray machine.

Half done and someone calls to say their llama is preggers and needs a c-section. Right. OK. When can you be here? Oh, that's perfect... should be almost done with the goose by then.


In comes the llama. 20 minutes later than expected. OK, maybe she was right on time - she was later than I expected. Somehow. It's my story, and I'll tell it how I want.

The llama has already birthed one of the brood. Owner says, "Can you check if that one's alive?" Sure. The head is shaped like it belongs on a primate of some sort (unusual on a llama, I'm told), but we can check. It's dead. Hydrocephalus. Brain too big for head that's too soft to control it. Kinda.

Did you know llamas can carry multiple feti (fetuses, foetuses. What? Like you know the right way to do it)? They can. Most on record is 8. It's true. Saw it on the TeeVee.

So here I am, one lama baby (cria, duh) under each arm (both are dead) while the doctor is pulling the last out. This one is alive. Luckily an actual trained professional is along for the adventure and the doctor hands the live one to her.

I don't know if it's my lack of matching chromosomes or my lack of training, but somehow, I'm not allowed to handle live things unless no one else thinks they're alive (or likely to live long) or they're really, really alive. Crias are not either of those when they first come out.

Crias, by the way, get heavy if you hold them under your arms long enough; I wish someone would tell me where to put them.

Quit giggling, you.

The people came, collected their llamas (yeah, one baby lived), paid their bill (surprisingly enough), had dinner (and dessert), some cognac, cigars, a bit of chit chat, and drove home.

Somebody please tell where where to put these damn llama babies! They're getting heavy.

And stinky.

If someone doesn't help me figure this out soon, I think I know what kind of roast I'll be having tomorrow night - goose stuffed llama. Yumm?

12 May 2008

Dinner, anyone? You can join me, I won't bite... you.

Ate dinner at a place called "Mojo's on 86th" in Des Moines, IA today. I had a spinach salad with a warm bacon vinaigrette dressing, grilled apples, Maytag bleu cheese, and walnuts. There were bits of carbonized bacon in the salad. Delicious!

Then I had grilled duck with deep fried polenta (decidedly odd stuff... and stuffed with sausage, i think) and a black berry sauce that brought uber fancy ketchup to mind.
The duck was... amazing. Like a bridge between chicken and pork that made it there via the red meat road. Huge rind of fat across one side, pink in the middle, delightful.


The presentations were nice, too, so I added pictures. Don't know how they'll turn out, but... whatever. There really was only one thing that would have made my dinner better, but that sauce will have to wait a while, I think.

I had Chocolate pecan pie with bourbon cinnamon ice cream for dessert and it was delectable, as well. Presentation wasn't that impressive... so no picture.

I had to eat a couple of dollars worth of tip, though... didn't want Eddie to have a coronary.

Now the weevil-y part:

We're sitting there, KT and I, and this lady comes out with a tiny cocktail plate of fruit and cheeses, and bruschetta. All four of our eyes light up and we say, almost in stereo, "Do you think there's a happy hour thing going on in there?"

We're sitting on the patio (did I mention that? It was in the high sixties, low seventies, in Des Moines today with a nice breeze. So we were sitting on the patio.) and it seemed unsafe to leave the table alone while we both went and looked. Someone might steal our food! So I said, "You wait here, I'll go scope it out."

Chivalry lives! Or something...

I went into the building, where the light to dark transition made it hard to see very clearly. I could see a stack of foods and cocktail plates on a small table in the corner of the bar - just like happy hour in the bars I've worked in.

Admittedly, I've never worked in a place this high falutin', though.

It was even surrounded by people who looked like they'd just left their semi-professional day jobs. I fit in just fine in my dockers and button up shirt... if you ignore the massive chin beard and cowboy boots, that is.

So I got a plate and started dishing up two of each thing (quit looking at me like that! I was going to share with KT, so she didn't have to get her preggers self up) when this guy says, "Sir, this is a private party."

UH-OH!

What do you say to that?

Well, I said, "Really? Did you want some?" and pushed the plate I had been filling under his nose.

Turns out he most definitely did not want any. So I took it back to my table.

17 April 2008

I am a performance artist.

My media are juxtaposition, irony, and oxymoron. Hyperbole is my stage and apparent non sequitors are the nearly ubiquitous impetuses. I hope you enjoy it. If you don't, refer your concerns to the complaint department.

12 April 2008

today

sitting in the back yard, watching the house mates^53 beat each other with plastic lightsabers, weezer on the boom box, chatting with a most excellent female. I know this to be a fine, fine fucking day!

11 April 2008

^ Yeah, what that says, up there

Five years ago today I was wed to a woman I loved very much. At the time, it seemed like a brilliant idea, a continuation of the (mostly) interesting and exciting life we’d been living together for the previous four years.

