orbital approach

Bookmarks people, bookmarks!

2003-11-09T18:03:00.000-05:00

www.orbitalapproach.com

The Walrus Said

2003-11-06T16:51:00.000-05:00

The time has come. Because my traffic has now exceeded the maximum of what blogspot can offer (not even close), I am switching over to the supremely cool Moveable Type and a new server complete with the domain name, www.orbitalapproach.com. I know, I know. These are exciting times.

Penile Compensation

2003-11-05T14:53:00.000-05:00

[14:44] vetamn: http://photopile.com/photos/Hellifiknow/auctions/56838.jpg [14:52] AD: I should have a more expensive automobile

If an ass could wave, what would it look like?

2003-11-04T17:20:00.000-05:00

I’ve recently been “set up” with a friend of a friend. Only she lives in New York, so we were “introduced electronically.” We’ve been lobbing e-mails back and forth like a couple of tennis pros, trying to extract as much information about one another without showing any of our weaknesses. We’re learning the court. The subject of music came up in one recent e-mail and I found out she’s never given Ben Harper a listen (which is a fucking crime people, go listen and learn this man before he becomes this generation’s Bob Dylan. Do this so you can look back to 2003 when it’s 2033 and your children are listening to this absolute fucking talent, smile and say, “Amen omen, brah.” (I hope people aren’t saying brah in the future)). So I decided I had to make her a mix CD. When I say this is the greatest mix CD to have ever been created by the hands of a mortal, I am completely exaggerating. But it’s absofuckinglutely fabulous. So I was excited to send it to her. I got to the post office last night just before closing. I mean, just. I saw the steel gates coming crashing down and I dove onto the ground, executed a textbook stop drop and roll (people probably thought I was on fire, but after seeing me handle myself, they probably just laughed and said to themselves, “Oh he’s got that.”), dropped the CD on the way into the building, but was able to reach out underneath the 21st century portcullis and snatch the CD with my hand, just before the steel hit ground and rang out a tinny clamor. They were all pretty perturbed to see my Indiana Jones impression firsthand, as it meant they actually had more work to do. I felt bad for some reason, so I acted hurriedly. I asked if I could get the package overnighted. How much could overnighting a CD cost anyway? $6? Well it rang up as $13.95. I really did not want to pay that, but I was afraid of what would happen if I told her that. So I paid it. Then she slaps a big ole $13.95 sticker right on the freakin envelope and looks up at me, flames where eyes should be, and let out the most hideous and chastising cackle, a sound that echoed the words, “YOU FUCKING LOSER!” throughout my ears for minutes to come. /stream of consciousness on I just paid $13.95 to have a mix CD to be overnighted to some girl I have yet to meet in person because I was excited like a little girl at the prospect of her listening to the music and heralding me as the coolest person on the planet, but fuck my ass she’s going to know I was dumb enough to pay 13 fucking 95, as the sticker is right fucking there on the package, the mark of that evil bitch behind the counter at the fucking post office who is still laughing at me. Is that a jelly bean? /stream of consciousness off God I suck.

Culinary Stalemate

2003-11-03T16:54:00.000-05:00

With every self-respecting man, there comes a time for bravery. There comes a time, but one brief moment, where a man must commit to the quality of his character, forgo calculated reason, put aside the underlying humanistic desire of self-preservation. There comes a time, in every man’s life, when a chili dog sounds like a good idea. It was there, in the otherwise innocuous bowels of the cafeteria, staring me in the face, challenging my unconfident approach. Its sight had taken me by surprise, a cold and blackened rock of magma on the normally digestible meadow of chicken salad and mixed greens. Its very presence immediately alerted me to a greater wrong, a disturbance in the natural balance of habitual niches and dietary nutrition, but only for a moment, as it became instantly cognizant of my feigned interest and attacked, suddenly, with blazing speed and unrelenting fury, like Catholic guilt on prom night. We circled each other cautiously for an immeasurable amount of time, focused, muscles-tensed, ready for the other to strike. You can’t believe the patience this thing had! I became uneasy, nervous, and sensing my momentary weakness it called upon friend to flank me. From the right, The Grillman attacked, striking as I stood ill prepared, forcing me to turn my attention from the Dog of Terror and into a decision that would stay with me for the rest of my day. He came hurriedly, almost unexpectedly, bearing down on me with salivary teeth and a fixated stare, and I could do nothing but let instinct and reaction counter his attack, as I spun about to meet his face and slice a triumphant, “I will have the chili dog!” through the air. The Grillman was shocked at my resilience and shrunk back to the sizzling shadows, offended by my tone, and defeated by my blade of hungry lament. What came next was a blurry of motion, as the chili dog attacked and I rebounded with a parry and a strike, a frenzied feeding that not even the Dog of Terror could withstand. It had no comprehension of my hunger and taste for the unhealthy, and I destroyed the beast in competition-like fashion, bowing to my onlookers and dabbing the corners of my mouth with the untucked corners of my sweated shirt. I was the victor, but only for the moment, as a whisper of truth escaped from my triumphant belch, and the gastronomic dose of wrath the chili dog had been saving grabbed hold of my insides and let holy hell unleash its vengeance upon me. Pray for me.

Defcon 1

2003-10-31T11:47:00.000-05:00

This was in an e-mail I sent to someone today, and I thought I’d post it here because I am too lazy to write something special. --- Let me take a moment to describe my office to you. I am the youngest employee of the office, regardless of department or position. The average age is probably 51. I shit you not. Fun to these people is having a work "party" (at the office of course) and serve hors d'oeurves from the cafeteria and trash barrels full of ice and Beck's beer. Beck's is to beer as light is to matter. Many confuse one of being a subset of the other, but in reality they are mutually exclusive. If I were challenged into a description of the vile non-brew that might as well say, "Now made with Essence of Camel!" on the label, I would say the taste of Beck's falls somewhere in between transmission fluid and sweaty panther piss. That really does nothing to help describe how painfully boring my office is, but I take advantage of every opportunity to express just how loathsome that shit really is. Anyway, no one dresses up here for Halloween. There are tales of one of the engineers coming dressed in drag one year, which is definitely the most frightening thing I have ever imagined, and our boss having a "talk" with him that such things were really not appropriate. We like to squash work place humor and light-heartedness as quickly as a snake on a mouse, because we want to maintain a suitably professional atmosphere. Speaking of professional atmosphere, I was in meetings all day yesterday with what is becoming the largest client our group has had in two years. We were in a conference room in the corner of the building, and there were at least 15 flies in the room, buzzing against the windows and fluorescent bulbs in a desperate attempt to show our clients the upstanding professionalism of Beck. No one said anything, but I could see their eyes darting from light to window, following the sound of fast-twitch wings beating against the air and of plump little insect bodies smacking into panes of glass at comet-like velocities, resonating dull thuds of resounding professionalism throughout the meeting. I remember thinking to myself that it was a good thing I shaved that morning. This was not an isolated incident mind you. In each of the conference rooms, which occupy the corners of the office, there is the same problem. I suspect it has something to do with the layout of the HVAC ducting, but who knows, they could be employees that were recently exposed to some horrific chemical down in the labs, only we don’t have any labs. You can’t imagine the reaction these flies get from people. It’s the not the “Jesus fucking Christ that’s gross” response that is wholly fucking correct, but instead a cross between giddy laughter and Steve Irwin like biological incredulousness. “This is fascinating. I mean there are really a lot of flies in here! Croichy!” “Yeah, there is probably a nest of larvae right above our heads in the ducting system. It’s only going to get worse.” “Haha!” Yeah, no, you fucking slouch, that’s not for laughing. Get on the horn to the National Guard and let’s go Defcon 1 on this mother fucker. I want to come in Monday morning and feel like I’m an extra in The Great Debuzz: Holocaust of the Flies, with a makeshift breathing mask made out of the torn-off sleeve of my shirt, nodding gingerly to the miscellaneous janitorial-like corpse-sweepers wearing hazmat suits that are making smoldering piles of roasting fly flesh and waving us through to our offices.

