Here's a little something I knocked up over in the lab on the weekend. Something to keep the barbarians away from the gate.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Thursday, June 19, 2008
TLASITSH
Sydney got itself one of those Apple stores. People lined up over night to be one of the first admitted to the white palace of Apple. The temple of Apple, crafted from pure white. Not white coloured materials, white. A large block of solid white was airlifted into place and craftsmen in dark goggles carved a store out of it. Reporters cruised the line talking to the freezing geeks when suddenly word spread one fellow had come all the way from America for the opening! Well sir they found him and said “Sir we understand you came all the way from America to be here” and the man said in fluent American “Uh, no. I came from Brisbane.” And the shaken reporter said hopefully “But you are American though right?” and the man said “No, Canadian actually… from Brisbane. Sorry.” But the reporter wasn’t beat and reminded us that, even if no Americans were there, it was still the Largest- Apple- Store- In- The- Southern- Hemisphere. So there.
They depend on that a lot here. Australia has the tallest wooden train trestle in the Southern hemisphere, the largest uranium mine, the biggest sheep station, the most fucked up version of English. Lots of stuff.
It’s a crafty move. What else have you got this side of the equator? South Africa? Brazil? The rest of the countries are what they call ‘developing’. It’s like at school kids don’t ‘fail’ anymore, now they are just marked ‘yet to achieve’. The rest of the hemisphere is ocean except for Antarctica which, as far as I know, has no wooden train trestles at all. Perhaps further inland but I doubt it.
I’m quite sure some Aussies don’t actually believe in the northern hemisphere at all. A mystical land where they have Christmas in the winter and there’s a country where almost all the people speak French. French! Maybe in books written by artsy people from Melbourne, but not for real.
It’s the same inferiority-compensation that Canadians are good at. America may have the world’s strongest economy (well it used to be), the most powerful armed forces, the latest in technology but Canada, Canada has the world’s longest coastline you know. Yeah.
But they know it’s lame and that’s why Canadians are apologising for not being Americans in front of The Largest Apple Store In The Southern Hemisphere.
They depend on that a lot here. Australia has the tallest wooden train trestle in the Southern hemisphere, the largest uranium mine, the biggest sheep station, the most fucked up version of English. Lots of stuff.
It’s a crafty move. What else have you got this side of the equator? South Africa? Brazil? The rest of the countries are what they call ‘developing’. It’s like at school kids don’t ‘fail’ anymore, now they are just marked ‘yet to achieve’. The rest of the hemisphere is ocean except for Antarctica which, as far as I know, has no wooden train trestles at all. Perhaps further inland but I doubt it.
I’m quite sure some Aussies don’t actually believe in the northern hemisphere at all. A mystical land where they have Christmas in the winter and there’s a country where almost all the people speak French. French! Maybe in books written by artsy people from Melbourne, but not for real.
It’s the same inferiority-compensation that Canadians are good at. America may have the world’s strongest economy (well it used to be), the most powerful armed forces, the latest in technology but Canada, Canada has the world’s longest coastline you know. Yeah.
But they know it’s lame and that’s why Canadians are apologising for not being Americans in front of The Largest Apple Store In The Southern Hemisphere.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
the further adventures of Muleshoes
That’s something nobody saw coming. Globalization has been heavily protested, often violently, for years. Fears of a world where a few mega-corporations control what we consume, how we live. Sort of an Orwellian Big Brother but with attractive packaging and a catchy slogan. Those are the concerns but of course things never work out the way we predict otherwise, according to 1950’s estimates, we should all be flying around in atomic-powered Cadillac’s by now.
Seems people around the world are starting to get a tad upset over fuel prices and governments and corporations are getting nervous. Of course in a global economy you also have global-size consumers and those consumers are not used to taking shit from business. When you get a whole country-full pissed off it has a lot more power than some guy sending back his soup (never send food back, are you mental? I’ve worked in kitchens). If you get several countries pissed off, well, I’m not sure anybody knows just what would happen. Business does not like uncertainty. Governments do not like uncertainty. Some dogs do not like thunder.
Just to complete the list.
In Greece the residents of the island of Lesbos are in court trying to get women-who-prefer-to-do-their-own-carpentry to stop calling themselves Lesbians. Except the gay residents of the island which are of course already Lesbians, like everybody else living there. Even the children are little bright-eyed Lesbians, learning Lesbian history in their little Lesbian schools. There’s even a Lesbian McDonalds, but anybody can go.
Make up your own fillet-o-fish jokes.
The best my spell check could come up with for McLesbos was ‘muleshoes’. I dunno either, I guess like horseshoes but stockier and sterile.
Sounds like the indigenous sidekick in a 50’s matinee western.
“Train come soon.”
“Good job Muleshoes, how can you tell? Subtle vibrations on the tracks?”
“No. Is almost four-o-clock. Dickhead.”
Seems people around the world are starting to get a tad upset over fuel prices and governments and corporations are getting nervous. Of course in a global economy you also have global-size consumers and those consumers are not used to taking shit from business. When you get a whole country-full pissed off it has a lot more power than some guy sending back his soup (never send food back, are you mental? I’ve worked in kitchens). If you get several countries pissed off, well, I’m not sure anybody knows just what would happen. Business does not like uncertainty. Governments do not like uncertainty. Some dogs do not like thunder.
Just to complete the list.
In Greece the residents of the island of Lesbos are in court trying to get women-who-prefer-to-do-their-own-carpentry to stop calling themselves Lesbians. Except the gay residents of the island which are of course already Lesbians, like everybody else living there. Even the children are little bright-eyed Lesbians, learning Lesbian history in their little Lesbian schools. There’s even a Lesbian McDonalds, but anybody can go.
Make up your own fillet-o-fish jokes.
The best my spell check could come up with for McLesbos was ‘muleshoes’. I dunno either, I guess like horseshoes but stockier and sterile.
Sounds like the indigenous sidekick in a 50’s matinee western.
“Train come soon.”
“Good job Muleshoes, how can you tell? Subtle vibrations on the tracks?”
“No. Is almost four-o-clock. Dickhead.”
Ahhh Muleshoes, you’re the greatest.
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Gitmo awarded Best Offshore Military Torture Prison by Shackle Magazine.
I know a guy who’s one of those big time TV writers. Family-values type drama with a serrated edge, that’s his bag. If he wrote the Brady Bunch it would be much the same except Mike Brady would have a colostomy bag because their old dog chewed out his small intestine while he lay passed out for nine days after putting out a Valium® fire and inhaling the fumes. Valium is quite flammable. They used to fire the old trans-Atlantic steam ships on raw valium if they were attempting a record crossing. The practice was halted after the Titanic fell asleep (it’s the fumes are the problem) and hit an ice-berg.
But me, I don’t write like that. I don’t have any stories, can’t think of any. Not the kind with traditional subjects like people and places, a plot. I could write about a bucket handle, or an ant’s left back leg, or the particular odour of a particular winter afternoon in 1988 (light, clear, a little like soap). And two pages is getting wordy for those sorts of things. How anyone writes a whole novel or play or TV series or progressive rock concept album, I cannot grasp.