As I write this, My iPod moves from Vince Gill “Trying’ to Get Over You”

Sure, I viewed marrying her mostly as a means of binding her to me; it seemed the only way to convince her to return to me. I had never wanted anything more in my life than I wanted “us”. When you look at it that way, is it not the reason all couples marry? So they have one more layer of security in their relationship? So they can say to the world, “This person finds in me something they want to keep forever and we shall not be parted.” Those who marry for love, anyway. Some marry for financial reasons, or “for the kid”, I suppose.

to Tim McGraw “Red Ragtop” and Randy Travis “On the Other Hand”

Things change after marriage. Not necessarily for the worse, but change they do. Of course, one could argue that change is the nature of all things, so it’s hard to say that the ceremony led to the change.

to Weezer “Damage in Your Heart”

I do not regret the decision to marry her. Don’t expect I ever will, either. At the time it was the right thing for me and (I believed, and still hope.) her.

Nine days from now will mark one year from the last day I lived in the same home with that woman.

to “He Stopped Loving Her Today” and Chris Cornell “Wave Goodbye“; while I sit and ponder this crazy, spontaneous play list

This, too, I believe this to be the right, if horribly painful, thing. Our other options were (it seems to me) her miserable because I refused to fulfill her most precious dream or me miserable because I did. I tried very hard for four years to learn to love her dream or at least share in it a bit. Immersing myself in it whenever I could muster the energy.

Only to find myself exhausted, crabby, and back to square one when finished.

to George Strait “Haven‘t You Heard“

To her I apologize if she feels like I wasted years of her life - I did try… and I’d do it again. Even knowing the outcome. Those years were precious to me. I’d not trade them.

to Pearl Jam “Last Kiss“

Now, after a nearly a year, the pain is not overwhelming. The melancholy is not unlike that which one feels for one’s youth. Sweet memories float through my mind as I recall the good times, distance dulls the (rather few, I think) bad.

I find myself glad for the flight delay that gives me time to write this. Not to mention the location (airport: home to tearful goodbyes, and homecomings as well as excited travelers bound for new places and terrified panic cases) that makes for good impetus.


I have lots of other things to be glad for, too. You can look around here and find nearly all of those things, if you’re interested. Sometimes it’s necessary to read between the lines.

Weezer “The World Has Turned“

Life, in general, is quite good for me. Today I am thankful (as I try to be most days - not everyone is this fortunate) for all the good in my life, but balance it with the awareness of pain I’ve caused, in the past near and distant, as well as the pain I’ll surely give to others to come.

Well, there’s my flight crew (finally, two hours late) and I must board my plane.

Finishing up with Dwight Yoakum “I‘d Avoid Me, Too“. Lovely electronics, not a sour note to be found.

08 April 2008

Training

In a far away place there is a men's room. Well, it's not all that far away from me, now, but it's very far away from my home and heart.

Today I come out of that room rubbing my hands together and my training partner says, "What is that stench?"
"I thought it was just me. Does it really smell that bad?"
"Yes! What the hell is it?"
"Lotion."
"Lotion? Where did you get lotion?"
"In the men's room."
"What!? There's lotion in the men's room? What are you guys doing in there?"
"You mean there's none in the lady's room?"
"Nope."
"Wow. Uh, how many kinds of soap do you have?"
"Two."
"Oh. Really?"
"Really."
"Uh, I'm going to go was this foul smelling stuff off my hands."

So, when I returned, I described the men's room to her as I describe it to you here: It's like being in a cockpit. A bathroom cockpit. From right to left: Dual lotion dispensers (one above the other), a towel dispenser above a hand dryer of the hot air style, an automatic foaming soap dispenser, a push style liquid soap dispenser, the sink/mirror, another push style soap dispenser, and (I shit you not) a biohazard receptacle. All of this wrapped around three walls of a cubby not designed to be spacious without a plethora of decorations.

What on earth do the guys here do in this bathroom?

06 April 2008

What happens next is all a blur, but you remember “fist” can be a verb.

Last night my girlfriend careens into the driveway and opens the door to her truck and says, “Get in.” “OK.”, says I.
What? You expected a lengthy discussion?

So begins an hour long drive to the top of a mountain. I swear to you, I can hear the dueling banjos playing from the woods we are so far from civilization. And me without my gat. Luckily she’s a dark belt in several disciplines (and I’m off to get my green belt later this week), so I feel safe enough, right?
So I spend a couple of hours in the middle of nowhere so cold that my balls have decided to take up a new career as ovaries. She’s plenty warm over there, cozied up to a Shetland pony or two, but I’m keeping my distance from the people who live here. No one I know of has ever caught “stupid”, but I do not want to break new ground. These are the people to catch it from; it oozes out of their pores.

That’s not altogether fair. The kids seem like they could be cured - with intensive retraining. I’m not taking any chances, though.

About an hour into the visit: The lady has been talking to the wyvern doctor about the 1000 (it’s an approximate number, I didn‘t actually take a head count, but I could not see over the sea of them) dogs she has; telling her that they are all rescues that are not adoptable based on ”aggression” and/or “viciousness”.

Any guess what happens next?

Yes, Boom?

That’s right, sir: One of them magically looses from his containment and bounds towards us like we are rabbits trying to escape their proper fate. Note: this no “mouse” of a dog. Some folks I know name dogs this big things like “bear”. I think the kid says it’s a mastiff/shepherd/rott/golden retriever/ogre mix. So, it charges up to us; we crouch and hold out the limbs we are least fond of (Well, she did. I hid behind her. Hey, she’s the one who dragged me up here. I was just chillin’.); the dog crouches all the way to the ground; barks; and bounds away - chasing phantom butterflies. It was… cute.

