This evening, in the zombie lounge, we took a few moments to step over to another blogger's space: The Ladies Lounge (UNCUT). The site features both lust and graphics by Tim StClaire.
In other, completely unrelated news, the Editor is suffering from a bout of the annual zombie flu, which manifests itself in sniffling, coughing, sneezing, cold toes, and an intense and almost uncontrollable desire to masticate the living flesh of others.
That last symptom, in all honesty, might simply be boredom, as I haven't been out of the house in a few days except to check the mail, and TV and the internet are starting to get a little old. I understand that the writers have some good reasons to strike, and all my sympathies and all that, but if I watch one more bad romantic comedy from ten years ago I'm going to actually kill and eat someone, no joke. I can't even fucking drink, which would usually be the answer when cooped up in the house with nothing to do. Drinking, more's the pity, has been shown to lower the immune system's resistance to zombie flu, whereas it in fact raises resistance to actual zombies: the alcohol numbs the pain of the gnawing.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Friday, November 23, 2007
Giving Thanks
You know what the Editor is fucking thankful for? That this miserable, flea-bitten son of a bitch of a motherfucking goat-balling holiday is finally over.
Happy Thanksgiving - I hope any of my gentle readers who see this had a lovely time. The zombies were likewise well pleased with the day; they dined on undead turkey, which is pretty difficult to get at this time of year, I can tell you. The stores always sell out by the week before.
The Editor, on the other hand, had good food but somewhat lacking company.
Happy Thanksgiving - I hope any of my gentle readers who see this had a lovely time. The zombies were likewise well pleased with the day; they dined on undead turkey, which is pretty difficult to get at this time of year, I can tell you. The stores always sell out by the week before.
The Editor, on the other hand, had good food but somewhat lacking company.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Once Again, It's Time For . . .
The Best of Blogspot!
Yes, folks, the Editor is once again ready to tackle the best - and worst - of Blogspot. We've had some real winners in the past, but the world has turned, the universe has expanded, and the butterfly, flapping its delicate little wings in the South Pacific, has caused an unstoppable hurricane of horrendous linguistic travesty. In other words, there are new blogs to be seen, and new bloggers to be honored with the dubious distinction of inclusion here - or possibly fed to the zombies.
As a worthy starting point, let us consider A LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. A LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS purports to be:
"A journey into the world of The Occult - the hidden dimensions of the modern world including Myth, Magic, Alchemy, Kabbalah, Extra-terrestrial intelligences, UFO's, Divination, Healing, Astrology, Spirituality, the Mystic Arts - plus Current Affairs & of course 'The Conspiracy Theories'."
Features include word jumbles, Motley Crue and Kiss videos, and other paranormal phenomena. We also learn, from A LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS, that you're never too old to write haiku. Actually, the Editor begs to differ - unless you're old enough to have the facial hair typical of a kung fu master (reference: the villain from Master of the Flying Guillotine), you're not old enough to write haiku.
Now, I would really like to be able to make fun of this fellow; and granted, his grammar leaves something to be desired. His site provides links to galleries of amusing images and other useless internet crap, and I expected to be bored, yet simultaneously annoyed. However, I must admit that most of his links are actually pretty fucking funny, or at least not laughable for the wrong reasons.
This next is, aside from its breakthrough feature, a fairly normal Bible-thumping blog. But on this site, and I'm not kidding, it's a miracle - is a "video that demonstrates the only way to salvation." Who would have thought that this guy would find Jesus, and simultaneously find THE ONLY way to salvation, and then - against all odds - film it so that we can all partake? I think I may be converted. Hallelujah.
The last blog of the evening, simply because the Editorial bed is calling me with sweet, sweet songs that promise delightful oblivion and possibly even zombie dreams, is WHEN WE WERE YOUNG. If, gentle reader, you choose to follow the link, please note that Roxy, the proprietress of the site, has demonstrated her desire to be Roxy forever, and has included this in her url. The blog is a showcase for some of the best of modern prose:
okeyy
hello! wassup all my fans out there! how i miss u soo much..
i noe u miss me too! yah0000000000! ok! last tuesday i had a terrible day.. noe why?? COz firstly i went out wif my horrendous, disastrous and all the Big words i can tink of rite nw..secondly, whenever i went out wif that particular frend, i tend to be persuaded to spent MONEYY.. oh dear!
i seriously need to save up!
after that, we went to a movie named RATATOULLE.. GUESS WAD? its a NICE show..
funny and hilarious! oh yah! someone[a stranger sitting next to me on my left] keep on farting and burping all along..! damn! it was a MUSIC to my ears.. im being SARCASTIC HERE..ok.