If you make it short enough and obscure enough you can call it a poem. I’ve written hundreds of poems, but I don’t get poetry. Can’t read other’s poetry, it’s like hearing someone describe to you their dream. It’s only interesting to them. I read a poem once in university called “Ode To A Grecian Urn”, pretty straightforward, you’d think, obviously the guy had a thing for pottery. But no, turns out it’s not about Grecian urns at all. No, it’s all symbolic and shit.
So who knows what the fuck it means except the guy who wrote it and maybe not him either. A lot of poets were opium addicts or homosexuals, both of which can be prone to absentmindedness. This is also the reason they don’t get to be president. Ok, that’s not true. There are other reasons too. When you call up Gitmo to see how the torture’s going, you don’t want any flowery bullshit, you want facts and figures. Save the iambic pentameter for when you got to explain wars and such.
But me, I don’t write like that. I don’t have any stories, can’t think of any. Not the kind with traditional subjects like people and places, a plot. I could write about a bucket handle, or an ant’s left back leg, or the particular odour of a particular winter afternoon in 1988 (light, clear, a little like soap). And two pages is getting wordy for those sorts of things. How anyone writes a whole novel or play or TV series or progressive rock concept album, I cannot grasp.
If you make it short enough and obscure enough you can call it a poem. I’ve written hundreds of poems, but I don’t get poetry. Can’t read other’s poetry, it’s like hearing someone describe to you their dream. It’s only interesting to them. I read a poem once in university called “Ode To A Grecian Urn”, pretty straightforward, you’d think, obviously the guy had a thing for pottery. But no, turns out it’s not about Grecian urns at all. No, it’s all symbolic and shit.
So who knows what the fuck it means except the guy who wrote it and maybe not him either. A lot of poets were opium addicts or homosexuals, both of which can be prone to absentmindedness. This is also the reason they don’t get to be president. Ok, that’s not true. There are other reasons too. When you call up Gitmo to see how the torture’s going, you don’t want any flowery bullshit, you want facts and figures. Save the iambic pentameter for when you got to explain wars and such.
I wish I was a gangsta rapper
I wish I was a hip-hop star
I wish I was a short sharp jab
That went a bit too far
I would cast my head in gold
I would cast my feet in clay
I would catch me all them sinners
Come round on judgement day
I wish I was a bill collector
High on life and rum
An inter-dimensional corrector
Doer of things un-done
All the world could follow
My antics on TV
Watch me fix the fixers
Balanced on my knee
Until I grew weary
Indistinguishable from insane
Encouraging bacteria
To feed upon my brain
I wish I was a gangsta rapper
In a gold plated car
A super techno DJ
Admired from afar
Friday, May 30, 2008
Not (going to be) Easy Being Green
If the earth was a business, if it were to be managed properly, you’d kill off all the animals that you couldn’t eat, experiment on, or ride for amusement. You’d wipe out the forests and plant food crops. You’d take money spent on weapons and reality TV and use it instead to create ways to regulate the environment. You’d look into mining the moon, cold fusion, nano-construction, that sort of gear.
You do that and things should tick right along. And you’ll have to, eventually.
What else can there be? Eventually we’ll all be standing shoulder to shoulder in a living museum where we can’t touch anything or it might go extinct and with better and better medicine we’ll get to stand there a long time, while more and more of us keep popping up. Something’s got to give. It’s simple physics.
There isn’t room for everything.
Should we do the noble thing and kill ourselves off to save the planet? Mass cullings every century, or generation. Our entire species becoming Jesus? It’s only purpose to constantly sacrifice itself to save the world. Caretakers of a garden, nurturing and aiding the other species and then throwing ourselves into the sea or maybe a volcano. Which ever was handy. Maybe the bodies would have to be shot into space, as burying or burning them would contaminate the garden. Rocket powered Ascension to Eden. Go Jesus Go.
Heavy.
Ah, well that won’t happen for a little while yet. Not my problem. Every age had it’s problems. The Middle Ages had that pesky Black Death, the Thirties had the Depression and the future will have the Jesus thing. My only problem is the price of diesel fuel. Not that bad really. Probably won’t die from it. Now and then there’s a lull I guess.
You do that and things should tick right along. And you’ll have to, eventually.
What else can there be? Eventually we’ll all be standing shoulder to shoulder in a living museum where we can’t touch anything or it might go extinct and with better and better medicine we’ll get to stand there a long time, while more and more of us keep popping up. Something’s got to give. It’s simple physics.
There isn’t room for everything.
Should we do the noble thing and kill ourselves off to save the planet? Mass cullings every century, or generation. Our entire species becoming Jesus? It’s only purpose to constantly sacrifice itself to save the world. Caretakers of a garden, nurturing and aiding the other species and then throwing ourselves into the sea or maybe a volcano. Which ever was handy. Maybe the bodies would have to be shot into space, as burying or burning them would contaminate the garden. Rocket powered Ascension to Eden. Go Jesus Go.
Heavy.
Ah, well that won’t happen for a little while yet. Not my problem. Every age had it’s problems. The Middle Ages had that pesky Black Death, the Thirties had the Depression and the future will have the Jesus thing. My only problem is the price of diesel fuel. Not that bad really. Probably won’t die from it. Now and then there’s a lull I guess.
Monday, May 26, 2008
magma
I dreamed the centre of the earth was accessible to all for a small fee and we went down there one Sunday morning, my sweetie and me. They put you on a sort of fire-proof roller coaster except it doesn’t go up and down, just down. And there’s a bar. Umbrella drinks are popular. They are fire-proof umbrellas for safety.
And we got to sit at the front and my sweetie turned to me and said “we get to sit at the front” and I nodded. I thought it was odd there were windshield wipers, but I’m no geologist. Neither is she. Not anymore.
A man in a blue cap, he also had pants, took our tickets and we were soon under way. When we reached 10 thousand leagues under the surface a pleasing female voice told us to put on our 10 thousand league glasses for safety and to help extinguish our individuality. It says about the glasses right on the ticket so you got to wear them. My dreams are strict. I got arrested once in my dream and couldn’t make bail. I did thirty days. Everyone thought I was in a coma.
After about three hours we pulled into Earth Central which is just what you’d imagine: a vast ball of molten rock and iron, but more commercial. You can’t get out or anything cause of the molten-ness but you are allowed to take non-flash photography. Sweetie took a picture but it just came out red.
And then we climbed the ladder back to the surface which took most of the afternoon, and found our car had been broken into. The portal to the centre of the earth is in a bad area, as you would expect. They took all our change and a Kleenex box full of raw opium we had been saving but I didn’t call the cops. I didn’t need any more trouble from them. I can’t face another coma.
And we got to sit at the front and my sweetie turned to me and said “we get to sit at the front” and I nodded. I thought it was odd there were windshield wipers, but I’m no geologist. Neither is she. Not anymore.
A man in a blue cap, he also had pants, took our tickets and we were soon under way. When we reached 10 thousand leagues under the surface a pleasing female voice told us to put on our 10 thousand league glasses for safety and to help extinguish our individuality. It says about the glasses right on the ticket so you got to wear them. My dreams are strict. I got arrested once in my dream and couldn’t make bail. I did thirty days. Everyone thought I was in a coma.