Twelve hours later: I’m standing out in the cold. Yet again. Did I mention the boys have permanently set up shop inside my abdominal cavity? The bright side of having ovaries is that I finally qualify for financial aid. And, as a MTF transgender person, I’m a protected minority, now. Suddenly I love the ADA.

My girlfriend is now fisting a farm animal. All the way over the elbow. And whispering nice things to it. I, on the other hand, am sharing a look with an ancient rancher that means, to me, “Yuck”. I think I see dollar signs in his eyes, though.

In between, I ate fish for dinner.

How did my life come to this? This is what I get for setting off on an “adventure”, I suppose - more adventures.

02 April 2008

What's wrong with me?

You would think that, in light of the seasonal mammary explosion on campus if nothing else, I would be more appreciative of casual dating in the new millennium.

Yeah, it's new to me, at least the dating part. Is this the first post here you've read? Don't start here. It's not the beginning. Go back to start and wait for Simon to say it's OK to begin reading.

Take, for instance, the thick little thing that passes me each day on my way back to my vehicle after class: Long, blond hair (I'm a sucker for long hair). 5', maybe. (and short girls)145 ish. Looks to be all muscle, it's easy to see, because I think she must spray her clothes on each morning. Think "1/3 scale volleyball star", add huge... tracts of land, and you'll have kind of the right idea.

Today she tackled me in the grass outside the library. If you know me, this seemed like she'd asked the Boom what she could do to spark some interest from me. As she was talking, and picking up her books, I realized I could very nearly see the back of her skull through her pretty little eyes. How do people that... vapid make it into a college? I know it's a community college, but still...

Now, I have some experience with pretty eyes. Come to think of it, I must be attracted to them, since all of the women I've ever been in love with have this as a common attribute. Apparently, I can save myself (and some lucky girls) a bunch of time on wasted short term relationships by just sifting those with less than beautiful eyes out.

It seems to me that they do not need to be attached to... well, nothing, I guess. they can be connected directly to a quick wit. Or a sharp analytical mind. Or a deeply philosophical brain. Or an encyclopedic knowledge of Monty Python. Or a slim volume of poetry.

So, rather than contemplating ways in which to make myself invaluable to this girl, I found myself being thankful for the women in my life who are intelligent. I barely had time to acknowledge this poor, confused creature before I was completely absorbed with this thought.

Why couldn't the Boom have been there to deflect her to? I think the cosmos really has it in for that guy.

What I learned on the first day of school, this time around.

First off, this is the 7th go I've given college, and I like school. It just never seems to work out. Even this time I'm running into little snags and hiccups. At least these are fun impediments.

As I was saying before I segued: Some girl's pants are falling off. She has a belt on, but she cannot walk any faster, because her pants will fall off. I cannot see this girl. She is so far away that I cannot perceive her with my eyes. I can, however, hear her clearly. And what I hear is that she will be naked from the waist down, if I can just figure out where the friend she is apparently waving to is and get this friend to urge pants girl to move just a bit faster.

Speaking of college girls, boobs are in, er... out for spring. As in busting out. Heh, I made a punny. It was frigid (I'm totally omitting a sweet zing, here. I cannot share it but, trust me, it's sweet.) on Monday, yet the decolletage was plunging. Boobs hanging by the nipple hairs to their coverings.

Stereotypes are not mythological things made up by the Man. Or, if they are, then sometimes people fill them with verve.

Oh, and there are 360 degrees in a circle.

I was on campus for something like three hours and this last thing was the only one I learned that had anything to do with a class for which I was signed up. OK, so I didn't learn it today, (already knew that a circle is 2*pi radians, too) but I had to put something about a class in this post.

Didn't I?

I like weezer.

This played just as I prepared to write a post. It doesn’t necessarily apply to me (at this moment), but is indicative of the wonderful lyrical weirdness that is Weezer.

I’m so tall / can’t get over me
I’m so low / can’t get underneath
I must be all these things
For I just threw out the love of my dreams

22 March 2008

Khaki? Who knew.

Warning! Achtung! This may contain details outside the comfort level of certain constant readers. I do not take responsibility for your discomfort if you read on.

The other day my girlfriend was talking about her laundry and mentioned the "brown comforter" from her bed was in the wash. No, I don't remember how it came up, try to stick with the story I'm telling, not the one you want to hear.

I said, "I don't remember a brown comforter..." and I began furiously trying to figure out if I should recall such a thing.

She says, "Well, you should." Shit! Think fast! "It has been on the bed since I met you." Faster... Harder... "You know, the one that the dogs lay on..." Beige...

!
!

Me, "You mean the khaki one?"

Her, "Ummm, yeah... I didn't expect you to know the difference. Most guys would have called it brown."

Me, "Brown? Maybe 'tan', or 'canvas', but 'khaki is the right color."

Her, "Hmph."

Me, "I'm not gay!"