Although I am always the Editor, and this excerpt in particular begs and pleads for some Editorial attention in the truest sense of the word . . . I do not know where to begin. Perhaps her words should simply stand alone, without the mediation of an editor or an Editor of any kind.
I will leave you with something totally unrelated, a product description from the Bed Bath & Beyond catalog I got in the mail. It advertises a product called the Mangroomer, a "do-it-yourself electric back shaver." Its unique feature is that it is "fully extendable and adjustable to reach all areas of your back." This may be the most depressing object I've ever seen, except that the alternative would seem to be a nation of men actually asking someone else to shave their backs - as a lady friend of the Editor was once asked to do by a boyfriend. Apparently, that experience ranked on the trauma scale somewhere between "eaten by rabid elephants" and "sexually molested by the Easter Bunny."
Yes, folks, the Editor is once again ready to tackle the best - and worst - of Blogspot. We've had some real winners in the past, but the world has turned, the universe has expanded, and the butterfly, flapping its delicate little wings in the South Pacific, has caused an unstoppable hurricane of horrendous linguistic travesty. In other words, there are new blogs to be seen, and new bloggers to be honored with the dubious distinction of inclusion here - or possibly fed to the zombies.
As a worthy starting point, let us consider A LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. A LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS purports to be:
"A journey into the world of The Occult - the hidden dimensions of the modern world including Myth, Magic, Alchemy, Kabbalah, Extra-terrestrial intelligences, UFO's, Divination, Healing, Astrology, Spirituality, the Mystic Arts - plus Current Affairs & of course 'The Conspiracy Theories'."
Features include word jumbles, Motley Crue and Kiss videos, and other paranormal phenomena. We also learn, from A LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS, that you're never too old to write haiku. Actually, the Editor begs to differ - unless you're old enough to have the facial hair typical of a kung fu master (reference: the villain from Master of the Flying Guillotine), you're not old enough to write haiku.
Now, I would really like to be able to make fun of this fellow; and granted, his grammar leaves something to be desired. His site provides links to galleries of amusing images and other useless internet crap, and I expected to be bored, yet simultaneously annoyed. However, I must admit that most of his links are actually pretty fucking funny, or at least not laughable for the wrong reasons.
This next is, aside from its breakthrough feature, a fairly normal Bible-thumping blog. But on this site, and I'm not kidding, it's a miracle - is a "video that demonstrates the only way to salvation." Who would have thought that this guy would find Jesus, and simultaneously find THE ONLY way to salvation, and then - against all odds - film it so that we can all partake? I think I may be converted. Hallelujah.
The last blog of the evening, simply because the Editorial bed is calling me with sweet, sweet songs that promise delightful oblivion and possibly even zombie dreams, is WHEN WE WERE YOUNG. If, gentle reader, you choose to follow the link, please note that Roxy, the proprietress of the site, has demonstrated her desire to be Roxy forever, and has included this in her url. The blog is a showcase for some of the best of modern prose:
okeyy
hello! wassup all my fans out there! how i miss u soo much..
i noe u miss me too! yah0000000000! ok! last tuesday i had a terrible day.. noe why?? COz firstly i went out wif my horrendous, disastrous and all the Big words i can tink of rite nw..secondly, whenever i went out wif that particular frend, i tend to be persuaded to spent MONEYY.. oh dear!
i seriously need to save up!
after that, we went to a movie named RATATOULLE.. GUESS WAD? its a NICE show..
funny and hilarious! oh yah! someone[a stranger sitting next to me on my left] keep on farting and burping all along..! damn! it was a MUSIC to my ears.. im being SARCASTIC HERE..ok.