After about three hours we pulled into Earth Central which is just what you’d imagine: a vast ball of molten rock and iron, but more commercial. You can’t get out or anything cause of the molten-ness but you are allowed to take non-flash photography. Sweetie took a picture but it just came out red.
And then we climbed the ladder back to the surface which took most of the afternoon, and found our car had been broken into. The portal to the centre of the earth is in a bad area, as you would expect. They took all our change and a Kleenex box full of raw opium we had been saving but I didn’t call the cops. I didn’t need any more trouble from them. I can’t face another coma.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Stickening Situation
More in our series of foods I have never eaten:
28) Coal.
Now tonight’s episode. The truck was making a funny ‘worp worp’ sound and I was worried it might be the differential. Turned out to be a stick stuck up in the suspension, rubbing on the inside of the wheel, and I was relieved. The next day the truck developed a melodic ‘fffffffwiiiiiing’ sound, a bit like brakes, and I was again worried about costly repairs. I hate doing brakes. But it was another stick, other side this time, jammed way up there above the back axel and rubbing at the inside of the tire. And I was again relieved at the simple nature of the problem.
Except now I think people are sticking sticks, someone stuck a stick, how are sticks getting up there?
Do I need stick guards? Can you get them this time of year?
I saw a documentary once and these apes, chimps I think, or possibly Frenchmen, were just sort of sitting around and this really mental one with an erection came screeching out of the bush brandishing a big stick and causing a general ruckus.
That’s another way sticks can be a problem.
I used to go around picking up all the sticks on the lawn, but now I just mow them over. It’s not good for the mower but it was made in USA and if it breaks they give you another one free. As long as you’re not a terrorist, the friend of a terrorist or be able to spell terrorist, then there is a small shipping and handling fee.
I tell you one thing, that fucking monkey was a terrorist. Running around like that with his woody and his stick, scaring all the other chimps. Someone could lose an eye. Nobody loves a one eyed chimp. Or Frenchman. Could have been Frenchmen. You know, the more I think about it…
I’m worried the French have found my compound and are taking the sticks off my lawn and jamming them up under my truck, causing it to make odd sounds. Almost like they’re trying to communicate with me.
What can they want? Cheese? I have no cheese. Not much. Shit.
28) Coal.
Now tonight’s episode. The truck was making a funny ‘worp worp’ sound and I was worried it might be the differential. Turned out to be a stick stuck up in the suspension, rubbing on the inside of the wheel, and I was relieved. The next day the truck developed a melodic ‘fffffffwiiiiiing’ sound, a bit like brakes, and I was again worried about costly repairs. I hate doing brakes. But it was another stick, other side this time, jammed way up there above the back axel and rubbing at the inside of the tire. And I was again relieved at the simple nature of the problem.
Except now I think people are sticking sticks, someone stuck a stick, how are sticks getting up there?
Do I need stick guards? Can you get them this time of year?
I saw a documentary once and these apes, chimps I think, or possibly Frenchmen, were just sort of sitting around and this really mental one with an erection came screeching out of the bush brandishing a big stick and causing a general ruckus.
That’s another way sticks can be a problem.
I used to go around picking up all the sticks on the lawn, but now I just mow them over. It’s not good for the mower but it was made in USA and if it breaks they give you another one free. As long as you’re not a terrorist, the friend of a terrorist or be able to spell terrorist, then there is a small shipping and handling fee.
I tell you one thing, that fucking monkey was a terrorist. Running around like that with his woody and his stick, scaring all the other chimps. Someone could lose an eye. Nobody loves a one eyed chimp. Or Frenchman. Could have been Frenchmen. You know, the more I think about it…
I’m worried the French have found my compound and are taking the sticks off my lawn and jamming them up under my truck, causing it to make odd sounds. Almost like they’re trying to communicate with me.
What can they want? Cheese? I have no cheese. Not much. Shit.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
US channeled top secret Burma footage, hogs to self
Hey what’s the deal? I’m watching The News Hour With Jim Lehrer, hosted by a woman who is not Jim Lehrer, and they have a report from Burma which is also Myanmar, and the non-Jim lady warns it may contain ‘images of a disturbing nature’ and suddenly I get a blue screen with the words VIDEO FOR THIS REPORT RESTRICTED while the audio continues to run in the background. SBS, the network airing it here, apparently, found it too disturbing for Aussies.
What the hell was in it, that is ok to air in America but not Australia? Australia where nudity and swearing in the media is common and R-rated films are shown un-cut on TV. Australia where there is an ad depicting two gentlemen playing a piano duet with their erect penises (peni?)...
And then there's America where I’m not sure if they’re allowed to say ‘shit’ yet on network TV, where Janet Jackson’s nipple threatened to bring about the end of days, where people go to the bathroom or washroom but never the toilet. What the hell could be ok for America but not Australia?
And then there's America where I’m not sure if they’re allowed to say ‘shit’ yet on network TV, where Janet Jackson’s nipple threatened to bring about the end of days, where people go to the bathroom or washroom but never the toilet. What the hell could be ok for America but not Australia?
WHAT WAS IT?
I must know. Ok, what are the facts:
1) The only people who don’t want bad pictures coming out of Burma is the government of Burma.
2) Australia is sort of close to Burma geographically, kind of, if you sort of tilt your head.
3) Slugs have two different types of slime – one for clinging to things, and one for traveling.
No. I still can’t work it out.
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
give
Every day countless marijuana seedlings die from neglect. Lack of adequate nutrients and life-giving sunlight leave others stunted and spindly. Some, sadly, go to seed.
But there’s good news, it doesn’t have to be this way! That’s right, for only 38 cents per day, less than the cost of a pack of rolling papers, you can sponsor a seedling or clone and know you’re helping a plant that might never have had a chance. A chance to grow and learn and contribute and, eventually, produce some really filthy buds.
For just 38 cents per day, less than the cost of a reasonable doughnut, you’ll be providing your plant the best in liquid nutrients and mineral salts. Your plant will attend daily grow sessions where it will have full access to 800 watts of UV-balanced halogen lighting and the latest in temperature and humidity control. You’ll receive letters and photos from your plant keeping you informed of its progress and of any adventures it may have had. Your plant will address you as Sally if you wish.
And eventually we’ll cut the light back and your little pal will begin to bud. What a proud moment for you both, and you’ll be right there with pictures and crude drawings sent to you by your plant. Once the buds are full and thick, resin-coated and sparkly-like, we’ll pick them and dry them to perfection. Then we’ll smoke them and send you pictures of us smoking them or a short description.
But don’t worry, your 38 cents per day doesn’t stop there. If you loved your plant enough and it was really filthy, then we’ll take a clone of it and grow another! And you can keep sending us money. Only 38 cents per day*
But there’s good news, it doesn’t have to be this way! That’s right, for only 38 cents per day, less than the cost of a pack of rolling papers, you can sponsor a seedling or clone and know you’re helping a plant that might never have had a chance. A chance to grow and learn and contribute and, eventually, produce some really filthy buds.
For just 38 cents per day, less than the cost of a reasonable doughnut, you’ll be providing your plant the best in liquid nutrients and mineral salts. Your plant will attend daily grow sessions where it will have full access to 800 watts of UV-balanced halogen lighting and the latest in temperature and humidity control. You’ll receive letters and photos from your plant keeping you informed of its progress and of any adventures it may have had. Your plant will address you as Sally if you wish.