Her, "Sure, dear. Whatever you say." I think there may have been a discussion of mauve to follow - I'm trying to block it.

A week or so later, at work:

Me, "Hey, guys. Did you see the shirt I got for being on that special project?" Holding up a robin's egg blue shirt (what?): "Do you think the beard is enough manliness to offset this color?"

Guys, in chorus, "NO! Couldn't he have gotten a different color? Maybe something a bit more effeminate? Wasn't everyone on that team a man?"

Me, "Well, at least it isn't periwinkle."

Guys, again in chorus (now who's gay?), "Periwinkle? What's that? Is it a color?"

Dang! I'm not gay!

Today, at a gas station downtown, to my girlfriend (uh, not the same one... that's a discussion for another time, though. I think.), "Does it impinge my masculinity that I know what khaki is and can differentiate it from other colors?"

Her, "No, that doesn't make you gay... Uh, what's khaki?"

Gahhhh!

I'm not gay! Really, I'm not. And two girlfriends is NOT me compensating like a dude with a small dick and a 40" lift on his truck.

21 March 2008

Sex lights! Again? Yes, Again.

For the second night in a row, I got pulled over. Not late to work this time, though. Left plenty early because I thought I had to get dinner, but someone sweet had left a lunch type thing in the fridge for me, so I was up fifteen minutes earlier than necessary (bad), and that time got transferred to the sheriff (lucky?).

70 in a 60. I don't think I was quite going 70, but he didn't cite me for "too fast for conditions" so who's bitching? Nice guy, just like the two from last night. Also just like last night, the issues of "who owns this vehicle" and "what's up with your insurance" arose. Apparently the legal record for my vehicle shows something like I sold it... to myself recently. Baffles those sworn to protect and serve just as well as it does me.

Unlike last night, I got a ticket this time. According to officer friendly (no sarcasm intended) there's some new procedure called a "diversion" that allows you to either take a discount on the ticket or costs an extra $50, I was unclear on which. That's not the important part of the procedure, though. The part that matters is that the new option somehow makes the ticket none of your insurance company's business - it doesn't even show up on your record. Sweet! I'll have to look into it. Hopefully it's nothing like a lead foot discount, but that's a story for another time.

Right now, it's sleep time. 22 hours is a long day.

20 March 2008

Good evening, officer.

Driving to work one night, mind completely not on driving, I get the sex lights in my rearview.

You know the sex lights, right? The lights that make you say, “Fuck!” when you see them. Yeah, those lights, in my rearview.

{Kid Rock suggests “roll on, roll on rollercoaster” as I write this, not very helpful of him}

Now I’m going to be late for work. Sex lights!

It started this evening with a continuation of a conversation I’ve been having with my wyvern physician. She’s trying to help me screw the head back onto my dragon, with mixed results. Her help is greatly appreciated, dubious though the results may be. Impressively impartial, that one.

After, with thoughts circling in my head trying to coalesce into decisions, or at least courses of possible action, the next priority in my head is food - I need to eat before work. Wendy’s is that-away and work is this-away, but I’ve left plenty early, so there should be no issue.

Unless, that is, Wendy's is not “open late, so I can eat great” this evening. Sex lights? Baluum.

{Now Roy Rogers has extolled the virtues of Lovenworth. Apparently he and the warden are having a ball}

So I go all the way downtown, still on schedule, and hit Jack’s place. From my turn onto the main drag to Jack’s takes 8 or 9 lane changes and two full on turns. Apparently, I used two blinkers to accomplish this. Also apparent (now) is that this does not meet the state patrol’s requirements for number of blinkers per lane change / turn.

Sex light? Yes, now we have sex lights.

Around the car on two sides come state patrol officers. I blame the cleanly shaved skull for this unnecessary caution on their part.

Hand them the ID, “Good evening, officer”. They’re there just to do their job. (oh, that sentence feels good, no?) No point in being foul.

“Do you know why we pulled you over?” C’mon like I’m going to answer that, even if I know the answer. Which, in this case, I don’t.

“No, sir.”

{Now Garth is contemplating which girl to take home from the bar.}

He tells me about my lack of blinkers and says, “How much have you had to drink tonight, sir?”

!

Right, well I suppose he doesn’t know me from Adam, so…

“I don’t drink, normally, and certainly not on the way to work.”

Whence ensues a discussion of where I work. Now is also the time that I realize I need to call and tell the boss’ answering machine that I’m going to be late.

“Can I see your proof of insurance and registration, sir?”

Rooting around for a couple of moments turns up an insurance card that I’m certain is no longer valid, but he wants something so…

Much more rummaging results in the registration. (Please, please don’t be for the bug. It wasn’t.)

After a pointed look from me to the insurance paper to me and back, I cast about for another piece of paper to prove I’m a law abiding citizen. And I found… another insurance paper that is also invalid, but in a different way. Sex lights! I think I’m going o be more than late for work, I think they’re contemplating running me in.

“We’ll be back in a few minutes, sir.”

{The race is on in George Jones’ world}

After a discussion (during which I did call the boss’ answering machine) they come back and ask some more questions.

