Notes from overground

End

2011-02-25T23:54:00.000-08:00

Tonight I was moved to take a look through this blog after several years of neglect - not in its entirety, but an overview. Spam comments just keep on coming. If nothing else, when they land in my email inbox they act as a reminder that while some things end, anything you post on the web remains. Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair; also, buy more Viagra. (As a sidenote, I find it disturbing how many of the spam comments I deleted were links to incest porn.)

I realized I never posted a final post here. I'm going to take a leaf from my colleague Tifanie's book (the link to her previous blog, and its last post, is in the blogroll to the left), and say that this blog represents a period that's now over. This blog represents a life that I lived, and a job that I had, and friends that I thankfully still have, in great measure and with some few unfortunate exceptions.

I fed them to the zombies, of course.

The Editor still lives, however, and can be found pursuing an appropriate Editorial destiny writing about books at indiscriminatereader.blogspot.com. I still maintain a zombie lab, relocated to Texas at great cost in financial resources and human life, and a remarkably unproductive custom spork factory.

End.

Fun Album Cover Game

2008-05-25T21:16:00.001-07:00

This is very silly, and I'm really just posting it so that a friend can see the results of a game - similar to that in which you generate a porn name - that he posted on his blog.

You can participate here.

And my results, which will make no sense unless you've read the rules:

I believe this is the attempted 90s adult-contemporary comeback album of an 80s band with one hit, a single made popular through being on the soundtrack of a John Hughes movie.

Maybe Only Half a Sign

2008-05-25T02:14:00.000-07:00

As the title of this post indicates, I'm not sure if this quite qualifies as a full sign of the coming Apocalypse:

This woman really looks like she's looking forward to flushing this piece of pizza from her already grotesquely overstuffed colon, n'est-ce pas?

Half a sign of the Apocalypse, folks. Half a sign. For a full one, she'd have to be doing the flushing in the photo, not building up the need for it.

My Mommy Is Ugly and Needs a Boob Job

2008-04-21T14:36:00.000-07:00

A few posts ago, I found one potential sign that the Apocalypse is truly on its way - NASCAR themed Harlequin romances. (Just a quick note on that topic - a young lady friend of the Editor's saw one of these abominations on a used bookstore shelf, picked it up out of morbid curiosity, and reported to me that yes, it is just as classy as one might expect.)

And now, yea, I have seen the second sign, Hallelujah.

Some freak plastic surgeon decided that the big problem with cosmetic surgery in the United States is not the fact that it's dangerous, expensive, overused, and generally similar to Medieval torture except that you pay a lot for it (the Inquisition did it for free, at least). No, the issue really is that children are confused by the fact that their mommies go in to the doctor's office just fine and looking like they always do, and come out groggy, covered in bandages, and then - looking completely different.

FYI, Dr. Michael Salzhauer doesn't think that the best solution to this problem is, I don't know, getting less plastic surgery? No. The solution is to write a picture book explaining how Mommy's just fine, and once the bandages come off - she'll be pretty!

I shit you not. Of course, aside from the profit Dr. Wackjob is making from his wonderful book, he is doubtless hoping for a new generation of business from children who have been convinced along the way that no one is really pretty until they've had their nose broken, shaved, and molded. You can read an excerpt of the book here.

Time to Form a Cave

2008-04-19T15:49:00.001-07:00

Inspired by my friend over at the Back of the Cereal Box, I've decided that it's time to share some of the stranger ways that internet users have found this site. The funny thing is that absolutely none of the keywords used to reach Notes From Overground have involved zombies - I guess I've succeeded in keeping the lab low-profile.

Regular readers may remember a post titled "The Love Poem of a Creepy Old Man" - that page has generated the most searches and the most hits, because apparently, despite the recipient of that poem having been both shocked and horrified by the experience, many people actually want to be written creepy poems. Is it that hard to get a poetic stalker? My friends' experiences would suggest no, but apparently it is for the type of people who end up on this site. They have searched for:

creepy love poems
creepy love poem
a poem of death and creepy
creepy poetry
love poem creepy
love poem+older man
love poems creepy
poem loose women
poem too old love
poems about creepy dream
poetry creepy

The first, "creepy love poems," generated 14 separate hits. That, I believe, is because this is the first site on the list for that search. Congratulations to me: I have become the internet's number one source for creepy love poems about/written by creepy old men. Cross that goal off the list!

Other noteworthy searches which lead to this site, and for which this is the first hit:

time to form a cave
astral kiss
joop necktie
your light forever trapped in the time and space

The very best search, however, is:

desperate christadelphians

This does NOT lead directly to Notes From Overground - in fact, this site is on the fourth page of a Google search. Which suggests, perhaps, that the searcher was truly desperate to find a desperate Christadelphian, for some sinister reason of their own.

Jungle Sex, Anyone?

2008-04-16T23:08:00.001-07:00

Tonight's TV Guide feature: Alabama Jones and the Busty Crusade.

The description: "Three beautiful explorers enter a jungle to search for an idol that turns women into sexual slaves."