Although I am always the Editor, and this excerpt in particular begs and pleads for some Editorial attention in the truest sense of the word . . . I do not know where to begin. Perhaps her words should simply stand alone, without the mediation of an editor or an Editor of any kind.
I will leave you with something totally unrelated, a product description from the Bed Bath & Beyond catalog I got in the mail. It advertises a product called the Mangroomer, a "do-it-yourself electric back shaver." Its unique feature is that it is "fully extendable and adjustable to reach all areas of your back." This may be the most depressing object I've ever seen, except that the alternative would seem to be a nation of men actually asking someone else to shave their backs - as a lady friend of the Editor was once asked to do by a boyfriend. Apparently, that experience ranked on the trauma scale somewhere between "eaten by rabid elephants" and "sexually molested by the Easter Bunny."
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Thog! Take Form to Cave Three and Carve Signature in Triplicate
Why, the Editor's rhetorical question of the day begins - why, I ask, do bureaucracies spend such inordinate amounts of time plotting nefariously - nefariously, I say! - to make the lives of anyone with whom they come in contact unbearably horrid?
This is a rhetorical question because it's probably been asked since the dawn of time, or at least from the dawning of bureaucracies; the Editor is forced, against my Editorial better nature, to believe that time and bureaucracy dawned simultaneously, simply because human nature is as black as tar. Or, people are just stupid. Take your pick.
Cavemen probably had paper-pushers, even though they didn't have paper; at least, I don't believe so, but as I regularly use my anthropology class as happy naptime, anyone who knows for sure please feel free to correct me. But the fact is, it's just a certain kind of person, and has absolutely nothing to do with the cultural or technological support available. For example: Thog is getting ready to hunt a mammoth. He picks up his spear, grunts, and starts to head out of the cave.
"Ooog!" cries Borg. "Your spear hasn't been checked out by the Spear Committee! You have to turn it back in for inspection, because if isn't properly tied at the end, it could get stuck in the mammoth."
"But Borg," replies Thog, "I checked it very carefully before planning to hunt. I've been making spears my whole life."
"Ooog!" cries Borg. "Your spear hasn't been checked out by the Spear Committee! You have to turn it back in for inspection, because if isn't properly tied at the end, it could get stuck in the mammoth."
Thog is now somewhat frustrated. "Borg," he begins as patiently as possible, "I am on the Spear Committee. The rest of the Spear Committee is already out hunting. I know that the spear is properly made, and if I don't hunt today, my children will starve."
"Ooog!" cries Borg. "Your spear hasn't been checked out by the Spear Committee! You have to turn it back in for inspection, because if isn't properly tied at the end, it could get stuck in the mammoth."
And so on. In a perfect world, this little morality tale would end with the doubtfully tied spear haft protruding from Borg's neck, and perhaps, for that reason alone, we can all nostalgically harken back to an idyllic hominid past. No such option is available to me, as I hear that the bureaucracy in prison is far more torturous even than that existing at the university.
Then again, it's probably worth it, as the alternative is a mandatory online First Year Alcohol Education Course. I know it doesn't sound that bad, but they don't teach you how to make your own beer - I already asked.
This is a rhetorical question because it's probably been asked since the dawn of time, or at least from the dawning of bureaucracies; the Editor is forced, against my Editorial better nature, to believe that time and bureaucracy dawned simultaneously, simply because human nature is as black as tar. Or, people are just stupid. Take your pick.
Cavemen probably had paper-pushers, even though they didn't have paper; at least, I don't believe so, but as I regularly use my anthropology class as happy naptime, anyone who knows for sure please feel free to correct me. But the fact is, it's just a certain kind of person, and has absolutely nothing to do with the cultural or technological support available. For example: Thog is getting ready to hunt a mammoth. He picks up his spear, grunts, and starts to head out of the cave.
"Ooog!" cries Borg. "Your spear hasn't been checked out by the Spear Committee! You have to turn it back in for inspection, because if isn't properly tied at the end, it could get stuck in the mammoth."
"But Borg," replies Thog, "I checked it very carefully before planning to hunt. I've been making spears my whole life."