Ghost In A Jar! No Joke Serious Inquiry Only

2003-10-31T09:28:00.000-05:00

Happy Halloween.

Thank You Florida

2003-10-26T17:07:00.000-05:00

Perfectly Appropriate

2003-10-24T13:40:00.000-05:00

I think the next time the socially inept JM, a colleague of mine only 5 years older than me yet paid an exorbitant amount of more money, refers to my good work as, "wicked pissah" I'm going to respond with, "Thanks bro. By the way, you guys did not get enough credit for This One's for the Children," pump my clenched fist twice against my chest, and give the peace sign with an outstretched arm. When he cocks his head sideways in confusion, I will quickly grab the flask of acid I have been keeping, throw it on his face and dance circles around his writhing body while the faint sounds of mariachi play in the background. On a side note, this might be one of the funniest bit of ironic truths that has tickled my recent memory. Thanks to LynchFan_0371 for this piece of marvelousness.

Fuck.

2003-10-17T09:00:00.000-05:00

Yeah, yeah, yeah

2003-10-16T10:51:00.000-05:00

I have been a bit preoccupied. Not only with the currently inflated demands of my job, but with watching perhaps the greatest playoff run in the history of all professional sports. If you don't watch baseball, it's time to begin. If you don't like baseball, it doesn't matter. This year's Red Sox are perhaps the most emotional professional sports team to grace the face of the planet since, well, ever. And tonight is the fatalistic conclusion. It's not the World Series, as one might expect from this level of tension, excitement, nervousness and fervor. It's Game 7 of the ALCS, a battle between the greatest and oldest rivalry of any sport, a rematch of one of the most emotional games in recent history, a showdown between the two great teams and pitchers of modern times. Red Sox vs. Yankees. Pedro vs. Clemens. It does not get any better than this. Sometime soon I will be back writing more frequently on this site. Why I have yet to figure out, but I will. For now though, the loyalties of my concentration lie elsewhere. A meadow, perhaps, with the sweet smells of spring flowers and gritty Red Sox mansweat dripping down onto the recently placed graves of the Yankees.

The Fate of Montreal

2003-09-17T15:28:00.000-05:00

So, Montreal. I have decided Montreal is much better suited for a short story than for blogging purposes. So I will be turning it into a short story and eventually posting it on the site, perhaps with some of my other works (always refer to your amateurish writing as “pieces” or “works” as it invariably impresses people, even if they have never seen your writing, or better yet, even if your writing doesn’t exist) as part of a separate section, but I haven’t quite made up my mind about that yet, as this site as somehow morphed itself into something I never really intended. That being said, I had to give you something, as it has been entirely too long without a real substantive post – so here is Tale of Tim. Enjoy.