As the zombie lab isn't profitable enough to allow me to subscribe to Cinemax, I may never know whether or not Alabama Jones and her intrepid (and busty!) companions retrieve the mysterious idol. But my bet is that at least one of them turns into a sexual slave by the end of the film . . . any takers?

Best . . . Restaurant Review . . . EVER

2008-04-14T02:38:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure who wrote this review of the Nordstrom Cafe . . . it might have been Lerx in disguise as the sinister "jessica ann simon".

BAD COSTUMER SERVICE
Reviewer: jessica ann simon from (town deleted), ca
YOU HURT MY FEELINGS WHEN YOU GUYS DID NOT LET MY TEACHER SANJA HUNT BRING HER DOG PEANUT TO THE OUT SIDE TABLES YOU GUYS WERE VERY RUDE AND INCONSIDERATE OF MY TEACHER WANTING TO BRING HER DOG TO OUR LUNCH DESTINATION YOU GUYS WRE NOT POLIET i FEEL THIS WAY BECAUSE MY TEACHER loves her dog peanut. and her dog is a small dog she is a toy dog and it will nice if you can under stand that a small toy dog needs to be with her owner

I wonder if the staff would have been more "POLIET" had they known in advance that the dog's name was Peanut. jessica ann simon apparently thinks so.

Why I Hate Academia: Part I of Approximately MMM

2008-04-10T15:35:00.000-07:00

While searching for some (probably equally ungodly) article titled "Notes on Deconstructing the Popular," I chanced upon this: "Organ Transplantation as a Transformative Experience: Anthropological Insights into the Restructuring of the Self."

Which, I think, means that the author has made the great discovery that having one's organs transplanted is somewhat traumatic.

New Feature!

2008-04-08T22:39:00.000-07:00

In what may become a continuing feature in this forum, I feel compelled to note that there is one highly underappreciated type of writing out there: the movie description on the TV Guide channel (or alternately, the guide function on a DVR). Tonight's winner: HBO's description of The Highlander, which may be one of the best movies ever made, although I know at least one of my regular readers will disagree.

This film has everything: swords, Christopher Lambert, highly quotable moments ("He's in league with Lucifer!"), a bad mid-eighties easy-listening soundtrack, and Things That Are Scottish, not to mention a villain who looks like a goth/punk pro-wrestler who eats arsenic on the weekends.

This is how my DVR guide describes the film: "A New Yorker beheads a swordsman in a parking lot, continuing a battle of immortals."

There's something about the way it completely misses the point, while simultaneously perfectly capturing the film's essence, that makes it so great.

John and Megan

2008-03-21T20:57:00.001-07:00

I don't know John and Megan. I just happened upon their blog a moment ago.

But the fact that they only seem able to create one facial expression each somehow struck me as funny, that's all.

Oh, No They Didn't . . .

2008-03-20T23:42:00.000-07:00

As some of my gentle readers may know, I'm doing my English honors thesis on romance novels. Yes, I am, stop laughing, please.

Specifically, I'm studying how representations of masculinity in the Harlequin Presents series of romance novels have undergone a paradigm change since the seminal studies in the genre, in the early 1980s. See? Academia is awesome, because you can say very little in very many words. Gotta love it. (This project, fyi, accounts for my odd Shelfari picks, if anyone wondered.)

But. The point is, this pursuit leads me to spend a fair amount of time on Harlequin's website, looking at writing guidelines and press info and sales statistics and new releases. And, today, looking at . . . the most . . . okay, imagine the worst possible combination of masculine/feminine pop culture, like, say, a Cosmopolitan magazine written by Carrot Top, or something, and then . . . oh God, it's too horrible to contemplate. I give you:

Ladies and gentlemen, please place a paper bag over your head, as it will make the coming Apocalypse slightly less disturbing.

Cake or death? Only it's not a joke.

2008-03-01T23:58:00.001-08:00

Just today, I discovered a sect of Christianity previously unknown to me - the Christadelphians. Wikipedia, the ultimate repository of all knowledge and wisdom (until I find a real copy of the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, at least) informs me that there are only about 50,000 of these folks in the world, spread throughout 120 different countries. There are also break-off sects of Christadelphians, which may only have 50 members. Other Christians consider them insane.

On the other hand, the Christadelphians consider the Jehovah's Witnesses to be insane, and so the moral seems to be: no matter how fucked up you are, there's someone even more batshit crazy than you. Unless you're the Jehovah's Witnesses, of course - that's the bottom of the barrel.

Be that as it may, the Christadelphians take pride in their literal interpretation of much of the Bible. They espouse the idea of a second coming and a general resurrection of the faithful; as a result they draw a sharp contrast between what they call the Kingdom of Men and the Kingdom of God.