"Ooog!" cries Borg. "Your spear hasn't been checked out by the Spear Committee! You have to turn it back in for inspection, because if isn't properly tied at the end, it could get stuck in the mammoth."
Thog is now somewhat frustrated. "Borg," he begins as patiently as possible, "I am on the Spear Committee. The rest of the Spear Committee is already out hunting. I know that the spear is properly made, and if I don't hunt today, my children will starve."
"Ooog!" cries Borg. "Your spear hasn't been checked out by the Spear Committee! You have to turn it back in for inspection, because if isn't properly tied at the end, it could get stuck in the mammoth."
And so on. In a perfect world, this little morality tale would end with the doubtfully tied spear haft protruding from Borg's neck, and perhaps, for that reason alone, we can all nostalgically harken back to an idyllic hominid past. No such option is available to me, as I hear that the bureaucracy in prison is far more torturous even than that existing at the university.
Then again, it's probably worth it, as the alternative is a mandatory online First Year Alcohol Education Course. I know it doesn't sound that bad, but they don't teach you how to make your own beer - I already asked.
Friday, November 02, 2007
Beer.
There's no particular reason for this post. The Editor has a great lack of inspiration today - perhaps it was drained by the immense volume of library research on which I embarked earlier this afternoon, in a quest for a topic for the Honors thesis soon to be spewed forth by the Editor's alter ego, the Bedraggled Student Creature.
(Just in case any one of my gentle readers has doubts as to what a Bedraggled Student Creature is, it is that unfortunate species of wildlife, seen most often in University food courts, eating Panda Express while reading feminist theory. After it has consumed its orange-glazed prey, it typically lurks in a courtyard, chainsmoking and emitting little despairing squeaky sounds, while wishing it had gotten up early enough to take a shower and change into a shirt that doesn't have coffee stains on it. Its natural habitat is a couch, surrounded by pizza boxes and fantasy novels.)
In any case, once I came home from the library, the B.S.C. was shed, like a snakeskin, in favor of the Editorial personality - and the Editor, all things being equal, craves beer.
Let this be a paean, a song of glory, an epic cry to the gods, in the praise of beer. Beer is cold, and bitter; it foams and froths, overflowing with bounty. In its wake, the liver does a little dance of joy, the heart expands, the brain finds random and not entirely interesting conversation with strangers more tolerable than usual, and that moron at the bar who always talks about his pointless computer game programming business becomes less likely to make blood flow from your ears.
Beer is good, beer is pleasing. All hail beer.
(Just in case any one of my gentle readers has doubts as to what a Bedraggled Student Creature is, it is that unfortunate species of wildlife, seen most often in University food courts, eating Panda Express while reading feminist theory. After it has consumed its orange-glazed prey, it typically lurks in a courtyard, chainsmoking and emitting little despairing squeaky sounds, while wishing it had gotten up early enough to take a shower and change into a shirt that doesn't have coffee stains on it. Its natural habitat is a couch, surrounded by pizza boxes and fantasy novels.)
In any case, once I came home from the library, the B.S.C. was shed, like a snakeskin, in favor of the Editorial personality - and the Editor, all things being equal, craves beer.
Let this be a paean, a song of glory, an epic cry to the gods, in the praise of beer. Beer is cold, and bitter; it foams and froths, overflowing with bounty. In its wake, the liver does a little dance of joy, the heart expands, the brain finds random and not entirely interesting conversation with strangers more tolerable than usual, and that moron at the bar who always talks about his pointless computer game programming business becomes less likely to make blood flow from your ears.
Beer is good, beer is pleasing. All hail beer.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
English Handbook for Everybody
The Editor has a raging hangover. What do I do when I'm faced with a general malaise of this magnitude? I do what everyone should do under these circumstances - I turn to a book that truly holds, unlike other books that merely claim to do so (such as the Bible, the Koran, the Encyclopedia Britannica), all knowledge and wisdom necessary for life.
I refer, of course, to the English Handbook for Everybody, a small plastic-bound volume purchased for a dollar or two by the Editorial mom in Chinatown many years ago. This book has gotten me through some dark days, with its relevant and appropriate phrases, in both English and Chinese - at any moment, opening to a random page provides what purports to be a generally useful phrase, but which really has more utility as a Zen exercise in considering what drugs the translators might have been taking while writing the book.