Tale of Tim

2003-09-17T15:10:00.000-05:00

I have very little fear of this world, very few things that cause me any measurable amount of anxiety. Except, of course, the mild torture of forced subjection to a social misfit. There are very few mediums that exemplify this phenomena more than traveling on an airplane. Normally, my concern is getting stuck next to a small child that has not yet developed the sense of an indoor voice or the concept of invading personal space.* As luck would have it, there were no children to challenge my superhuman throttling restraint on this particular flight. Instead, God brought me Tim, and the following accounts the most accurate memory of everything that happened on the flight. Tim is in his mid-thirties, about five foot six with a normal build, a boyish face and a wide-mouthed grin that sports evenly gapped and yellowy stained teeth. He’s barreling down the aisle, sounding out an improperly familiar greeting to anyone that mistakenly makes eye contact with him. He’s wearing a hooded sweatshirt, red and faded, with a grungy once-was-white t-shirt peeking out from under his stubbly chin. Frumpy, unkempt hair is trying to escape out the sides and back of a very worn-in dull-orange baseball cap, as if running in terror from the horrors of what lay beneath. Dark khaki cut-offs, covered with white paint blotches and other miscellaneous stains and thick wool socks inside of brown hiking boots finish off his well constructed ensemble. His legs, wherever visible, are covered in scratches and scabs of varying geometries. He walks past my row, pausing just long enough to check the numbers above the seats and impart his eye-widening man essence onto my nostrils. It isn’t fecal or ureal in nature, nor is it typical of the Five Distinctions of Body Odor. ** Truthfully, I find it difficult to characterize the smell at all, but since I’m forced into it now, I’ll simply describe it as “unwashed human.” My theory is that the normally subtle smells of oily hair and dead skin cells were concentrated to scientific proportions, as if carefully grown in a petri dish under perfectly optimal conditions, incubated for 256 hours under fission heat lamps, and encased with a mold-ridden layer of man sweat. I have smelled worse things in my life, without a doubt, but never have I smelled something so confusing and so unique. If I were blindfolded as he walked by, I would have convinced myself it was the attendants serving an early yet expired dinner, consisting of an unnatural meat-like shape, bathed in a thick and soupy liquid that moved with a mercury-like sense of cohesion. Needless to say, I’m thankful he walks past my row, and wanting to forget about the entire experience, I bury my face back into my book. But from behind me I hear the following conversation. Tim: Excuse me. Excuse me. It looks like you’re in our seats. Woman Behind Me: No, no I don’t think so. I’ve got 32 right here. Tim: 32 is behind you. This is 31. This is my row. I’m quite sure. WBM: No, 31 is one row up. This is 32. See? (shows him her ticket stub) Tim: (laughing obnoxiously) Oh man! Whoops! Then comes Tim. Tim: Looks like you’re stuck with us. Can we squeeze in there? I’m Tim, this is Bonnie. He is with his girlfriend, whom I hadn’t noticed before much to my surprise. She is wearing a brown flannel shirt and overalls, has long curly brown hair and possesses no chin whatsoever. Slightly taller than Tim, she outweighes him by at least eighty pounds. My first impression of Bonnie is that she is doing her best to promote injured livestock rights on commercial airline flights, as she looks remarkably like a recently speared buffalo and reeks vaguely of miscellaneous farm constituents. I would say manure, but that would be too easy, and to be fair, not entirely accurate. It is more like a well balanced concoction of dirt, wet hay and chicken underwings. These are the two strangest smelling individuals I have ever come across. They sit down, Bonnie in the window and Tim in the middle (I was on the aisle), and promptly enter into what seems like a rehearsed ritual of situating. He helps her buckle her girth into the seat, she puts a pillow behind his neck, they both pull an immeasurable amount of fucking junk from their pockets and sprawl them all over their tray tables. Tissues, a pen, keys, pocket lint, a comb (a comb!), chapstick, two small water bottles, a pack of gum, and several other items of non-interest. Tim: Watcha reading there? Me: Catcher in the Rye. Tim: Oh ho ho. You know who read that doncha? Me: You? Tim: No, Mark David Chapman. You know who that is? Me: Yes. Tim: He killed John Lennon. I loved the Beatles. (confused) What you reading that for? School? Me: Nope, just for me. Tim: Really? Tim snatches up the pack of gum on the tray table, opens it and offers me a piece. No, thanks, really. He shrugs off my polite refusal and proceeds to unwrap each piece of gum and put them all into his mouth. He begins to knead the gum with his jaw, shifting the great weight from side to side with his quickly fatigued tongue, making god awful salivary smacking sounds as he fights the wad with everything he has. This goes on for about five minutes, at which point he looks somewhere between disappointed and defeated, and leans over to Bonnie to ask her if she “wants this gum.” She hesitates for a moment, but declines, and instead offers him a tissue which he promptly uses to wrap up the gumwad. He props it up on his tray table, proudly displaying it as though he has killed a mythological beast with his bare teeth. He looks satisfied and tired from the ordeal, so he puts his head back and closes his eyes. That makes me happy until I realize all this had happened before the plane had even taken off. Fifteen minutes later, Tim begins to stir in what can only be described as obvious discomfort. He barks out a couple of muffled grunts and his eyes wince tightly shut. My professional opinion is that his water recently broke. Bonnie, refusing to remove attention from her crossword puzzle, gives him a gentle three-tap on the shoulder and continues about her wordsmithing business. He lets out a great sigh now, forcing it slowly through his nose, and relaxes his body. He goes back to sleep shortly thereafter. The next ten minutes are uneventful. Then the drink cart comes along, and sensing its approach with some undocumented sixth sense, Tim jolts himself out of sleep and places his order with the attendant. Black coffee, please. I’m almost disappointed, as I know this entire episode is going to make a good story, and black coffee is horribly uninteresting. I was hoping he would ask for sugar water or slightly spoiled milk, but no, he’d just be having the black coffee for now. I can see the water vapor coming out of the drinking hole on the lid, but he decides to give his best Jordan-drinking-Gatorade impression and takes a giant thirst-quenching gulp from the cup. I can hear the flesh on his tongue begin to peel away. He looks in pain, but forces several more gulps down his gullet and sets the now half-empty coffee down on his tray table. Reaching into his pocket he pulls out a dip tin and molds a healthy portion between his gums and bottom lip using the first two fingers from each hand. This guy is vile, I think to myself, until I see him use the half-empty coffee as a spittoon for his tabaccy cud juice, at which point I upgrade his status to wretched. He continues the chewing and spitting for the next twenty minutes, when finally he decides he has had enough, spits the gagwad of chew into the coffee cup, flags down a flight attendant and says, “Thank you, I’m done with this.” The tray table goes up, and Tim decides it’s time for another nap. Only he needs to get more comfortable this time, so he removes his hiking boots, which didn’t bother me at first as I wholeheartedly agree that any type of shoes suck ass when you’re trying to get comfortable. What bothered me is when he decides the socks have to come off too, those thick ass dead-of-winter wool socks (it was April). You can only imagine my surprise and elation when taking off the wool socks reveals a pair of white tube socks underneath (one must be layered for airline travel). He takes those off too, and then takes each in turn to his nose, gives them a slight squeeze as if testing for density, and lays them on his lap, presumably for drying. Eyes close, and he’s out for another half hour. His socks fucking stink. There are now self-sustaining chemical reactions going on between the smells of the row, clumsily bouncing into one another like an aromatic square dance of Special Olympic medalists. I become enthralled in the book and forget about Tim, until about 45 minutes later when I get the inexplicable feeling of lurking, of eyes so intently focused on me that I can actually hear the dilation of pupils and stretching of lenses. I know he is reading over my shoulder, but I try my best to ignore it, hoping the lack of pictures in the book causes him to become clinically bored with me, forcing him into a state of dysphoria that ends with a re-branding of Bonnie with the Mark of Tim. But that isn’t happening, and after several long minutes of continued lurking and rereading the same paragraph countless number of times, I decide to look over my shoulder, and there is Tim, staring directly at me with an enormous and stained smile that smells of stale coffee and tobacco. Tim: You know you’ve read 134 pages since we’ve gotten on the plane? That’s crazy. That book must be good. Don’t go killing anyone now. He gets up for the bathroom, thanks me for moving, and I mistakenly look over at Bonnie as I sit back down. She is asleep, head tilted back against the window, mouth gaping wide open and drool glistening down her chin, only she doesn’t have a chin so it’s really her neck. I don’t know how long I‘m looking at her, obsessed by the horror of the site like a flipped car on the interstate, but time is most definitely altered from its normal passage, and I think myself lucky to have gained intimate first-hand knowledge of what it must have been like to look directly at Medusa. The rip in the fabric of space time is quickly stitched back together when I feel a tap on my right shoulder. Half-awake from the zombie-like trance I had only just recovered from, I instinctually glance behind me to the right, but no one was there. I look left and there is Tim with the stained smile that opens into righteous laughter. He sits back down in a very fidgety state, apparently still bored out of his mind, and he begins the desperate search for simple entertainment. Luckily, this time I was not the subject. Looking across me and the aisle, he sees a couple fumbling around with a video camera, and the perfect opportunity for his ADD satiation. Tim: (very loudly) Hey what kind of camera is that? How many megapixels? Poor Lady: The what? Are you talking to me? Tim: Yeah! How many megapixels does it have? Is it digital? PL: I’m sorry, I just got it. I don’t know what you mean. Tim: Well how much memory does it have? PL: I don’t know. (snappy) Listen, here’s the manual, want to just read it? Tim looked delighted. Tim: (still very loudly) Look honey they got this one, not the best choice – we wouldn’t get this one. Hey, hey can I see the camera? PL: Uhh… Tim: Oh come on, I just wanna see it. PL: Well…it’s just that it’s new…and… He reaches over me and grabs the camera from her, nearly dropping it onto the aisle floor. Tim: Yeah see here, honey, small screen. Not a lot of megapixels. Ok, here you go. You like it? The poor woman forcefully nods, and quickly turns away from Tim and towards her husband. They look like the captain just announced a bald eagle flew into one of the engines and they should immediately assume the crash position. I selfishly enjoy watching Tim’s wake of misery capsize someone else’s boat. A short time passes, and we begin our approach into Logan. I am nearly finished with my book, intent on completing it despite the distractions of the flight, when I see a bit of commotion out of the corner of my eye. It looks as though he is picking his nose rather forcefully; in fact, he is digging so deeply that I see him actually shift his weight to get a better angle or perhaps increased leverage. Then I hear him sigh, and he lets out a closed-mouth “uh oh.” He tilts his head back, my curiosity achieves new levels, and I look over to see a flowing stream of dark red blood running over his mouth, down his chin and onto his shirt. Bonnie, completely inanimate for the entire trip, is now instantly in a state of fucking panic. She frantically searches for a handkerchief or tissue in her purse, all the while shouting, “Oh god, squeeze it! Squeeze it!” which, as you can imagine, only draws more attention to the scene. Now let me make sure all of you appreciate the severity of the situation. This is by far the worst nose bleed I have ever seen. I’ve seen plenty of nosebleeds in my life, had many of them myself, but nothing was quite like this. And I’ve seen some pretty nasty nosebleeds. There are some, for instance, that come out looking black and chunky, huge clots of blood that look like you just lost a vital artery from your thigh. Others are much less offensive, but keep a steady trickle coming out for hours. You can go through an entire tissue box with one of those buggers. But this – this is something I had never seen before. There was so much blood, leaving his body at such a tremendous flow rate, I thought his nostrils might be the most perfect naturally-occurring venturi known to man. I was convinced he was going to pass out. Bonnie begins to really panic at this point and presses the attendant call button at least 17 times in rapid succession, a frenzy of blurred motion that reminds me vaguely of the best scenes from Shark Week. Tim’s shirt now looks like he took it off a German soldier. Flight Attendant: Sir, are you alright? Tim: I have a nosebleed. Can I go to the bathroom? FA: Umm…yes….? The surrounding seats’ passengers all have looks of sheer terror and disgust, an unfamiliar expression that probably hasn’t slapped their faces since they last watched the first ten minutes of Saving Private Ryan. They all make eye contact with me, deliberately, as if to say, “My God man, let me shake your hand and buy you a beer.” Tim comes back from the bathroom right before we land. He has a very large piece of bright red toilet paper stuffed up his nose. A small trickle of blood still works its way past the makeshift nostril dam, onto his upper lip, and Bonnie quickly wipes her thumb across it and then onto his shirt. Bonnie: (in a very audible whisper) You have to stop doing that, you know. Tim: I know. * Message to all you kindergarten teachers out there: forget fucking sharing, because it doesn’t stick; we’re Americans. That means greedy, lazy and selfish. You’ll have better luck curing jungle rot with a Q-tip and Robitussin. Instead, teach these little fucking terrors to keep their hands on their lap and their mouth shut. That’s it. You accomplish that, then maybe you’ll have some reason to complain about how underpaid you are as a teacher instead of the rest of the world complaining about how overpaid you are as a babysitter. No, no, I’m just kidding. *** ** Athlete, Hippie, Hobo, Old Man, and Foreigner *** No I’m not.