And eventually we’ll cut the light back and your little pal will begin to bud. What a proud moment for you both, and you’ll be right there with pictures and crude drawings sent to you by your plant. Once the buds are full and thick, resin-coated and sparkly-like, we’ll pick them and dry them to perfection. Then we’ll smoke them and send you pictures of us smoking them or a short description.
But don’t worry, your 38 cents per day doesn’t stop there. If you loved your plant enough and it was really filthy, then we’ll take a clone of it and grow another! And you can keep sending us money. Only 38 cents per day*
*based on $1387.00 ten year membership payable in advance. Void in Utah.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
Canbera, City of Buildings
Name a country who’s capital city is not a sea-port or on a large river with access to the sea. London, Paris, Moscow, Washington, all have sea access. Yes, yes there’s Geneva, Lassa and the capitals of a few other land-locked countries where they had no choice, but by and large, and I use that term without fully understanding it (by what? large what?), given the option, most countries have their capital city near the sea or on a major river. Usually this is because those cities traditionally had more trade and hence became larger and it was a logical progression to become the capital.
Australia built it’s capital city specifically to be the capital. Sydney wanted to be boss and Melbourne wanted to be boss so to solve the dispute they built a new city just to spite everybody, and they stuck it in the mountains 300km from the sea, or anywhere else. That’ll show them, they said, whoever they were. The Prime Minister has a residence there of course, nice big sandstone mansion, fully staffed with staff and empty of anyone else. The Prime Minister lives in Sydney. And the rest of the politicians of course live in their electorates so it’s a city of bureaucrats and museums. I believe the bureaucracy museum is located there.
The National War Museum is there and they say it takes three days to see it properly. Aussies like their wars, well not the getting-shot-at parts, just the ra-ra and hip-ho parts. They look good in those hats. Every year, on Anzac Day, thousands of young Aussies travel to Gallipoli, Turkey to honour the Diggers who fought and died in WWI in Australia’s most celebrated battle by getting honourably shit-faced and respectfully littering the site with empty beer cans. Turkey is rather good about it and puts out Porta-Potties for them each year. Australia lost that battle, by the way. It is Australia’s Alamo, except in this case they were the Mexicans and them in the fort won. Also Davey Crocket was called Dazza.
Australia built it’s capital city specifically to be the capital. Sydney wanted to be boss and Melbourne wanted to be boss so to solve the dispute they built a new city just to spite everybody, and they stuck it in the mountains 300km from the sea, or anywhere else. That’ll show them, they said, whoever they were. The Prime Minister has a residence there of course, nice big sandstone mansion, fully staffed with staff and empty of anyone else. The Prime Minister lives in Sydney. And the rest of the politicians of course live in their electorates so it’s a city of bureaucrats and museums. I believe the bureaucracy museum is located there.
The National War Museum is there and they say it takes three days to see it properly. Aussies like their wars, well not the getting-shot-at parts, just the ra-ra and hip-ho parts. They look good in those hats. Every year, on Anzac Day, thousands of young Aussies travel to Gallipoli, Turkey to honour the Diggers who fought and died in WWI in Australia’s most celebrated battle by getting honourably shit-faced and respectfully littering the site with empty beer cans. Turkey is rather good about it and puts out Porta-Potties for them each year. Australia lost that battle, by the way. It is Australia’s Alamo, except in this case they were the Mexicans and them in the fort won. Also Davey Crocket was called Dazza.
Monday, April 28, 2008
It did not happen in India
Crikey she’s cold out there tonight.
I might let her in.
Big news today not, as you so often find with these stories, from India but in fact from Austria, also known as Germany Lite. Now I only heard the bare jist of it on the wireless and I don’t want to go prejudicing my already-formed opinion by checking any facts but it seems some dude (dudenkauf) kept his own grown-up daughter prisoner in his cellar for twenty-odd years and, yes you knew it was coming, sired seven children by her, six of which survived to be rescued recently.
Talk at work turned to what one does with these children now? The consensus seemed to be give them some shoes and send them on there way.
“Off you go then. What? Oh that, that’s the Sun, generally a good thing, goes away at night, rises in the…what? Night? Ok, you better sit down, there’s a few things we need to go over.”
Lots to cover there… photographs don’t steal your soul, for example. At least it’s never been proven. What if you had your photo taken more than once? Would the subsequent images have no soul-content? Perhaps it’s spread evenly, in a constantly changing average, which would be a messy system, lot’s of paperwork but who am I to question the workings of the universe?
And that’s what they will teach these kids, don’t think too much about it because it’s a pretty flimsy story to begin with and doesn’t really bear up to scrutiny. Whether we stem from an omnipotent force or the blind-fool luck of a few chemicals joining up to do the DNA tango, not one bit of this thing makes sense and never, ever, will.
Luckily there is cannabis for those having trouble swallowing it. What if you took a picture of the people on Soul Train? Would you get really good soul-content then? These people who believe in soul-stealing photography – would they pay for pictures of their enemies? Mercenary photographers raiding camps, snapping pictures in multi-burst mode, taking portraits of the men, snapshots of the women and children, anything caught in the frame. God, the colour saturation.
Anyway, I’m sure the Austrians have systems in place for this sort of thing. They’re a competent people.
I might let her in.
Big news today not, as you so often find with these stories, from India but in fact from Austria, also known as Germany Lite. Now I only heard the bare jist of it on the wireless and I don’t want to go prejudicing my already-formed opinion by checking any facts but it seems some dude (dudenkauf) kept his own grown-up daughter prisoner in his cellar for twenty-odd years and, yes you knew it was coming, sired seven children by her, six of which survived to be rescued recently.
Talk at work turned to what one does with these children now? The consensus seemed to be give them some shoes and send them on there way.
“Off you go then. What? Oh that, that’s the Sun, generally a good thing, goes away at night, rises in the…what? Night? Ok, you better sit down, there’s a few things we need to go over.”
Lots to cover there… photographs don’t steal your soul, for example. At least it’s never been proven. What if you had your photo taken more than once? Would the subsequent images have no soul-content? Perhaps it’s spread evenly, in a constantly changing average, which would be a messy system, lot’s of paperwork but who am I to question the workings of the universe?
And that’s what they will teach these kids, don’t think too much about it because it’s a pretty flimsy story to begin with and doesn’t really bear up to scrutiny. Whether we stem from an omnipotent force or the blind-fool luck of a few chemicals joining up to do the DNA tango, not one bit of this thing makes sense and never, ever, will.
Luckily there is cannabis for those having trouble swallowing it. What if you took a picture of the people on Soul Train? Would you get really good soul-content then? These people who believe in soul-stealing photography – would they pay for pictures of their enemies? Mercenary photographers raiding camps, snapping pictures in multi-burst mode, taking portraits of the men, snapshots of the women and children, anything caught in the frame. God, the colour saturation.
Anyway, I’m sure the Austrians have systems in place for this sort of thing. They’re a competent people.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Twat. It's fun, and easy to say.
I saw a show with a guy who was flogging his new invention, little strobe lights which would be set into the street, along the centre line, to warn of school zones and the like. Each little unit had it’s own solar panel for re-charging and the units could be controlled wirelessly to flash at appropriate times. The panel of judges consisted of an engineer, a designer and an architect and they questioned the inventor as follows:
Engineer: Are they sturdy enough to withstand being run over by cars?