I pity any Chinese immigrant who tries to get through a day in America using only these phrases.
An example: under the general heading "I'm So Mad At . . ." (every section has a heading, organizing useful phrases into categories) appear the following.
Our leader is more devious than your leader.
Auck, don't hit me! I'm an innocent bystander!
Snort! I didn't do anything wrong!
Cad! Cur! Beast!
In the section headed "A Shy Little Kitten," (???????) we find these gems.
Behave yourself, or I'll shoot.
Have a little wine, punk.
Losing her eyelash caused her to blush for shame.
I'm thinking there might be a slight cultural barrier, here. To continue, under "Do It, Now" we learn how to say these generally applicable things in English.
Fly me to Cuba. I hijack the plane.
Hi, thief! Would you stop that music for me?
Give me that rocket and boat, and I'll give you a sucker.
The very next section is called "Oh, No No, . . ."
No. Can't you see that rocket is almost falling down?
Stop it, Appollo!
You must go to the moon. It's your duty.
Make love not war.
Needless to say, all strange spelling/bizarre punctuation choices/generally incomprehensible verbiage can be attributed to the book's editor, and not to the Editor. I could never write anything this imaginative.
In the interests of science, and in honor of the fact that the Editor is now a full-time student once again, I will leave you with a list of all sentences and phrases under the section heading, "Oh, Young Friends!", since that section seems to be generally focused on the collegiate lifestyle.
Jesus freak
McGovern used to be a clergyman.
Hmm, I'm stoned.
Look, he's high.
Right on, Packers!
to smoke marijuana (dope, grass, pot)
freaky jocks
TV crazy
Do you know when the next exam is?
Oh, Mr. Student.
poli-sci major
math major
majorette getting mugged
mugger (no-good boy)
He looks gay.
purse
high-heeled shoes
Peace, baby!
to seek an alternative life styles
You guys are sexists.
Male chauvinist.
women's libbers
It's a B.Y.O.B. (= Bring you own booze) party.
cohabitation dorm
Good night for now, gentle readers. Or, to quote the Book - Farewell, my angel.
I refer, of course, to the English Handbook for Everybody, a small plastic-bound volume purchased for a dollar or two by the Editorial mom in Chinatown many years ago. This book has gotten me through some dark days, with its relevant and appropriate phrases, in both English and Chinese - at any moment, opening to a random page provides what purports to be a generally useful phrase, but which really has more utility as a Zen exercise in considering what drugs the translators might have been taking while writing the book.
I pity any Chinese immigrant who tries to get through a day in America using only these phrases.
An example: under the general heading "I'm So Mad At . . ." (every section has a heading, organizing useful phrases into categories) appear the following.
Our leader is more devious than your leader.
Auck, don't hit me! I'm an innocent bystander!
Snort! I didn't do anything wrong!
Cad! Cur! Beast!
In the section headed "A Shy Little Kitten," (???????) we find these gems.
Behave yourself, or I'll shoot.
Have a little wine, punk.
Losing her eyelash caused her to blush for shame.
I'm thinking there might be a slight cultural barrier, here. To continue, under "Do It, Now" we learn how to say these generally applicable things in English.
Fly me to Cuba. I hijack the plane.
Hi, thief! Would you stop that music for me?
Give me that rocket and boat, and I'll give you a sucker.
The very next section is called "Oh, No No, . . ."
No. Can't you see that rocket is almost falling down?
Stop it, Appollo!
You must go to the moon. It's your duty.
Make love not war.
Needless to say, all strange spelling/bizarre punctuation choices/generally incomprehensible verbiage can be attributed to the book's editor, and not to the Editor. I could never write anything this imaginative.
In the interests of science, and in honor of the fact that the Editor is now a full-time student once again, I will leave you with a list of all sentences and phrases under the section heading, "Oh, Young Friends!", since that section seems to be generally focused on the collegiate lifestyle.
Jesus freak
McGovern used to be a clergyman.
Hmm, I'm stoned.