Empty Excuses for Being Lazy

2003-09-08T22:59:00.000-05:00

While technically I have more free time than most lottery-winning childless housewives, I have chosen to spend it enthralled with the new 50" high-definition television my roommate has procured rather than update this fucking site. Why? I mean, have you seen high-definition football? Ever hear of rediscovering your virginity? If you're a man, and you like to weep as openly as I do, you will understand where I'm coming from and do everything in your power to get one of these pieces of tangible fucking insanity. And if you're a woman, you are undoubtedly even more attracted to me now that you know how sensitive I am. Take a number, baby. They are next to the TV, sitting to the right of the widescreen Bridges of Madison County DVD and the picture of my adopted Ethiopian child, Bathumpa.

Football Observation Redemption

2003-09-08T22:44:00.000-05:00

Watching the game tonight... Me: If I were a ref, I'd definitely be the BJ. (silence) Me: Come on, it's like the ref equivalent of choosing number 69. (laughter...) (but more importantly, redemption.)

Updates coming

2003-09-02T08:50:00.000-05:00

Updates are coming. Been busy with work - writing a god awful paper, spewing forth technical laden vomit on virtually useless topics of mind-numbing unimportance. That's actually the title. I will add it to the collection of Things I am Glad Will Never Be Read. Also I am moving next weekend, which would normally be an exquisite excuse for lack of updates, but I've had 95% of my possessions in storage for the last 3 months so I really don't have much work to do before the move on Saturday. I will claim I have been mentally preparing for the move, however, which has taken complete fascist control of the 4 brain cells that remain after the Montreal trip.

Until We Blog Again

2003-08-19T19:00:00.000-05:00

Tomorrow morning it begins. Tomorrow morning marks the dawn of new beginnings, the unbridled upheaval of belligerence and debauchery, and the unsung glory of favorable currency exchange. Tomorrow morning, I leave for Montreal. When I return I shall spin you tales of drinking and bachelor parties, of bars with whores and whores with bars, of hitting on French speaking women and failing to sleep with them, and of peeing on myself in public places. Rest well before then, my sheep, for it may prove to be an unnerving experience. And Dave, I expect copious amounts of inappropriate tongue kissing. With the bride this time.

Great Approaches

2003-08-14T12:41:00.000-05:00

French accent: “Excuse me, might you tell me where can I find the casino? No casino? Connecticut? You see, this is what happens when you spend too much time in Monaco drinking Rothschild with the Grimaldis and betting two francs shy of a villa on Schumaker. I thought it embarrassing when I complimented Abdul Kalam on the Morin Khuur Orchestra, but this has left me feeling decidedly foolish. Well, mon cherie, I’ve got four hours to kill before my Taiwanese investors arrive at Logan to engage me in boorish man-talk. Are you feeling particularly charitable?”

Instructions for Breaking a Creative Slump

2003-08-12T11:07:00.000-05:00

Do not panic. Smoke at least three consecutive cigarettes while telling yourself things like, “you are the man,” and, “women will someday want you,” and, “Jesus loves you.” Psyche yourself up. Take large, loud and quick breaths through your nose. Bounce from foot to foot, and shake your arms at your sides to get the blood flowing. Grunt like a silverback ape protecting his territory. Use your closed fists to forcefully knock the sides of your head in unison. Write something unintelligible. Begin to panic. Go to a bookstore. Find a patron casually browsing the stacks, approach them but do not say anything. Smile, making sure both rows of your teeth are completely visible. Pickup a second copy of whatever they pull off the shelf, look at both covers and say: “Well it ain’t Sister Carrie.” Do this at least five times, or until the patron leaves. Describe their expressions in haiku form. Turn on the Discovery Channel. Wait for an episode of “Fangs.” Watch it. Later that evening, put on nothing but a loin cloth and paint your face with Native American fury. Drive to the nearest wooded area. Hike to the middle of the wooded area with a single candle, and lay on your back. Do not move for two hours. Be thankful you are not Martin Brest. Take out an English Muffin and lightly toast. Apply a healthy base coat of butter to the muffin, followed by peanut butter and strawberry jelly. On top of the jelly, add thin slices of ripened mango, fresh mozzarella and minced horseradish. Look at your creation. Briefly wonder what it would taste like. Reread the second paragraph of these instructions. Throw that fucking muffin away. Think about how incredibly hot it looks when women are in a hot tub and their boobs float on top of the water. This will do nothing to break the creative slump, but it will give you something to do. Consider nipple piercing. Then, when it becomes clear that nipple piercing involves piercing your nipple, consider something else, but before you do, write a sentence about why you wouldn’t pierce your nipple. Find a jovial person. Enjoy them. Grab a bic pen. Blue or black, never red. Place the pen in the middle of your kitchen table and have a seat. Look at the pen. Concentrate on the pen. Note its subtle curves, its manufactured perfection. Ponder how they imprint text onto the side of the pen. Now move that fucking pen with your mind! Challenge yourself to a meat eating contest. Do not lose. I suggest a Brazilian restaurant as they bring you an endless supply of meat on testosterone flaring skewers. When you begin to feel like you are digesting the meat in your esophagus, take a twenty second break. Meditate. Think of women’s boobs floating in hot tubs. Continue eating until the meat intoxication sets in. This will feel like a cross between conventional intoxication and eating too much meat. Everything will taste like iron for the next two weeks. Write a brief note classifying your stupidity. Use the words nocturnal, blithest, and olefinic. Stare at a blank Word document for fifteen minutes. Begin writing an anecdotal story interesting only to yourself. Use humorous metaphors and similes in a vain attempt to make the story interesting for other people. Realize the story still sucks and promptly close the document without saving. Write down instructions on what to do if you suck again in the future.