Engineer: Are they sturdy enough to withstand being run over by cars?
Inventor: Yes, they use the same housing as aircraft runway lights.
Designer: Would they still be visible in bright sunlight?
Inventor: Yes, they are easily seen in bright sunlight.
Architect: Do you worry people might come and smash them with a sledgehammer? Or spray-paint them black?
Inventor: What the fuck are you sniffing? Are you too stupid to come up with a technical question of your own? Hit them with a fucking hammer? “Greta go and git my big hammer. Them shiny things is out there again.”
Go and button your cardigan, you big Nancy.
Ok that last answer was me. Architects are twats. I think his name was Brendan. I have other proof.
Sunday, April 06, 2008
in my day
What do you suppose will happen in 40 years or so when the retirement villages are full of pot smoking, heavy-metal-listening old dudes and grannies who forego the traditional secret nip of cooking sherry for half an E and a couple of bongs before their evening walk? Will the hospital staff, all born in like 2020 or some other crazy futuristic-seeming year, tut-tut them? Will the 2050’s be like the 1950’s except oddly reversed? Gangs of 80 year old men stealing hubcaps and smoking cigarettes behind the bowling alley? Will they cry things like “What’s to be done about senior delinquency?” and “who will save the aged of today from the cruel grip of Satan” and “what they need is a good whooping and an honest day’s work” and “in my day we had to push buttons to make the microwave come on” and “what’s the capital of Belgium?”
There’s some old people live around here. A lot of them. They listen to late night TV compilations like Summer Of Love, Rock and Roll Gold and Classic AM Radio B Sides of 1972-73. There’s a reason Leo Sayer is back on tour.
Another thing they do is write letters to the local paper explaining how daylight savings time is really just the Government conditioning the masses to robotically respond to all commands. Today it’s set your clocks back an hour, tomorrow they’ve got you harvesting baby organs to render for oil. Precious baby-oil.
It’s so obvious.
Too obvious.
Precisely what they want you to think. Distract you from the real issue. Which is the Government is stealing time and selling it to alien civilizations who’s time is up. That’s how the Government affords that flashy car it drives up and down the street at all hours.
Damn Government needs a good whooping and an honest day’s work.
There’s some old people live around here. A lot of them. They listen to late night TV compilations like Summer Of Love, Rock and Roll Gold and Classic AM Radio B Sides of 1972-73. There’s a reason Leo Sayer is back on tour.
Another thing they do is write letters to the local paper explaining how daylight savings time is really just the Government conditioning the masses to robotically respond to all commands. Today it’s set your clocks back an hour, tomorrow they’ve got you harvesting baby organs to render for oil. Precious baby-oil.
It’s so obvious.
Too obvious.
Precisely what they want you to think. Distract you from the real issue. Which is the Government is stealing time and selling it to alien civilizations who’s time is up. That’s how the Government affords that flashy car it drives up and down the street at all hours.
Damn Government needs a good whooping and an honest day’s work.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Don't make eye contact
I went downstairs to the showroom and was confronted by three women and Gay Colleague*, sitting around the reception desk looking slightly mischievous. Women in groups make me nervous, especially when they look at you like you are a good example of whatever it was they were just talking about which is invariably either men in general or men in particular.
SJ: How are you ladies?
*general snickering*
GC: What do you mean ladies? You mean me?
SJ: Look GC you were perched up on that desk like the head girl at the slumber party.
GC: Fair enough. (turns to New Girl**) You see what I have to put up with? All the abuse. Horrible, he is.
NG: *smiles uncertainly*
GC: NG is going to start riding with us in the mornings ok?
SJ: Sure, if she can stand the horribleness.
GC: Hmm. Good point. Can you?
NG: Continues to smile aimlessly, certain this is a joke, not positive though.
SJ: Good answer. You appear wise.
At this point it is best to carry on your way before you talk yourself into a corner. People are watching, the receptionist is gearing up to say something, a sales dude stops on his way to do sales… no best to get going. Let them discuss it among themselves.
*his actual name, with an asterisk
**also her real name, no relation.
SJ: How are you ladies?
*general snickering*
GC: What do you mean ladies? You mean me?
SJ: Look GC you were perched up on that desk like the head girl at the slumber party.
GC: Fair enough. (turns to New Girl**) You see what I have to put up with? All the abuse. Horrible, he is.
NG: *smiles uncertainly*
GC: NG is going to start riding with us in the mornings ok?
SJ: Sure, if she can stand the horribleness.
GC: Hmm. Good point. Can you?
NG: Continues to smile aimlessly, certain this is a joke, not positive though.
SJ: Good answer. You appear wise.
At this point it is best to carry on your way before you talk yourself into a corner. People are watching, the receptionist is gearing up to say something, a sales dude stops on his way to do sales… no best to get going. Let them discuss it among themselves.
*his actual name, with an asterisk
**also her real name, no relation.
Ode To A Sales Dude:
Oh Sales Dude Sales Dude
Go and do your sales
With your voodoo markup secret language code
And blonde-tipped hair
Go in your car your
Mobile Sales Unit full
Of blue-tooth mumbo jumbo
And sales literature
of course
Oh Sales Dude Sales Dude
Just fuck off.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Purgastralia
The spiders told me. Always spinning their shit where I walk like they know my times. Strong as 10 pound test line, across the path, feel it stretch then WRAP itself around your head. In the morning, or evening, across the doorway out the back where I smoke, on all my paths. In my car. Silken lines want to wrap me up and the spiders thereby told me
this isn’t Australia. It is a bizaro-world, alternate-reality, sun-drenched purgatory that looks like Australia.
I put this to Mrs. Joe, a (supposed) natural born Aussie, and she only shrugged and said “well. yeah.” and went back to sorting bills.
I mean, you get on a plane with a ticket to Australia, with stops in Hawaii and Fiji and you just sort of expect they’d tell you if it was actually a flight to Purgatory with stops in Hawaii and Fiji. “Attention passengers, please confirm your tickets are for Purgatory not Australia because a lot of people get them mixed up.”
I imagine they have the same wildlife. Hopping things, biting things, spiders. They both have enchanted forests and bauxite mines. They don’t like Paul Hogan much, they don’t know who Bob Barker is. You can’t explain Happy Gilmore to them.
So of course, they must be one and the same.
Purgastralia, where everything’s either poisonous or has a pouch, light switches go the wrong way, bills require sorting, and spiders have the ambitious aim of capturing humans for some seedy purpose not yet determined. I can only assume they wish to devour me, or make me their bitch. Their, uh, spider-bitch… oh dear, I don’t like the sound of that.
I hadn’t thought of that.
Woe, what hath become of me? How cometh I to be in this beguiling spider-land? Oh what foul sin have I committed? Where doth we keep yon bug spray? Also, who puteth the ice-creameth backeth empty excepteth for one dried-upeth spoonful?
Release me.
this isn’t Australia. It is a bizaro-world, alternate-reality, sun-drenched purgatory that looks like Australia.
I put this to Mrs. Joe, a (supposed) natural born Aussie, and she only shrugged and said “well. yeah.” and went back to sorting bills.