“No ticket tonight, sir.”

“Really? I thought for sure you were going to be the balance to the unbelievably good luck I’ve been enjoying recently.”

“No, sir. Not tonight. Please remember your signals, at least 100 feet prior to making any maneuvers.”

“Thank you, officer. Have a nice night.”

And that is how charmed I am right now. Come, rub me. The luck is good over here. So far…

{Rob Thomas is very sorry about the attitude he needs to get, but no one else will take his shit, so..}

11 March 2008

Thank you.

To the haunt in our house:

Deal!

I will not condone Sky exorcising you.

Just don't do mess with my iPod again, and we'll be fine.

Oh, and if calling you "fey" offended you, I apologize for that. I don't see a difference, but I know some folks who do, so...

So I was right.

Duh. I'm always right - if one looks at it my way. I did indeed find the verge of something wonderful... now to see if I can warrant such goodness in my life. Fleeting though it may be.

08 March 2008

1408 wherefore art thou, 1408?

Why could we not move into 1410? 0r, better yet, 1409?

Don't get me wrong, I love my new home. Living with Thumper, Zarks, Sky, Darkstar, Zombie (I know he doesn't actually live here, but he's here more than some others who actually pay rent and that's not a complaint.), and the army, navy, air force, and marines. And we care a lot about the dirty job that our mail lady (did I mention that she's hot?) does for us. It's just the tiny Bermuda triangle that our home contains is really getting on my nerves.

We have noticed the loss of:

1) bag o' padlocks and keys (who knew the fey were so strong?)
2) USB hub
3) set of drumsticks
4) screws for mounting paper towel holders (which I should have known better than to buy at the dollars store, anyway.)
5) a library book
6) an iPod
7) some cash (may have been spent, but it's more fun to blame on the house)
8) assorted small electrical connectors and cables

That we've noticed. So Far...

Oh, and that's less than a month of living here. Adds up to four things a week. At this rate, we'll have an actual black hole on the lot by the time the corn is ripe.

To be fair, the drumsticks reappeared like a week after we noticed them missing and the bag o' locks and keys showed up this morning - in the kitchen? Dunno why that would be.

Still...

One of the friends of Weevil has informed me that there is a haunt in the house. We are planning an exorcism. I don't know if spectral beings read the `net, but if they do, specifically the one in my home, this is the only chance I will offer you: Return the iPod and the book and I will call off the hounds. I got nothin' agin you, boy, but if'n y'all doan git m' prop'ty back I'll have to take actions.

05 March 2008

My friends say...

Some of my friends are telling me that, despite losing my iPod (and a ridiculous number of other assorted things... hmmm, I think I feel another post coming on) in the tiny Bermuda triangle that is 1408, life is pretty damn good. One of them said, "Too good. Watch out, some thing's going to blow up in your vicinity. Soon."

So today it got even better. Even my freakin' mail lady is hot. Smokin' hot!


ML FTW!

Do you think I should leave flowers on the porch? Perhaps with a picture of ZB? See, Zombie, it's not all about my nefariousness.

03 March 2008

Sorry, about that

Looking over my last few posts, I see that it seems to be all doom and gloom or sappy BS.

I just want to say two things about that:

1) Hopefully, in a week or so, I can post that the f up has been resolved to the satisfaction (huh huh huh, he said satisfaction) of all entangled parties.

2) This is not a long suicide note. I said NOT.

Pay attention, I'm fine. Quit calling the suicide hot line on me, ZB.

I'm on the verge of something wonderful.

And wonderfully exciting. And terrifying, due to my complete and utter
inexperience with it.

Here's the Weevil-y part: I may have already blown it.

Inadvertently?

What do you think?

Still, the f up was all me (and my little friend). Mostly due to my ability
to willfully (if not always consciously) forget things I'd rather not know
about. Now normally I feel like this is a huge asset - the silver lining
to my obnoxiously shitty memory. This time, however, it has affected
others.

Negatively.

It seems highly likely that all damage will remain purely emotional.
Huge tracts of that damage are going to be in my own back yard, as it
were.

I could be blowing this all out of proportion. Pray to the deity of your
choice that I am? I'd appreciate it.

I have already begun making reparations to one of the aggrieved.

The other...

I'm sick about her, still. That's a place I do not want to go. I do not
think that the trust is there to overcome my stupidity, like it was for
the party with whom I'm already working on the reparations. The shits of it
is that, say, twenty-four hours ago I was thinking things were going to
go swimmingly this spring. Now I'm worried that I'm going to slip back into
the deep depression that was the last half of last year.

Man, I hope I can work this all out.

Plus, I abhor confrontation.
I teeter precariously close to neurosis on this.

I know at least one person who would say that's an understatement.

26 February 2008

To love someone means that you are fulfilled the most by putting their deepest desires ahead of your own.

It started with “Those who have come here to hate should leave now, for in their hatred they only betray themselves.”

It ended with “She gazed into his eyes for the longest moment. And then he kissed his wife, the woman he loved, the woman who meant everything to him. The woman who loved him.”

And I wept.