Scrawled on official looking letterhead

2003-08-06T21:01:00.000-05:00

Dear AD, Tonight, I have decided, will be slightly different. Whereas normally I’m a bearable annoyance, tonight I shall dress in my freshly pressed suit of Olfactory Terror and slowly, methodically circle your nose with a steaming plate of fungal rot and decay in mockingly butler-like fashion. Tears will not be enough to dispel my wrath, nor will removing my clammy, brine-encrusted sheathing that is the source of my power, as even the slightest touch of the Malignant Evil will impart its very putrescence onto your fingertips, spreading its festering tendrils onto all unsuspecting surfaces. There, colonies of rancid spawn shall flourish in horse-choking glory and lay waste to all that remain from the living. Lovingly, Your Feet

20 things that are difficult to understand

2003-08-05T13:40:00.000-05:00

Clay Aiken
Semicolons; their name, intent and usage
The existence of my blog
The musical journey that is a Trey Anastasio guitar solo
The attractiveness of lesbianism
Why more people haven’t heard of Ben Harper and Raymond Carver
The stock market
How the first metal mold was made
Inspiration
Non-Euclidian geometry and the fourth dimension of space
Bob Dylan
The illegality of pot
The meaning of the word incomprehensible
Not wanting to have sex
New Jersey
Why the “in” thing to do as a blogger, when laziness and apathy turn you into their Child of Cud, is to construct arbitrary lists with cryptic half-thoughts.
The Ottoman Empire
Drunken Scots
Why Korea and Japan get all the cool techy shit before us
The culinary glory of cheese, tomato sauce, and leavened crust.

Things that shouldn't be funny but are

2003-08-04T08:57:00.000-05:00

I Am a Consultant, Vol. I

2003-07-30T10:24:00.000-05:00

I am a consultant in a marginally interesting field of slightly technical proportions. For a lack of anything truly interesting to write about, I will brief you on the concept of a consultant as it exists in a medium-sized corporate environment, and how it can be one of the most tragically annoying of all employments. Because of my job’s consulting nature, I must fill out a timesheet twice a month, accounting for each and every hour of the 80+ I was working. For each block of time I charge to a project, I must put a short yet descriptive comment in the appropriate field. This comment is never read by anyone. When I am done filling out my timesheet, I must bring it to the receptionist for her to check its accuracy. This is an important step. As the receptionist, she is intimately aware of what everyone should be charging to. Curiously, she has never found an error with anyone’s timesheet. All this is not a big deal really - though it does bare a distant relational significance to working in a refurbished toilet seat factory and punching in your timecard on your way out to your 1982 Datsun and house of seven. The timesheet really isn’t of concern when you’re busy with billable work though; it just becomes another pesky gnat of the workplace, like the ageing guy from the other side of the building with the Just-for-Men beard and Harley hair that MUST spend an hour each and every week telling you about his latest babe-o-chick from the internet. It’s when you’re suffering from a lack of billable work that the timesheet causes your palms to sweat, ulcers to flourish in their all of their peptic wonder, and bowels to loosen to such an extreme that people in the stall next to you have to ask, out of sincere concern and human decency, if you need paramedic assistance. There are only two things to do in response to a lack of billable work such as this: actively help bring in additional work and charge to the Business Development account, or twiddle your nuts and charge to the lovingly named Unassigned Time. As an employee of The Company, I am held (somewhat) personally responsible for my billability to clients, although they will never admit that to you. If I do not remain billable for an extended period of time, they could leave a pink slip in my locker. The pretty boy from marketing did that to me as a joke once, so I slept with his wife. If I don’t show near 100% billability for the past year’s employment, my annual salary increase can be significantly affected, even if my performance has been stellar, which it always is because my technical abilities and occupational ingenuities are rivaled only by my mythological beauty and Olympian penmanship. I am very versatile at work and relatively cheap compared to my colleagues, so UT is generally never a problem for me. But as the economy would have it, work’s flowing slower than a menopausal prostitute, and I happened to have fifteen hours – out of the 88 shown on the timesheet – that were charged to Unassigned Time, because I was not charged with any specific task of any specific project. The other day, I get back from lunch and listen to my voicemail: Bossman (voicemail): AD, call me back when you get back from lunch. We need to talk about your Unassigned Time charges. Thanks. Later, knocking on Bossman’s office door: Me: You wanted to talk about my UT? Bossman: Yeah. Fifteen hours of UT? You have plenty of things to do, why are you charging to UT? Me: Well actually, in that e-mail I wrote to you last week, I told you I was running out of billable work. I even explained it in completely monosyllabic words – which, ironically enough, was quite a challenge and gave me something to do – so as to avoid any confusion or unnecessary ambiguities. Bossman: You shouldn’t be charging to UT, I mean not fifteen hours. That’s a lot of time. I mean, what were you doing for those fifteen hours anyway? Me: I have no recollection of those fifteen hours in particular, but I can say with some limited amount of assurance that it had nothing to do with work. Bossman: You can’t just charge to Unassigned Time willy nilly. Unassigned Time is for when you have absolutely nothing to do. Me: Ok, but I legitimately had nothing to do. My time was unassigned to any specific project, hence the Unassigned Time charges. Was this not right? Have I wronged you, good sir? Bossman: Fifteen hours? I mean, the UT account is no slush fund, you know. Me: Yeah, that’s entirely my bad. I completely misunderstood the function of the ambiguously confusing concept of Unassigned Time. In truth I WANTED to charge fifteen hours to it; my loins were aching at the chance to show my temporary worthlessness to the firm. And say, while we’re on the topic of Meaningless Sayings with Condescending Inflections, we should talk about my relatively meager salary for the abilities I bring the firm. I mean, shit man, you’ve got to realize I’m as underpaid as a worm sitting shotgun in whore’s humvee! Bossman: You need to go to Accounting and have them change the charges to the Business Development account. Me: Business Development? Really though, I was doing nothing of the sort. In fact, my general lethargy has created a wonderfully haphazard layout of office belongings and has probably angered the gods of feng shui, metaphysically repelling new work from coming into the office. Is there a work order for that? These are the types of conversations I have to deal with. It’s not shoveling steaming piles of llama shit into an undersized plastic bag, but it sucks nonetheless. So for those of you that have the luxury of working a salaried job and not having to fill out a timesheet every two goddamn weeks and deal with paranoid bosses that speak in tongues and frequently contridict themselves like they're part of some sociological collegiate experiment, I hail to you an official fuck you. Your luxury is my misery.