Look, he's high.
Right on, Packers!
to smoke marijuana (dope, grass, pot)
freaky jocks
TV crazy
Do you know when the next exam is?
Oh, Mr. Student.
poli-sci major
math major
majorette getting mugged
mugger (no-good boy)
He looks gay.
purse
high-heeled shoes
Peace, baby!
to seek an alternative life styles
You guys are sexists.
Male chauvinist.
women's libbers
It's a B.Y.O.B. (= Bring you own booze) party.
cohabitation dorm
Good night for now, gentle readers. Or, to quote the Book - Farewell, my angel.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
No Fucking Zombies
The Editor had a most disappointing experience today, as the title of the post may have already made clear.
Allow me to elaborate. This morning, during hours generally reserved for blissful Editorial unconsciousness, I arose from my zombie lair and dragged my almost immobile carcass, hissing and growling all the way, to the local cemetery. Why, you may ask? Well, the Editor maintains some forms of (somewhat) gainful employment, as a writer, in fact - believe it or not. If my only contact with myself were this somewhat lackadaisical forum, I would myself not believe such information about myself.
Be that as it may. To the cemetery I went, thinking that at least, should the guided tour on which I was embarking prove dull, I could at least spend the time fruitfully, perhaps digging up some freshly buried remains, or playing ninepins with skulls and little tibia bones. To my great, aforementioned, disappointment, not only was the tour dull but no such macabre entertainment had been provided. Au contraire, most of the tour group seemed content to gawk at a variety of Freemason emblems etched into little slabs of rock, meanwhile oohing and aahing over the tombstone of that stupid chick Domino whose life was melodramatized in the stinking, putrid film of the same name.
I beg my gentle readers' pardons, as the experience has driven me into the arms of liquor and run-on sentences - which vice is the more pernicious, I leave it to your wisdom to discern.
Again, be that as it may. The final word on the cemetery tour: no zombies. None, not one. I mean, I maintain a zombie colony, it's true, and you'd think I'd have enough. But there can never be enough zombies, and there were no rotting hands, thrusting through the turf to grab middle aged women by the ankles. No screaming, no eating of flesh. Just the history of the board of directors, punctuated by coy asides about former groundskeepers. Heady stuff, I tell you.
My one regret is that I failed to plant some of my own zombies in the ground the night before - a few leg gnawings would have enlivened the event immensely. Next time, I suppose - although the next time I go to one of those things I'll bring a hip flask, too, just in case.
Allow me to elaborate. This morning, during hours generally reserved for blissful Editorial unconsciousness, I arose from my zombie lair and dragged my almost immobile carcass, hissing and growling all the way, to the local cemetery. Why, you may ask? Well, the Editor maintains some forms of (somewhat) gainful employment, as a writer, in fact - believe it or not. If my only contact with myself were this somewhat lackadaisical forum, I would myself not believe such information about myself.
Be that as it may. To the cemetery I went, thinking that at least, should the guided tour on which I was embarking prove dull, I could at least spend the time fruitfully, perhaps digging up some freshly buried remains, or playing ninepins with skulls and little tibia bones. To my great, aforementioned, disappointment, not only was the tour dull but no such macabre entertainment had been provided. Au contraire, most of the tour group seemed content to gawk at a variety of Freemason emblems etched into little slabs of rock, meanwhile oohing and aahing over the tombstone of that stupid chick Domino whose life was melodramatized in the stinking, putrid film of the same name.
I beg my gentle readers' pardons, as the experience has driven me into the arms of liquor and run-on sentences - which vice is the more pernicious, I leave it to your wisdom to discern.
Again, be that as it may. The final word on the cemetery tour: no zombies. None, not one. I mean, I maintain a zombie colony, it's true, and you'd think I'd have enough. But there can never be enough zombies, and there were no rotting hands, thrusting through the turf to grab middle aged women by the ankles. No screaming, no eating of flesh. Just the history of the board of directors, punctuated by coy asides about former groundskeepers. Heady stuff, I tell you.
My one regret is that I failed to plant some of my own zombies in the ground the night before - a few leg gnawings would have enlivened the event immensely. Next time, I suppose - although the next time I go to one of those things I'll bring a hip flask, too, just in case.