I mean, you get on a plane with a ticket to Australia, with stops in Hawaii and Fiji and you just sort of expect they’d tell you if it was actually a flight to Purgatory with stops in Hawaii and Fiji. “Attention passengers, please confirm your tickets are for Purgatory not Australia because a lot of people get them mixed up.”
I imagine they have the same wildlife. Hopping things, biting things, spiders. They both have enchanted forests and bauxite mines. They don’t like Paul Hogan much, they don’t know who Bob Barker is. You can’t explain Happy Gilmore to them.
So of course, they must be one and the same.
Purgastralia, where everything’s either poisonous or has a pouch, light switches go the wrong way, bills require sorting, and spiders have the ambitious aim of capturing humans for some seedy purpose not yet determined. I can only assume they wish to devour me, or make me their bitch. Their, uh, spider-bitch… oh dear, I don’t like the sound of that.
I hadn’t thought of that.
Woe, what hath become of me? How cometh I to be in this beguiling spider-land? Oh what foul sin have I committed? Where doth we keep yon bug spray? Also, who puteth the ice-creameth backeth empty excepteth for one dried-upeth spoonful?
Release me.
Monday, March 10, 2008
remember kids, hitting yourself in the face with a hammer is for losers. Every time.
Things I found out today:
1) Paint, even super epoxy enamel (black) does not stick to nylon. Why did I think it would? It certainly does not.
That’s all.
One thing I was wondering while I watched paint not stick was if the guy at the ball bearing factory, the little thing that rattles around when you shake a spray can is a ball bearing, this kid at school cut one open once and that’s what it was, I wonder if the guy at the ball bearing factory, who’s job was to check the ball bearings for defects, like dents or devil horns, ever suggested to his boss that all the defective ball bearings could be marketed to the spray can industry as Paint Grade Ball Bearings and they could then double the price, and if he did suggest that did he get a raise or did his boss just look at him blankly and back quietly out the door to ring the Authorities? I forgot to say the ball bearing inspector was screaming and waving a sack of ball bearings (not Paint Grade™, good ones) over his head at the time.
That sort of job would get to you.
Things I will find out tomorrow:
1) Will clear lacquer stick to nylon?
2) Will super epoxy enamel (black) stick to clear lacquer?
Try to get some sleep, I’m handling it.
1) Paint, even super epoxy enamel (black) does not stick to nylon. Why did I think it would? It certainly does not.
That’s all.
One thing I was wondering while I watched paint not stick was if the guy at the ball bearing factory, the little thing that rattles around when you shake a spray can is a ball bearing, this kid at school cut one open once and that’s what it was, I wonder if the guy at the ball bearing factory, who’s job was to check the ball bearings for defects, like dents or devil horns, ever suggested to his boss that all the defective ball bearings could be marketed to the spray can industry as Paint Grade Ball Bearings and they could then double the price, and if he did suggest that did he get a raise or did his boss just look at him blankly and back quietly out the door to ring the Authorities? I forgot to say the ball bearing inspector was screaming and waving a sack of ball bearings (not Paint Grade™, good ones) over his head at the time.
That sort of job would get to you.
Things I will find out tomorrow:
1) Will clear lacquer stick to nylon?
2) Will super epoxy enamel (black) stick to clear lacquer?
Try to get some sleep, I’m handling it.
Friday, March 07, 2008
Volcanic kittens and the war on telephone poles
Just chatting volcanos with P4. Volcanos are hot, the boiling point of rock being probably greater than the boiling point of water, which as we know is pretty hot already. Then we wondered if boiling alcohol would burn you if, for some reason, someone boiled a pot of alcohol and threw it on you. Perhaps in revenge for something, but still, it would be an odd thing to do. We didn’t know the boiling point of alcohol though, so we worked out in our heads 1/7 + 1/8 which we took to be 15/56ths. All things considered, it was the best we could do.
One of our cats did an amazing thing. It issued forth 6 more cats, but smaller. Now there are 8 cats. P4 wonders if she has told the father yet. SJ remembers saying something like “yes, I guess you can get another cat, if you absolutely must, but TWO is the limit and don’t get a female.” Eight.
What’s the father going to do? Bring over ½ a mouse now and then and take the kits to McDonalds? Of course not, feline paternity laws are lacking at best.
To prove a point I went outside, cut off the top bud from my marijuana plant which is grown for purely ornamental reasons (good feng-shui, or however the fuck you call it), cut it up right there and then and smoked it in my little brass pipe given to me by my lovely wife whom, as you know, I hardly ever think of strangling. Smoked it wet and green. And you know what? I got as stoned as I do from that shit they try to sell here for 3 bills an ounce.
Illidge if you say one fucking word about what you get back in Canada I’ll…be depressed. And then you’ll be sorry. Bastard.
Bloody fascists. Government pamphlets implying pot causes schizophrenia, use hydroponic equipment and you’re classed as a drug-lab for fuck sake. I never heard of anyone smoking a joint then… doing anything, really. Maybe draw a doodle, or play a video game. But I know a guy (Illidge) who, when drinking vodka, picks fights with telephone poles. Hasn’t beat one yet, far as I know.
That’ll do for now.
One of our cats did an amazing thing. It issued forth 6 more cats, but smaller. Now there are 8 cats. P4 wonders if she has told the father yet. SJ remembers saying something like “yes, I guess you can get another cat, if you absolutely must, but TWO is the limit and don’t get a female.” Eight.
What’s the father going to do? Bring over ½ a mouse now and then and take the kits to McDonalds? Of course not, feline paternity laws are lacking at best.
To prove a point I went outside, cut off the top bud from my marijuana plant which is grown for purely ornamental reasons (good feng-shui, or however the fuck you call it), cut it up right there and then and smoked it in my little brass pipe given to me by my lovely wife whom, as you know, I hardly ever think of strangling. Smoked it wet and green. And you know what? I got as stoned as I do from that shit they try to sell here for 3 bills an ounce.
Illidge if you say one fucking word about what you get back in Canada I’ll…be depressed. And then you’ll be sorry. Bastard.
Bloody fascists. Government pamphlets implying pot causes schizophrenia, use hydroponic equipment and you’re classed as a drug-lab for fuck sake. I never heard of anyone smoking a joint then… doing anything, really. Maybe draw a doodle, or play a video game. But I know a guy (Illidge) who, when drinking vodka, picks fights with telephone poles. Hasn’t beat one yet, far as I know.
That’ll do for now.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Hark
Been withdrawn lately, not playing with the other bloggers. See that list over there –> that’s 22* kinds of cool there. All different, all great little blogs. And I haven’t even visited any of them in months. I bet they’re mad at me, or worse indifferent. But maybe not. Not Exxy anyway. If I lived in LA I’d have to take up drinking again just so I could hang with Exxy. Mr Wood lives there too and I believe Exile is driving distance. What I mean is the people listed there are not going to be ripped to shreds by baboons long since gone mad, for they are actual real proper people who make sense, not like the myriad of God’s little jokes that you see walking around everywhere. Often they are shirtless and almost always they can’t see outside the box. It’s a small box. They sort of have to scrunch down in there. Fish in a bowl, a water-box, constantly devouring each other and shitting each other back out. Then swimming around in it and never once considering, not even secretly by themselves in the little castle, calling the situation anything but normal.