A Sad Realization

2003-07-29T19:20:00.000-05:00

It’s sad when you realize the closest you’ve come to sex in the past [embarrasing length of time] is a haircut by a slender Asian woman named Pei.

Interesting Historical Sidenotes of Marginal Truth

2003-07-29T09:26:00.000-05:00

During the 16th century, most people got married in June because they took their yearly bath in May and still smelled pretty good. Relatively. They were ripening at an exponential rate, however, so brides carried a bouquet of flowers to hide the body odor. Hence the custom today of carrying a bouquet when getting married. Baths consisted of a big tub filled with hot water. Very different than baths of today. The man of the house had the privilege of the clean water, then all the other sons and men, the women and finally the children - last of all the babies. By then the water was so dirty you could actually lose someone in it. Hence the saying, "Don't throw the baby out with the bath water."

Other Interesting News...

2003-07-24T12:41:00.000-05:00

I never intended to sub-report on the myriad of quasi-interesting news bits floating around out there, but this one caught the attention of my post-lunch digestive state of inebriation in that geeky 2 am discovery channel sort of way. Using advanced endoscopic photography techniques developed by researchers of Harvard University, Taiwanese doctors capture cervical snapshots of the birth of the world's smallest full-term baby.

Disjointed Thoughts from the Circus of Idiosyncratic Sideshows

2003-07-21T17:07:00.000-05:00

No one knows what he is chewing on, but it is something. He is doing it in such a way that it gives the impression of a grouper cleaning its teeth, and it is leaving specs of black on his lips. There is a muffled clicking sound from his mouth. The bits stain his tongue. People are wincing, but he does not notice or seem to care. I ignore it until the black specs work their way to his throat and make him cough them all over my papers. Oh jeez sorry, he says. I have to stop doing that. He picks up the small black specs and makes a neat pile in front of himself. The voice on the speakerphone asks, What was that? There is a silence, then he continues talking about substations and switchgear. What. The. Fuck.

Tales of Fearghus, the First Photographer

2003-07-17T14:00:00.000-05:00

Journal Entry, September 21, 1522 – Scotland It has been a week since I first discovered the device. I do not know of its true origins, but I have suspicions it is not of this world. While its purpose here is still unclear to me, it feels decidedly evil. Its geometry is not unlike a small jewelry box, only it has neither a discernible opening nor any apparent internal possessions. I shake the object, but it makes no sound. It is composed of a strange material, not unlike polished metal, but its weight and texture are more similar to that of wood. It has what I can only describe as a convex glass eye on one side, but looking through it into the very middle of the device shows me nothing but blackness. It is truly an enigmatic piece, and I have never seen its equal. It was not until this day that I became cognizant of its demonic powers. How my hand trembles as I write this! In my futile hopes of comprehending the purpose of this device, and saving the souls of man and beast alike, I must write down everything that happened today; perhaps someone more intelligent than I will be able to decipher the meaning and nature of what happened. Shortly before dusk I went to the shore of the lake to mull over my discovery. I held it in my hands as I looked across the waters, running my fingers across its strange angles, hoping the serenity of the lake would remove the shroud of confusion and mystery from my weary head. Where did this device come from? How had it come to be in my possession? What is its purpose? So many unanswered questions! I fear I may go mad before the satiation of my curiosities. It was then that I saw him approach the edge of the water. He was a burly man, with long mousy hair pressed thin against his scalp, and flowing red robes with the German marks of Agrippa. He held an object in his hand, a thick and cylindrical wedge of wood unfamiliar to my eyes. He then kneeled on the sand, closed his eyes and held out the object from his chest as to offer it to an unknown God of the sea, and remained motionless in the posture for great length. Then, without warning, he jumped from his knees with a quickness defying his large frame and threw the object with an inhuman strength into the very middle of the lake! As it touched the surface of the water there was an audible moan echoing throughout the land and a sudden plume of water and smoke erupted toward the sky! He raised his arms and shouted against the madness of the spray! Great beast of the Shallow, I beseech thee! Awaken from thy slumber! Rise up from the tit of the sea and bellow your song of mighty pleasure! Instill thy phallic might upon this simple totem, and wallow in the resounding dildonic joy of our women! You cannot believe what I saw then! The land had known clear skies before he spoke, and as the words left his throat, great swirling and luminous clouds formed above the waters and began to bellow their displeasure with massive waves of thunder. Gusts of forceful winds approached from the west, ripping flora from the earth and throwing it to the sky with unrivalled force. And there, in the middle of the lake, the water trembled in growing circles and up from the depths emerged the behemoth! A giant beast with skin of iron and a neck that must span 50 feet! Its hulking form sprang from the water, bearing its jagged teeth and thrashing with a demonic rage! And in its mouth was the wooden object, now glowing red with the fury of a thousand gods! He released the object from his grip, and it sailed through the air, back to the shoreline where the burly man waited with arms outstretched. There he caught the thing, now no longer glowing red but crackling the air with anticipatory wakes of raw energy! I fell to the ground in my awestruck state, and I lost my grip on the device. It hit the ground with a slight crack and faint whirring sound, just before my head hit a rock and stole the consciousness from me. By the time I had wakened, the man was gone and the beast had retreated back to the confines of the sea. Panic struck me like a knife as I thought the device was taken from me, but there it was at my feet, turned on its side where it had left me. And then I saw what this instrument of evil had done! There, lying to its side was a small piece of wax parchment with an image on its front – a ghastly image! Behold the power of this evil! It has captured the very soul of the man and beast, and try as I might I cannot release them!