Great wracking sobs... heaving shoulders... gasping breaths. Tears streamed down my cheeks and soaked the hair of my chest until I thought I might meet the fate of the Man Who Couldn’t Cry. I became concerned that the word antediluvian was going to take on new meaning for me.

I cannot express how thankful I am that I didn’t read it this summer.

I’ve no idea how I would have dealt with that. Hell, even survived that. It’s more than just words to me. For several years, these books, and the ideas in them, were part of my life. More deeply ingrained than you probably know. They crystallized concepts I have held dear nearly all of my life in a way that finally allowed me to express them to others.

I think, this summer, that these lines could have changed my mind, my world.

I don’t know if that would have been for the best or the worst.

I’ve no way to know.

I don’t know if I want that crystal ball.

I’ve known the truth of the subject line in my heart for years. I lived that truth in the only way I could see. Wishes would not have changed the future. The pain waiting there should have been greater than the pain I caused.

As I read those words, though, all of my certainty fled.

I put those desires above mine; it seemed like the right thing to do.

Is there a single person I know who is happier today than they were on April Fool’s day, 2007? Sky and Thumper, probably. ZBS, if you can believe his blog and catch it on a good day. Podicious pan paniscus LXIX? Have to ask on that, could go either way.

Me? Well, I finally laugh more than I cry. I talk too loud, again; embrace all that is strange and tantalizing. Enjoy the idiosyncrasies of a life lived. It took me long enough. Tonight, however, I am melancholy and wish I had someone here to hold; to hold me. To talk and show me the empathy I am notoriously incapable of reciprocating.

I spend most of my free time with my friends, old and new. We continuous adventurers seeking new delights around every corner with the abandon of college students, the unselfconsciousness of preschoolers, and very little wisdom of our years. Finding them far more often than is even vaguely healthy.

I look forward to our next escapade and the ones to follow that.

Until I am in my empty house once again.

20 February 2008

From Roget's II Thesaurus

maudlin

ADJECTIVE:Affectedly or extravagantly emotional:
bathetic, gushy, mawkish, romantic,
sentimental, slushy, sobby, soft, soppy.
Informal : gooey, mushy, schmaltzy,
sloppy, soupy. Slang : drippy, sappy,
tear-jerking. See FEELINGS.



*Or read the post below.

I began with this:

Thank you, Mom. I appreciate all that I know you have sacrificed, missed, given, and suffered for me. No one else would have done these things for an ingrate such as me.

Thank you, too, for the things you made me do that I did not want to do and for not letting me do the stupid, dangerous things I was wise enough to let you know about before I did them. I say wise because only when even I knew something was too foolish, too pinheaded, for any sane person to do, only then would I come to you with a hare-brained idea. Sincerely hoping you would be the voice of reason that brought me back from the precipice of unreason.

Also, thank you for extending your love for me to those important to me. I know you know that polite civility is all I would ever expect from you toward anyone I bring into my life, but you rise so far above that. Despite your nearly feral protectiveness, you welcome with open arms those I love. You treat them as your own blood; give of yourself to them as I certainly never will. Where they fail to thank you, let me stand in their stead: You may be imperfect, and no saint, but let no person doubt the steadfastness of your heart to those you love, thank you.

More than those things though, I want you to know how much I appreciate the things you almost certainly endured, accomplished, or avoided on my account -without my ever knowing. I'm certain there are times I have no concept of where my mere existence changed your choices. It is these times by which I am most humbled. As a child, the world revolved around me; as it does for all children (and most women). Surely I failed to be properly grateful, then. Of course, I cannot see any way in which I could be suitably thankful.

So we're back to it: Thank you, Mother.


And I ended up with this, too:

As I finished the above, I found myself reminded that my cup runneth over with another form of love.

I have a knack for making the truest of friends. I'm not particularly proud of it, and I abuse it brutally, but I am blessed nonetheless: I don't make a lot of friends, but those I do are ridiculously loyal.

I have, for instance, a pair of friends who I honestly believe would take a bullet for me. Now, I would totally disapprove of them doing this, and seek to dissuade them. They are that kind of friends, though. The kind of friends to whom I can do horribly, terribly, selfish things and they will love me as though we are from the same womb. As I do these things.

Don't get me wrong, I love them, too... and would take a small caliber round for them (like a BB or a paint ball, maybe) I just cannot seem to grasp how they can love me in return.

I have another group of friends with whom I am also blessed. While I do not know that
they are up to dying in my stead, they will do (and have done) things for me that are far beyond the things I've heard of other people's friends doing - except in the movies. Things that people go to jail or hell for, in some cases.

I love them all, too.

These people, including the two above, are some of the nicest people anyone will ever meet. No one who gets to know any of them would be less than honored to be able to call even one of them "friend". Yet I, unworthy bastard though I am, have the distinction of calling them all not just "friend", but "dear friends".

So I'd like to finish with this:

So, to all of you (I say "all" because everyone who fits the descriptions above are privy to this document) thank you.

Thank you? A million times thank you would not be adequate for one of you - what the fuck am I to say to you all?

I love you and I am so glad

I'm not living this life without you
I'm selfish and clear

18 February 2008

Milk crates... they're not just for milk anymore.