Those people listed there are not like that, is what I’m saying.
Haven’t even been to my secret favourite blog where I selfishly lurk and rarely comment because the writer’s wit intimidates me with its brilliance. And because I rip him off a lot. But what can I do, now I’ve got the Baboon Compound up and running I just don’t have much time, or rather I have a greater choice of what to do in my spare time.
For example, out in the lab, I made a little gizmo from old VCR parts powered by the solar panel from a garden light. With the magic of gear reduction that little solar panel can run a little motor which will lift 15 pounds. Takes it about ten minutes, being gear reduced until the final shaft turns at about 2 RPM.
What does it do? Well sir it lifts a weight about 4 feet then drops it, then winds it up again. Over and over. Why? Attach it to a pump handle and every ten minutes it would lift 15 pounds of water four feet or a pound of water sixty feet. Over a sunny day that’s half a ton of water lifted (four feet). Not bad for a solar panel from a $5 garden light.
I used to put some of my writing on Helium, but they deleted most of it because, let’s see, it wasn’t ‘family content’. Funny all the ones that mentioned GWB, well made fun of him actually, were deleted. Oh and the poem, which I point out was rated #7 out of 738 by voters, because it said ‘fuck’. I assure you it was in context and relevant to the tone of the poem. Shakespeare said ‘fuck’ all the time, except in Elizabethan English it was pronounced ‘hark’, but nobody censors old Bill do they? Nah, he was a harking genius.
Maybe I should move to LA and take up an ether addiction.
* I haven’t actually counted
Those people listed there are not like that, is what I’m saying.
Haven’t even been to my secret favourite blog where I selfishly lurk and rarely comment because the writer’s wit intimidates me with its brilliance. And because I rip him off a lot. But what can I do, now I’ve got the Baboon Compound up and running I just don’t have much time, or rather I have a greater choice of what to do in my spare time.
For example, out in the lab, I made a little gizmo from old VCR parts powered by the solar panel from a garden light. With the magic of gear reduction that little solar panel can run a little motor which will lift 15 pounds. Takes it about ten minutes, being gear reduced until the final shaft turns at about 2 RPM.
What does it do? Well sir it lifts a weight about 4 feet then drops it, then winds it up again. Over and over. Why? Attach it to a pump handle and every ten minutes it would lift 15 pounds of water four feet or a pound of water sixty feet. Over a sunny day that’s half a ton of water lifted (four feet). Not bad for a solar panel from a $5 garden light.
I used to put some of my writing on Helium, but they deleted most of it because, let’s see, it wasn’t ‘family content’. Funny all the ones that mentioned GWB, well made fun of him actually, were deleted. Oh and the poem, which I point out was rated #7 out of 738 by voters, because it said ‘fuck’. I assure you it was in context and relevant to the tone of the poem. Shakespeare said ‘fuck’ all the time, except in Elizabethan English it was pronounced ‘hark’, but nobody censors old Bill do they? Nah, he was a harking genius.
Maybe I should move to LA and take up an ether addiction.
* I haven’t actually counted
Saturday, February 16, 2008
troubles
The man was hunting deer. He was not wandering the forest with a gun, as would appear in the absence of any deer or even tracks thereof, he was hunting deer. To admit otherwise would make him feel foolish and so he continued walking softly through the snow-lit night, searching for tracks and wondering if he would be able to shoot a deer should one appear. In a way that would make him feel more foolish. He hadn’t decided and it troubled him. Of course deer are good at sensing trouble. They know to walk on the Southern slopes where the snow is thin and on rocky ground where tracks can only be smelled and to avoid trouble. So the man walked alone with his rifle and his thoughts as the moon set behind the trees and the snow took on a bluish glow. The forest gave him a wide berth and watched him pass from the safety of painted shadows.
He didn’t feel cold, although he supposed he was, he wasn’t hungry although he carried food, and soon he found he had forgotten about tracks altogether until he came across his own, left there an hour and a half before. He realized then that he had let the terrain guide him, walking wherever was easiest with little thought to direction, and the crafty mountains had quietly turned him around and tried to expel him. This also troubled him. He had hoped this trip would clear him of troubles, a romantic notion he saw now. And he felt foolish and frustrated and did not at first see the deer, standing still as stone on the edge of a clearing across the valley, not one hundred yards away.
He unslung the rifle, still undecided and troubled over his own doubt. He unslung the rifle because all the reasons for and against balanced exactly and when that happens it is always better to do a thing and know for sure. He crouched behind a fallen tree and lay the rifle barrel across the trunk. The buck had not moved and for a moment he thought it was only a remarkable shadow until it gave a low snort and he saw the steam rise from its muzzle. He sighted the rifle and slowed his breath and though his troubles did not leave him, they stepped aside for a moment. His breathing stopped and his heart slowed and on the third interval he took his shot the way a man steps off a high ledge into black water.
The buck continued to stand perfectly still and the man’s troubles prepared to rage back in at him, twice as mean at having been deferred pointlessly. Then the buck dropped to one knee, turning its head in his direction, though it is doubtful he could be seen behind his log. It stayed that way a while longer then its remaining legs folded slowly under it and the short, sharp puffs of steam stopped coming from its muzzle. The rifle shot continued to echo through the night as the man tested his water and found there were no rocks waiting to crack him open, and the troubles were less sure of themselves and stayed away to discuss it. And still the rifle shot echoed.
The man became aware the sound was growing, reverberating from the mountainsides and coming, it seemed, from all directions. No longer a forlorn echo making futile copies of itself, but a growing roar, a deep shriek following close behind, and the man was confused. His troubles deserted him in cowardice and he looked about franticly for the source of the hellish noise and now there were other sounds, sharp cracks from his left and when he turned that way a glaring light bore down on him from above.
Japan Air 595, a charter flight full of corporate secretaries bound for Banff and a mountain holiday, came down on him dragging one wing, already on fire, through the tree tops as its pilots tried to regain control to the end. Its gleaming alloy belly passed over him in an instant which did not seem to pass, so that he could see the rivets in its panels. It disappeared from his sight in a roaring cloud of snow and smashed branches and sank into the valley, clearing a swath through the trees, and for a micron of time everything was as before, the buck lived and his troubles were close by and familiar. Finally the rumbling pressure wave of the plane’s final impact rose up and passed over him, chasing the forgotten rifle shot down the valley until all was quiet again. The man could see across the valley but not into it and when he looked across it was as though nothing had changed at all. Except the deer was gone, the snow there unmarred.
He made his way down into the valley, following the trail of smashed trees, climbing and clawing his way. The air was sick with the smell of kerosene and hydraulic fluid. Some of the trees still stood and were hung with debris and the odd secretary, one still strapped in her seat, another completely naked except for her shoes. And when he looked around he saw they were on the ground too, all around him, mixed in with the shattered timber and the brightly coloured contents of 319 suitcases so that he could only see them one at a time. A face, a hand, an arm pointing brokenly at him from under a pile of branches. The man sat down in the snow, the sun would come up soon.