I blame the little people

2003-07-14T18:43:00.000-05:00

I have a lot of things I'd like to tell you about. The Peruvian waitress from Jersey with the russet eyes and perfect breasts that I made love to on the diner counter after a Friday closing. Or the real reason my girlfriend of three years and I came to an end was because I found her in bed, unclothed, sweaty and hoarse, with our next door neighbor, the Organic Chemistry TA that had only just given me the first F of my life. Or instead about the time my car broke down near the Mississippi bar, "Ladonna's Ivory-4-Ebony Palace" during my post-collegiate cross-country adventure and I had to bare knuckle my way through an illegal ring fight to pay for a new alternator because I was out of cash. And most of all, I'd love to tell you that it's been the better part of 17 years since I've peed on myself. But I can't in good conscience, you see, because none of those things are true. I know what you're thinking. We all get a little trickle when we get our drink on, when the bathroom is way over there, and when we're laughing at the sailor in the corner of the bar that looks like Screech. We wouldn't write about it in a public forum, nor willingly admit it to even our closest of confidents if possible, but nonetheless it happens. While that is most undoubtedly true, that's not what I'm talking about. Let me clarify. You're sober. You're in public. And you've got your very own pee on your very own pants. And while you may think to yourself this is a practical impossibility for a healthy adult of 24 years of age, bare with me and you'll see I'm not the freak you think I am. I blame the little people. More accurately perhaps, the blame should be bestowed on the accommodating nature of modern society, but that won't make for as interesting a column, and I'll drive more traffic to the site using the phrase "little people" as often as possible. At this point I should clarify that when I use the phrase "little people" I do not limit the meaning to those with a specific genetic condition. Any abnormally small person will do, as my intention is not to discriminate within their little people ranks. My office seems to accommodate the longitudinal inadequacies of these little people more than what I would consider an appropriate amount, especially considering it is a small office and we have no little people working here. The desks and chairs sit a bit low, you have to keg stand to get a drink from the bubbler, and we open our office doors with our feet. But none of those things bother me. What bothers me is the little people urinal in the bathroom. Even before the incident I felt as though I were peeing on my shoes when I used that thing. I probably was, but shoe pee doesn't count unless you're wearing sandals. It was the end of the day when it happened, thankfully. I was immediately put out, upon walking into the bathroom, to discover someone else already using the big boy pisser. I could have taken the road less traveled and gone in a stall, but I do have a reputation to keep. Number one in a stall is really only acceptable if the urinals are taken, or if you have a freakishly small penis. I'm excited to think how many hits that last sentence will get me. So I used the little guy. The urinal I mean. And of course, as things would turn out, just as I zipped down, the gentleman on the other side of the privacy wall zipped up, turned around and sent back a mule-kick elbow into the flusher handle. I thought, for a brief moment, to quickly switch to the big boy pisser and truly enjoy the bliss of carefree urination, but I couldn't do that. That is also a faux pas of proper men's room etiquette, and I had a reputation to keep. You see, with the little people urinal you've got to take aim. You've got to line up your shot, give it the old one eye and stick out your tongue, maybe even give a little test shot and a pinch if you're feeling particularly skittish about missing. This is the beauty of normal urinals that women don't understand. No aiming required. You are, for all intents and purposes, peeing on the wall. Which is usually what we accomplish whenever we go, but with this we're doing something right. And that feels good. The little people urinal, by contrast, is way down by the floor, and our aim, much like firearms, is really dependant on the length of the barrel. Some of us have more trouble than others, but the most important part is to keep your eye on the target no matter what caliber you're using. Else you significantly increase the chance of friendly fire. It had been a long day, so as I took aim and did my thing, I gave myself a stretch and look at the ceiling. After several seconds of enjoying the pre-commute pee, something went horribly wrong. I heard something. A slight change in pitch, almost imperceptible, but clearly not right. I remember thinking, "That sounds strange," and looking down to see the stream ricocheting off the top lip of the urinal and onto my thigh. The horror of the situation made itself known when the vice president strolled into the bathroom and took up arms next to me. I had just finished my tour of duty, with the battle scars to prove it, but how was I supposed to leave the comforts of the privacy wall and risk him seeing the spoils of a botched urination attempt? I couldn't obviously, so I did what any other self-respecting grown man would do in my situation. I stood there, pretending to pee. Only pee should make noise (a specific noise, not that horror I heard) and there was no such thing coming from my side of the wall. I was becoming uneasy as the silence wore on. And this guy really had to piss. I mean, really. I thought hours may have passed but my khakis were still showing the desert fatigue look, and I was beginning to panic. He finished without episode though. And as he said his farewell with a nod and a brief look, he left the bathroom, and immediately on cue with the door closing came the Mission: Impossible theme from the ceiling speakers. I had to get out, and fast, but without being seen. And that goddamn urinal was going to self-destruct in thirty seconds. The stairway was only about 20 feet away from the bathroom, but that might as well be 200 feet when you have pee on your pants. I couldn't risk peeking out the doorway to see if anyone was there, else it would arise suspicion if they saw me. I realized the foolishness of the entire situation, so I just took a deep breath and once again did as any self-respecting grown man would do. I fucking bolted. If there was anyone out there, all they were going to see was a flash of urine laden fury. They may find it really strange and question me about it tomorrow, but tomorrow was another day, and most definitely another pair of pants. Both fortunately and unfortunately, there were no encounters between the bathroom and my car, so here the comedy and tragedy of the story ends. Remember, children, while I'm sure you are taking great pleasure in conjuring the image of a grown man with pee on his pants, someday you will be of normal height and susceptible to these dangers of the office place. Please take heed. Better yet, use the stall.

It all makes sense now

2003-07-10T22:04:00.000-05:00

I always thought it strange of myself, while lying in bed at night surrounded by the dichotomy of silent darkness and shrieking ears, to get inimitable masturbatory pleasures from the images of enigmatic human achievements. I was concerned for a great while about the sanity of my actions, and on several occasions convinced myself of a unique and unnatural bond between the sexual and iconographic constituents of my subconscious. For years I drifted through an isolated existence, an amoeba with puppet-stringed flagella trying desperately to find the keeper of the crosses and put reason to the insatiable infatuation. Tonight, amongst the great dichotomy of the night, I shall grab hold with the confidence of a thousand armies and unleash an unspeakable terror on my bed sheets.

The Gift

2003-07-07T15:30:00.000-05:00

I’d like to think I have an above average ability to grasp simple concepts derived from common sense. Let’s call it the “Gift.” I realize not everyone has the Gift. In fact, I consider myself very fortunate to have the Gift, and I sympathize with those that were not born with or have acquired the Gift at some point in their lives. I also realize those without the Gift have extreme difficulty understanding simple concepts clarified by the Gift, and in some rare instances will actually dispute the validity of the conclusions derived by a Giftholder. Let’s take a completely hypothetical example, say, an ATM shredding your card because it had trouble reading it. “That’s crazy,” you say, “An ATM would just spit it out and tell you it couldn’t read it.” If you found yourself thinking this very thing at the completely hypothetical and ridiculous situation I just spontaneously conjured up, or if you find yourself agreeing with the statement now, you may indeed have the Gift yourself (although I make no assurances as the Gift is a very rare and special thing). Even though I have expressed the deficiency in basic comprehension skills for the Giftless, I’ll attempt to explain the ludicrousness of the previous hypothetical example in futile hopes of passing along a Gift to someone without. If an ATM was unable to correctly process the information contained on the back of an ATM card, one could surmise a number of different reasons as to the machine’s inability to extract the data it needed. 1. The ATM card was damaged, demagnetized, scratched, or otherwise unreadable. 2. The particular ATM in question was unable to read the card due to faulty design and/or operation. In either of these cases, it would seem almost logical for the machine to simply return the card to its owner, perhaps with a mild apology and a cartoon frowny face. You see, if this hypothetical situation were ever to occur, certainly the ATM would have no certainty as to the reason for its inability to read the card. It would make sense, therefore, for the ATM to make the more conservative assumption of its own faulty operation, and return the card to the owner. Keeping the card would make the assumption that it was damaged in some way, and since the ATM doesn’t posses that particular ability, the absurdity of the completely hypothetical situation shines its way through the window of the Giftful intellect. For those of you still confused as to why it would be illogical for an ATM to keep a card after its own inability to read account information contained on the magnetic stripping, all I can say is maybe someday a jolly old fat-bellied elf will put something truly special in your stocking. In the meantime, enjoy your insightful conversations with corporate executives, politicians and religious fanatics, and take comfort in the fact that there are others just like you.