Psychedelics swarm my brain
the rope affects me by the grade
snow has caused my nose to drain
come on, electric cool aid

Tie it tight; the flame's a fuss
release the knot and and feel the rush
catch the buzz and spread ethereal wings
didn't even mind the sting.

It used to bother me.

Soaring high I scan the tracks
that seem to congregate in packs
in ugly lines they make attacks
along one's visible veined backs.

I wonder where they lead.

Crystal swirling in my grain
sweet embrace of grapes once trod
the hops play with me little games
is this the nectar of the gods?

I believe I've put time in a bottle.

I search, sometimes, for a place to land
but clouds are constant, all around,
like thinking through a velvet band
I never seem to touch the ground.

How long since last I was down?

I really don't remember.

I fear the total uncontrol
and impulse urges me to flee
I can run until I'm old
but how do I run from me?

Trapped.

This situation calls for change
what's left of thought,
I need to know,
is there still time to clear the brain?

I'll let all my monkeys go.

Do you think I will regain
does the brain remain the same
would it be a crying shame
were I never me again?

How could I ever know?


I didn't write that; I edited it a bit, but that's not even kind of the same thing. I do dearly love the man who, in 1980, wrote it and it affected me greatly. The lines struck fear deep into my little burgeoning control freak soul. Scared me off many drugs, to be certain.

If only he had written something as powerful about the dangers of falling in love. My heart may never have been broken.

06 February 2008

It's late

I'm up past my bedtime. I got up well, well before normal today. I'm at least three hours further into today than is usual for me. Yet, perhaps that is not what I mean.

Maybe I have another meaning for the phrase "It's late" floating around in my subconscious. If that's true, the very distinction between "late" and "too late" would seem to indicate that I have hope of recovering(or rectifying) whatever I'm unconsciously obsessing on.

Of course, I have no idea what that may be. I was just online and bored. Everyone I know is asleep at this hour, so I thought I'd bother them (you) tomorrow. Or the next day. Or whenever.

I probably shouldn't post this, but my self editing filter has long been porous and the pure inanity of this is unlikely to alter that now.

31 January 2008

when the ink starts to itch then the black will turn to red

I'm thinking of moving.

got a long line of heartache, I carry it well

Into a house.

the list of lives I've broken reach from here to hell

Address 1408.

they just gave me the number when I was young

How deliciously disturbing.

I pray you don't look at me, I pray I don't look back

Wish me luck?

27 January 2008

Orale? No. No orale.

So today I'm rocking out on the toy drums and I get an instant message form one of my xbox live contacts. Now, I don't know who these people are, necessarily, because everyone has a pseudonym. I'm going to recount the conversation for you, now, and you tell me if this gets very weird by the end. I'll put quotes only around the phrases I remember clearly, otherwise I'll be paraphrasing.

R:"hola" (Spanish for "hi")
T:"como te va" (Spanish for "how's it going" I'm a polite guy, even if I have no idea who you are)
R:bueno y tu como estas (Spanish for "good and how are you)
T:"podria esar peor pero mi espanol no es bueno" ("could be worse by my Spanish is not good")
R: a bunch of Spanish I understood very little of
T:Spanish for I didn't understand that at all
T:"quieres jugar rock band" ("do you want to play rock band" One track mind, here, no?)
R:"orale" (I've no idea what this means, I'm going to look it up, hold on...

From the urban dictionary :


orale

Spanish word used among Mexicans meaning 'right on', 'hell yes', 'okay' and 'alright'; usually said enthusiastically.
There's going to be tons of free beer at the quincenera, want to go?

Orale!

Oh, so that was cool, I guess.

t: some Spanish that I hope approximated "have a nice day, but i cannot continue in Spanish"

Wait for it... this is where things go all kooky on me.

R:"bye"
R:"i see you soon"
R:"I love you"

Hold the eff on! "I love you?"! "see you soon"! I only know one person who might say they loved me and speaks anything close to this level of Spanish, so i say:
t:"i'm nosure who you are" (yeah, i spelled "not sure" as "nosure" texting from drum set is hard, so step off.)

But wha wha wha wait it gets worse...

R:"it's your daughter consuela" (OK, "consuela" is a pseudonym. but putting names up here is against my policy, so I substituted her pretty name for another.)

I stared at that for thirty seconds trying to wrap my head around it. Then I typed:

T:"i don't have a daughter"
R:"yes you do. you have three of them"

At this point all I want to do is wake up from the obviously drug addled nightmare I've fallen into and kill the person who slipped me a mickey. Of, course I'm sober and this seems to be really happening. Clearly what we have here is a case of mistaken identity, but my name shows up when I text so we're looking at a pretty big coincidence, here. Anyway, onward!

t:"OK. have a nice day" (what the hell did you expect me to say? I just want to go away, by now.)
R:"bye"
R:"i see you soon"
R:"you are the gentle man in the world"

What?!

R:"I love you"

OK, what the hell was all of that?

If someone here is the other end of this conversation, I'd like for you to come clean. This is weirding me out.

25 January 2008

Not for those uncomfortable with the fringes of society.