They didn’t notice him at first as he didn’t move. He had left his rifle where he’d fired it and there was nothing else to indicate he wasn’t a passenger except that he was wearing boots and a heavy coat, but the searchers refused to notice this, as the thought of a single solitary survivor amidst the carnage appealed to them. They loaded him into a helicopter, obviously in shock as he would not speak, but otherwise remarkably unharmed. Surely a miracle. And the man was transported away from his troubles and he went on to another life and was not heard from again by anyone who had known him.
The searchers watched as the helicopter took him away and they thought to themselves surely this was proof of the unfathomableness of everything and possibly proof of God Himself. Perhaps it symbolized hope. But they weren’t sure and as the sun rose higher and the crows gathered they started to think it was a romantic notion and began to feel foolish and apprehensive. They took these troubles away with them like stones in their shoes.
He didn’t feel cold, although he supposed he was, he wasn’t hungry although he carried food, and soon he found he had forgotten about tracks altogether until he came across his own, left there an hour and a half before. He realized then that he had let the terrain guide him, walking wherever was easiest with little thought to direction, and the crafty mountains had quietly turned him around and tried to expel him. This also troubled him. He had hoped this trip would clear him of troubles, a romantic notion he saw now. And he felt foolish and frustrated and did not at first see the deer, standing still as stone on the edge of a clearing across the valley, not one hundred yards away.
He unslung the rifle, still undecided and troubled over his own doubt. He unslung the rifle because all the reasons for and against balanced exactly and when that happens it is always better to do a thing and know for sure. He crouched behind a fallen tree and lay the rifle barrel across the trunk. The buck had not moved and for a moment he thought it was only a remarkable shadow until it gave a low snort and he saw the steam rise from its muzzle. He sighted the rifle and slowed his breath and though his troubles did not leave him, they stepped aside for a moment. His breathing stopped and his heart slowed and on the third interval he took his shot the way a man steps off a high ledge into black water.
The buck continued to stand perfectly still and the man’s troubles prepared to rage back in at him, twice as mean at having been deferred pointlessly. Then the buck dropped to one knee, turning its head in his direction, though it is doubtful he could be seen behind his log. It stayed that way a while longer then its remaining legs folded slowly under it and the short, sharp puffs of steam stopped coming from its muzzle. The rifle shot continued to echo through the night as the man tested his water and found there were no rocks waiting to crack him open, and the troubles were less sure of themselves and stayed away to discuss it. And still the rifle shot echoed.
The man became aware the sound was growing, reverberating from the mountainsides and coming, it seemed, from all directions. No longer a forlorn echo making futile copies of itself, but a growing roar, a deep shriek following close behind, and the man was confused. His troubles deserted him in cowardice and he looked about franticly for the source of the hellish noise and now there were other sounds, sharp cracks from his left and when he turned that way a glaring light bore down on him from above.
Japan Air 595, a charter flight full of corporate secretaries bound for Banff and a mountain holiday, came down on him dragging one wing, already on fire, through the tree tops as its pilots tried to regain control to the end. Its gleaming alloy belly passed over him in an instant which did not seem to pass, so that he could see the rivets in its panels. It disappeared from his sight in a roaring cloud of snow and smashed branches and sank into the valley, clearing a swath through the trees, and for a micron of time everything was as before, the buck lived and his troubles were close by and familiar. Finally the rumbling pressure wave of the plane’s final impact rose up and passed over him, chasing the forgotten rifle shot down the valley until all was quiet again. The man could see across the valley but not into it and when he looked across it was as though nothing had changed at all. Except the deer was gone, the snow there unmarred.
He made his way down into the valley, following the trail of smashed trees, climbing and clawing his way. The air was sick with the smell of kerosene and hydraulic fluid. Some of the trees still stood and were hung with debris and the odd secretary, one still strapped in her seat, another completely naked except for her shoes. And when he looked around he saw they were on the ground too, all around him, mixed in with the shattered timber and the brightly coloured contents of 319 suitcases so that he could only see them one at a time. A face, a hand, an arm pointing brokenly at him from under a pile of branches. The man sat down in the snow, the sun would come up soon.
They didn’t notice him at first as he didn’t move. He had left his rifle where he’d fired it and there was nothing else to indicate he wasn’t a passenger except that he was wearing boots and a heavy coat, but the searchers refused to notice this, as the thought of a single solitary survivor amidst the carnage appealed to them. They loaded him into a helicopter, obviously in shock as he would not speak, but otherwise remarkably unharmed. Surely a miracle. And the man was transported away from his troubles and he went on to another life and was not heard from again by anyone who had known him.
The searchers watched as the helicopter took him away and they thought to themselves surely this was proof of the unfathomableness of everything and possibly proof of God Himself. Perhaps it symbolized hope. But they weren’t sure and as the sun rose higher and the crows gathered they started to think it was a romantic notion and began to feel foolish and apprehensive. They took these troubles away with them like stones in their shoes.
Friday, February 08, 2008
wtf?
Why didn’t you just say that? Why did you hint and imply and confuse me with subtleties when you know my head is thick? The information inlet is covered in a fine screen to keep out insects and salesmen, only direct thoughts can get through. Tone of voice is repelled likewise subtle body language. I’m not looking, I’m not listening, I’m just absorbing information. And with you it’s like trying to catch bits of confetti dropped in a river. What the hell does that have to do with it, I’m thinking, and damn there goes some more confetti way over the other side. Couldn’t you just put it in a box or plastic bag and hand it to me? Why need it be so thoroughly dispersed?
And why, when it’s my turn and I hand you my confetti neatly wrapped and sorted by colour with an EZ-Open™ flap, do you fling it all up in the air and go chasing after it? Why do you make everything harder than it needs to be?
a² + b² = c²
is Pythagoras’ famous theorem. It describes the relationship between the hypotenuse of a right triangle and its remaining 2 sides. It does not mean Pythagoras favored triangles over the humble square or the noble circle. He was not mandating a triangular world (how would the tides work?), he was not on the payroll of any large triangle manufacturing conglomerate. There was no ulterior motive.
None. It’s just a fact. Go figure.
Do not try to read my body language, tone of voice, facial expression nor should you seek any sub-text. There is none. There are no lines to read between, tone means nothing (however volume has significance) and this is just what gravity does to my face when I’m not using it.
SO (f) HAVE (u) A (c) NICE (k) DAY (o) YOU (f) HEAR? (f)
I mean that.
And why, when it’s my turn and I hand you my confetti neatly wrapped and sorted by colour with an EZ-Open™ flap, do you fling it all up in the air and go chasing after it? Why do you make everything harder than it needs to be?
a² + b² = c²
is Pythagoras’ famous theorem. It describes the relationship between the hypotenuse of a right triangle and its remaining 2 sides. It does not mean Pythagoras favored triangles over the humble square or the noble circle. He was not mandating a triangular world (how would the tides work?), he was not on the payroll of any large triangle manufacturing conglomerate. There was no ulterior motive.
None. It’s just a fact. Go figure.
Do not try to read my body language, tone of voice, facial expression nor should you seek any sub-text. There is none. There are no lines to read between, tone means nothing (however volume has significance) and this is just what gravity does to my face when I’m not using it.
SO (f) HAVE (u) A (c) NICE (k) DAY (o) YOU (f) HEAR? (f)
I mean that.
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