Re: Thanks for the Response!

2003-06-27T12:36:00.000-05:00

From: morgan_061_ewing@hotmail.com To: AD@hotmail.com Subject: Thanks for the response! Date: Thursday, June 26, 2003 6:17 PM Hey, I received your message. I am flattered that you responded! I think the best way to start things off is to tell you a little about myself! I am a very outgoing girl, that loves meeting new people and experiencing everything at least one time. I am not a materialistic girl and I do not ask for much, I think that is one of my best qualities. I do not want to come off, or sound like an easy girl but I am looking to definitely become intimate with you once we get to spend some time together! So if you are still interested in what I have to offer, or if you want to have an experience you will never forget, then get in touch with me ASAP! Here are some of my pics I have attached, hope you like them? I would really like to get together, but like I said we need to spend some time together and I need to see what you look like. Give me a call if you want, my number is right above my personal email address on the 3rd page of my site. I hope we can get together soon! My pics are at : http://lonelyclicks.com/morgan/me2/ xoxo, Morgan P.S. If you have any pics I'd love to see them. Send them to my personal address on my site, that way I'll definitely get them. I hope to hear from you soon, hopefully before the weekend!! Dear Morgan, I’m sorry to inform you this e-mail seems to have arrived in my inbox by some freak internet occurrence. The download lines must have been crossed somewhere. You’d think they’d have figured out how to fix that by now! (haha) Really, I never sent you an original e-mail, but I did reply to this one. I’m writing this to you on my website because you haven’t responded to my e-mail reply and it is almost the weekend (I attached my pics, but your e-mail didn’t have any (just so you know)), and I want to make sure the lines weren’t crossed on your end too (wink - haha). Hopefully you will see this. I tried to navigate your website, but I’m really not very good with the mouse (don’t worry!) so I was unable to get your phone number. Anyways! Maybe you will do a search on the world wide web for me and it will lead you here. That would be great! But if not I will continue to e-mail you (with pics attached). We will catch up, I am sure but probably not before this weekend! Doh! Don’t be lonely! (haha) -AD

First our elderly, now our chipmaker profits

2003-06-26T09:08:00.000-05:00

I don't claim to be an expert on technology, virology or the complicated interdependencies of capitalist economics, but some excuses for falling victim to bad profit forecasts and a relatively unpredictable economy are questionable. INT. EXECUTIVE BOARD ROOM - MORNING Suit #1: Ok, everyone. It looks like our second-quarter revenue forecast was overstated by $100 million. I want to know what happened. Suit #2: The anticipated global sales improvement in the month of June did not materialize. Suit #1: (nodding) Good. Do we know why? What didn't we account for in our forecasting model? A small and slender man, with a receding hairline and beads of sweat on his brow clutches a briefcase to his chest and slowly starts to rock back and forth in his chair. Suit #3: We accounted for everything. Economic downturn, market instability, EverQuest 2. I can't see how our model was off by so much. The small and slender man, breathing loudly and forcing his saliva down his throat, stands up suddenly. Sweatyman: Is there no end to the madness?! It's been right there in front of us! Open your eyes, sheep! Don't you see it? The very beast that stalks our elderly and Asian brethren has reached its tendrils into the very fabric of our existence and emerged with the riches of our people! It's SARS, sheep! It has come for our lives and left with our profits! All is lost! The board room, stunned into silence, watches the little man run from the room screaming and collectively nods its head in agreement.

The Beginning of the End

2003-06-24T19:25:00.000-05:00

I think a lot about what rules govern good writing. Punctuation, Diction. Grammer. And never composing fragments or starting a sentence with a conjunction. After all, if you can't pluck each and every sentence from a passage and have it show the ability to stand by itself, you've just given birth to the two-headed baby of prose. Shame on you. Ultimately, of course, good writing limits itself to no such rules, where run-on sentences can recklessly frolic through the text of a page and punctuation shows itself in, the most inappropriate of places like a forced simile in an otherwise well constructed sentence. Structure, remember, is just a means to an end. What we really search for is the defining characteristic of all good writing, not necessarily how to achieve good writing, because good writing comes with practice and from talent, and a piece of good writing should never be a carbon copy of its predecessors in neither form nor content. “So, what is this defining characteristic, handsome?” she asks playfully as her slender fingers delicately trace the rim of her wineglass. It’s the power of creative thought propagation, my dear, and since when have thoughts been bound by such a strict regiment as grammar? Not since the Third Reich, and although there are the inevitable devotees unwilling to let the fat lady sing off that regime, we have to assume their collective comprehension skills rival only that of a recently decapitated chicken, in which case there is no room for creative thought over the deafening sound of flapping wings. That’s another important point. If you’re going to egregiously insult, insult the mentally challenged with large words. No fear of repercussion. The question still remains, though. We can accept the fact that good writing should impose on itself only the bare minimum of rules, only the guidelines that make creative thought propagation easier for the target audience, but certainly it must adhere to some sort of structure else we’d be inventing a new written form of the English language that no one would understand. On the other hand, we should strive to achieve some amount of intellectual challenge to the reader else they may as well just read religious pamphlets and Literature for Dummies. I think about what rules govern good writing because, much like many of you, I wish to reign supreme and rock your socks off. Actually, I think about it because I have nothing better to do. Ironically, I was going to have this post be on a completely different topic, but I couldn’t think of anything good to write about. So why not start this blog off with one of my biggest insecurities? And here we are. The point is that rules bother me when talking about an outlet for creative expression. The more rules that are in place, no matter how good their intentions may be, the less creative space we have to work with. We end up concentrating on form and structure so completely that we forget why we’re even writing in the first place. Don’t we end up praising the people that find a way to creatively break the mold and throw convention out the window? Unless they write for a a religious pamphlet then of course we do. We want to be intellectually challenged, academically bettered, and spiritually enlightened. We want to be entertained. We do not want to marvel over proper predicate placement or cheap means of grabbing one’s attention like gratuitous use of alliteration. We want to read about things we’ve never experienced, things we hope to experience and things we hope we never experience. Things we hope we have hoped to experience in the hope of some experienced and hopelessness enlightenment. That is the proper way to outdo an awkward sentence. The word hope has lost all meaning to me. Sometimes our search leads us to moped literature; fun to read but we’d never admit it to anyone. Sometimes we force ourselves to read a particular piece of literature because some booklist tells us it’s the best damn thing out there. And we choke through all 550 pages of it. Sometimes we actually read the articles in Playboy. We will continue this exhausting search for literary satiation until Apollo himself spits enough ambition in our eyes to create the very thing we’re searching for. Maybe I’ve finally reached that point. Maybe this nonsensical pseudo-essay has some fatalistic purpose that will set in motion a chain of events that result in me achieving the Most Powerful Being in the Universe title that I so desire. And maybe no one will ever read this but me. “Yeah but what makes for good writing?” she asks, smiling with anticipation. Don’t look at me for the answers, sweetheart, I’m posting this on blogspot.com for Christ’s sake. I will leave you with this though. I’d like to believe that good writing is like a beautiful woman. You know it when you see it, but you haven’t a clue why, and as soon as your eyes become cognizant of the sight, something in you irrevocably changes.