Friday, March 30, 2007
All right: it's almost April
This is the time of year when Aprille showers supposedly come one's way, or some shit. Not in Southern California, of course, but perhaps there is somewhere else on God's green earth which is not in fact Arrakis, Dune, desert planet . . . cue Kyle MacLachlan looking really intense while communicating with a giant worm in a somewhat suspiciously homoerotic yet bestialic (is this a word?) yet . . . oh god, who cares. It's a giant fucking worm. And it pops out of the sand (got to be uncomfortable with all those crevices, anyone who's ever tried to have sex on a beach like in all those movies where they're doing it in the surf will understand the Editor's point here) and then opens its segments . . . all I'm saying (and Dune is one of my favorite, favorite movies, David Lynch is some sort of deity, don't get me wrong) is that it's a little much.
Sidetrack officially over. April. Yes. It is undeniably spring, which means that the Editor feels a little remorseful for having only reinstated the year as of last week. What did the adoring public do during those cold, nonexistent months? Hopefully they soothed their sorrows with copious quantities of macerated, distilled and otherwise tastified mixtures of ethanol. That is of course how the Editor has spent the otherwise useless time.
Speaking of which, the Editor has consumed a fair amount of inexpensive grape-based ethanol this evening, so don't expect no sparkling wit or nuthin. In fact, the Editor's zombie-infested bedchamber awaits; I would merely like to state, since I promised such in the previous post, that I love everyone everywhere. The world is a good and happy place. The Editor is drunk.
Sidetrack officially over. April. Yes. It is undeniably spring, which means that the Editor feels a little remorseful for having only reinstated the year as of last week. What did the adoring public do during those cold, nonexistent months? Hopefully they soothed their sorrows with copious quantities of macerated, distilled and otherwise tastified mixtures of ethanol. That is of course how the Editor has spent the otherwise useless time.
Speaking of which, the Editor has consumed a fair amount of inexpensive grape-based ethanol this evening, so don't expect no sparkling wit or nuthin. In fact, the Editor's zombie-infested bedchamber awaits; I would merely like to state, since I promised such in the previous post, that I love everyone everywhere. The world is a good and happy place. The Editor is drunk.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
2007: Probationally reinstated
All right. There has been no zombie holocaust, and there is no cure for the flu; pie has not even appeared on the horizon, although the Editor did at one point attempt to make a pie and was thwarted by the fact that I can't seem to buy fruit without having it magically go bad. However, in spite of the conditions originally set for 2007 having not yet been fulfilled, the year may continue, for now.
Why, you ask? Because the Editor's cold, dry, blackened heart has suddenly been touched by the essential nitwittery of humanity. No, this is not a joke. One movie, one FX broadcast (still on, if anyone's in front of their television) has changed my life: restored my faith in the tenderness of a father-son relationship, spelled out the dangers of humanity's blindness, and given me a whopping good giggle.
Honestly, if people can still soldier on, blithely making movies like The Day After Tomorrow, and even taking it seriously . . . if, in short, there are people in the world stupid enough to a) believe that this film is a prescient exploration of scientific fact, b) shed a solitary tear for the precociously impertinent teenagers marooned in wolf-ridden (?) New York, or c) pay to see such a film in the theater; if these people exist, then the Editor's life has meaning. Of course, I don't think that's what the makers of the movie in question had in mind. They probably intended the touching warmth, without the uncontrollable laughter. At least they succeeded at something.
And after all, they may have begun an Ice Age in the fictional world of the film; but they ended an Ice Age in the Editor's heart. More warm, fuzzy posts will be coming up soon, when topics may include how much the Editor loves animals, the way that multiracial children make me smile, and the essential decency of all the peoples of the world.
Also, please watch for Hell freezing over in the near future. Happy 2007!
Why, you ask? Because the Editor's cold, dry, blackened heart has suddenly been touched by the essential nitwittery of humanity. No, this is not a joke. One movie, one FX broadcast (still on, if anyone's in front of their television) has changed my life: restored my faith in the tenderness of a father-son relationship, spelled out the dangers of humanity's blindness, and given me a whopping good giggle.