I warned you once, this is twice. Don't worry, you won't be the only person who doesn't read it... And you may be happier for it.



Just when you think life cannot get any wackier... you meet your brand new girlfriend’s husband… with a massive, and fresh, hickey on your neck. Uncomfortable? Right, that does not even begin to cover it.

The bright side is that the poly-amory appears to be for real and not just a smokescreen. I kinda figured that was the case, but this much more visceral evidence certainly settled my mind on that niggling concern. You know, the one that your friends and family are nearly required bring up when you begin to share this sort of information with them. This is in addition to the other reservations they will have on your behalf. They’re not trying to quash your fun; they love you and do not want to see you get hurt.

So here I am, past thirty, once married, a father of a pre-teen boy, semi-professional employee. For all intents and purposes a grown up, but still I look like I was making out with a vegan vampire. I have this purple stippling covering a two inch by three inch section of my neck.

I know that it probably sounds like I’m complaining; I’m really not. I had a very nice time earning those broken blood vessels in my neck, thank you very much, but I did have to go to work today. So I did what you would do for any bruise: I iced it down last night to keep it from getting any worse and put a hot pack on it this morning to try to get the coagulated blood to liquefy and move back into its proper place. Unfortunately, it was so cold out this morning that I brushed off the heat of the water as being exaggerated by the ambient temperature. The end result? By the time I arrived at work, I had covered the hickey with a three by six first degree burn… that failed to hide the hickey! There is a gradient of pasty white (my natural skin color) to pink to red to purple stippling to red to pink to pasty white stretching from just under my ear nearly to my Adam’s apple.

That definitely makes the hickey less glaring. Now, I might as well have taken a Sharpie® and drawn arrows to it. Oddly, though, I’ve been at work for three hours and nobody has said a thing. Yet.

Thirty seconds. I swear, thirty seconds after I typed “Yet.” I walked out of my office and one of the guys points over to my left so I look and he points at my neck for everyone to see. He is one funny mofo.

04 January 2008

I’ve never been one to “play the field”, as they say.

Even in my wild and woolly, Johnny Appleseed days, it was one girl for a time and once her time was over, there was no returning or overlap. Well.. except for that one time... uh, those two times.

OK, so the above is only valid in my head, but this space is like a small window into my head. Therefore, it only has to make sense in here. Welcome, my friends.

Now I find myself with five female friends with strong possibilities.

Who am I kidding? The only kind of female friends I have (outside of work and family, and I don’t really get to choose those) are the ones with possibilities. I actually don’t believe in the efficacy of inter-ender relationships. The biological tension is too much to trust. I’ve been on two actual “first dates” and I've a strong line on number three.

These facts do not reflect my normal modus operandi.

Luckily, I’ve got my sights set on a more abnormal first date. This would actually be a more normal sort of first date for me, though, so it’s likely to have a strong comfort factor. I'm not opposed to the way things are going, but it'll be nice to set my feet on familiar ground, for a time.

Generally I find one woman, get to know her a little as a friend, then move on to “more than friends” (sorry to be coy, but my mom reads this stuff, too), maybe then we will go on something like a date. All of that happens in a one woman, focused sort of environment in my head. There are never multiple prospects during the process.


Actually, I kinda like to be coy, but I also like to be coy about being coy.

So this is all new ground for me. Emotionally and ethically. Is it wrong to have my feelers open? None of these ladies have given me any indication that they are ready to move on to a “you and me” sort of thing as opposed to “you and me and him and her, etc” thing. Hell, one of them is still a phantom in my world.

There you go, I’m a stranger in a strange land and things are only getting…more strange.

A quick shout out to a new reader: Hey, Eddie! Are you sorry you asked for the address, yet? Yeah, I said, “shout out”. It’s my blog and I’ll dip into the Ebonics dictionary any time I please. Now, step off.

03 January 2008

It's that time of month... time for a post, that is.

I’ve decided that I’m going to learn to dance. I know, I know… most of you already know that I’ve been going to the free sessions on Thursdays. This is going to be different.

I’ve gone four times. Twice I took a partner. Twice I went alone.

The first time I went with a friend’s wife. We’d met once before, briefly. Dancing that night was fun.

The next time I went alone. And that’s very nearly the full story. There was a pair of couples, one male instructor, me, and a nice old guy named Don. As the lesson began, Don looked at me and said, “I can dance backward.” I swear, you can’t make this stuff up.

The next time I went with a complete stranger. Dancing that night was fun and exhilarating. We may become fast friends, she seemed to get nearly all of my jokes. Either she's sharp or I was less obtuse than usual.

The last time I went alone. There were at least two dozen people. I was abandoned by two, count ‘em - two, partners. Between those fleeing I was turned down by a potential partner who said, “Oh, I have a partner. She’s dancing with that guy. I have the guy part down, but I cannot really dance the girl part.” She then began to converse with her friends on the dance floor, very clearly done with our conversation.

So, now I’m done fooling around with the vagaries of free lessons and random partners. Don’t they say random partners are dangerous, anyway?

Now, if I just knew where to find a steady dance partner…

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.
.
.
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I’ll get back to you on that.