Honestly, if people can still soldier on, blithely making movies like The Day After Tomorrow, and even taking it seriously . . . if, in short, there are people in the world stupid enough to a) believe that this film is a prescient exploration of scientific fact, b) shed a solitary tear for the precociously impertinent teenagers marooned in wolf-ridden (?) New York, or c) pay to see such a film in the theater; if these people exist, then the Editor's life has meaning. Of course, I don't think that's what the makers of the movie in question had in mind. They probably intended the touching warmth, without the uncontrollable laughter. At least they succeeded at something.
And after all, they may have begun an Ice Age in the fictional world of the film; but they ended an Ice Age in the Editor's heart. More warm, fuzzy posts will be coming up soon, when topics may include how much the Editor loves animals, the way that multiracial children make me smile, and the essential decency of all the peoples of the world.
Also, please watch for Hell freezing over in the near future. Happy 2007!
Saturday, January 13, 2007
Due to a concatenation of circumstances, 2007 has been cancelled
I'm sorry to be compelled to make the announcement here, but 2007 has been cancelled. The Editor's nasty flu, a complete lack of pie, and the deceptively zombie-friendly weather (and simultaneously absent zombie holocaust) have led the Editor to declare 2007 a complete wash.
However, anyone wishing to reinstate 2007 as a year in good standing may send the Editor a pie, cure the flu, or kill a whole bunch of people and reanimate them, giving them a strong desire to eat the living flesh of others.
Thanks,
The Editor
However, anyone wishing to reinstate 2007 as a year in good standing may send the Editor a pie, cure the flu, or kill a whole bunch of people and reanimate them, giving them a strong desire to eat the living flesh of others.
Thanks,
The Editor
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
The love poem of a creepy old man
To continue the theme of bad poetry, here is a poetical offering written to a good friend of the Editor's by a former professor of hers, with whom she had a short relationship recently. This was his tribute to her beauty and charm, reprinted with her kind permission:
The name carries far
Beyond any claim,
No gravity to contain
This daybreak,
Or beauty each breath taken gives back.
The light on your skin,
An astral kiss in the dark histories
Of what might have been,
The place where exhausted worlds dream
Of going.
And that vanishing point, too,
Concealed like a weapon or gift,
Where life and little death happen
To the chosen who bring you there,
Where pleasure and pain merge
Like true believers,
Reckless in knowing.
Your heartbeat behind manic drumbeats
And electric strings
This awkward body cannot keep time to.
Your soul hidden by constellations I want to see
But dying stars I may already inhabit.
Your light forever trapped in the time and space
I have become.
There's not a lot to be said about this, except that the author of this poem teaches writing classes. Let's hope his students don't pay very much attention to his lectures. My friend is offering a prize for anyone who can make any sense of this poem, other than the thinly veiled reference to orgasm in the middle.
FYI, Tifanie, I don't think there's a single woman in the world who would want to be described as having abundant thighs. That's got to be a turn-off. Thanks for the excellent comment, let the bad poetry continue unabated!
Beyond any claim,
No gravity to contain
This daybreak,
Or beauty each breath taken gives back.
The light on your skin,
An astral kiss in the dark histories
Of what might have been,
The place where exhausted worlds dream
Of going.
And that vanishing point, too,
Concealed like a weapon or gift,
Where life and little death happen
To the chosen who bring you there,
Where pleasure and pain merge
Like true believers,
Reckless in knowing.
Your heartbeat behind manic drumbeats
And electric strings
This awkward body cannot keep time to.
Your soul hidden by constellations I want to see
But dying stars I may already inhabit.
Your light forever trapped in the time and space
I have become.
There's not a lot to be said about this, except that the author of this poem teaches writing classes. Let's hope his students don't pay very much attention to his lectures. My friend is offering a prize for anyone who can make any sense of this poem, other than the thinly veiled reference to orgasm in the middle.
FYI, Tifanie, I don't think there's a single woman in the world who would want to be described as having abundant thighs. That's got to be a turn-off. Thanks for the excellent comment, let the bad poetry continue unabated!
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