Eddie Izzard has a particularly good routine on the Anglican Church, in which he comments that were that institution to have an Inquisition, it would be a little wimpy - something along the lines of "Cake or death?" The Christadelphians apparently also believe in cake or death, only they represent it thus:
The intro I've just provided aside, this may be one of the most compelling images ever created. Please note the contrast between the flaming skull levitating above a lava flow, on the one hand, and the giant hummingbird, on the other. Giant hummingbirds or flaming skulls? The choice is yours.

Success!

2008-01-06T02:37:00.001-08:00

I forgot to mention that there is a follow-up to the bureaucratic battle which was waged between the Editor and the dark forces of Mandatory Alcohol Education. Although no spears were finally used in the confrontation, the Editor did receive a moderately courteous email waiving the requirement.

Such are the anemic victories of this modern age . . .

The Meaning of Art - Solved at Last!!!

2008-01-06T02:26:00.000-08:00

Going back to the honorable roots of this most honorable blog (I think I'm turning Japanese, or at least my adjectives are, can anyone help with this?) this post has no plot, points of interest, purpose, or anything else that does or does not begin with the letter p. Unless you include pointlessness.

To continue: the Editor has always been a staunch believer that art is independent of the observer, unlike particles that obey the laws of quantum mechanics. (This will not be a discussion of how art differs from quarks, but it's a point worth noting nonetheless.) In other words, a painting is good whether or not it is seen, a piece of music is good whether or not it is heard (although it is ideally more frequently heard when it's good), and a book, or piece of writing, is good even if no one but the writer ever knows it exists. Beauty, in short, is neither in the bloodshot eye of the potentially illiterate, moonshine-swilling scum of this world, nor in the jaundiced eye of the poncy, pompous, pretentious and ultra-pc ambiguously sexualized artistes of this world. So why the desire to post writing on the ultimate public forum (except the surface of the moon - if I were a corporation, I'd have an enormous billboard up there so fucking fast) - the internet? Not, of course, that I am implying that my writing is good. Nor am I implying that it's bad. That's not the issue. The issue is, no matter what the grammatical or philosophical quality of the writing, why post it?

See, if I had real confidence in my own ability, it ought to be just the same to me, typing into a word document hour after hour. It shouldn't matter whether or not it's accessible to anyone else, because its quality is unrelated to the reader or lack thereof. So my posting of this dubiously worthwhile material is completely illogical. It's a combination of either a) the assumption that somewhere out there there's a person who will just love my style, or b) the desperate, hoping praying longing for some person out there to just love my style. The first implies that I'm a narcissist. The second suggests that I'm an idiot.

Both are true in differing degrees. But looking at this from a non-Editor-centric position, everyone has this same dilemma. How much to believe in yourself, versus how much to beg for attention, is the most difficult dichotomy of expression. It's hard to go through day after day hoping that someday someone will give a rat's ass; at the same time, if you care, you're negating any natural pride in your own objective worth.

I think that this is somewhat true for everyone who embarks on an artistic endeavor. Of course, this is just the sort of drivel that I deplore when I hear it, but bear with me. Everyone creates for a reason, and it's somewhere between an inability not to and a need to show that you've got something in you that can be put out in a form not entirely incomprehensible to the world at large. I guess it's the fact that the Mona Lisa would be great even if it were buried in the center of the earth, much like the Statue of Liberty buried in the sand on the Planet of the Apes - but the fact that enshrining it in the Louvre is what has made it great, to the world at large, really gets me. Get me? Probably not, since this is drivel.

Let's try again. Did Leonardo daVinci plan for his painting to be gawked at and admired by millions of people? No, probably not. Would it provide him with validation to know that this is so? Possibly, since most artists are insecure. I guess what I'm trying to get at is that in order to create art in its purest form, the critic can't critique, or even see, the art. The creation of true art then depends on an artist who is so supremely egotistical that no one else's opinion could possibly matter, and an artist in the possession of such self-confidence wouldn't need to show their art to anyone. There would be no urge to seek an audience, because it would be a pure impulse to create, with no ulterior motives.

If anyone has read this far, go have a cocktail and send me the bill. You people are better than a fucking shrink, in a multitude of ways: 1) unlike a shrink, your brain does not obey the laws of quantum mechanics on a macro level, i.e. your emotions exist in either a positive or negative state but not both, even when you are not observed; 2) you are not a shrink, which makes anything better.

Bite Me, or I'll Bite You

2007-11-27T23:56:00.001-08:00

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.

Giving Thanks

2007-11-23T01:07:00.000-08:00

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.

Once Again, It's Time For . . .

2007-11-20T01:01:00.000-08:00

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."

Thog! Take Form to Cave Three and Carve Signature in Triplicate

2007-11-17T01:41:00.000-08:00

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.

Beer.

2007-11-02T01:11:00.000-07:00

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.

English Handbook for Everybody

2007-10-28T23:48:00.000-07:00

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.

No Fucking Zombies

2007-10-24T23:41:00.000-07:00

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.

All right: it's almost April

2007-03-30T02:04:00.000-07:00

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.

2007: Probationally reinstated

2007-03-24T20:58:00.000-07:00

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!

Due to a concatenation of circumstances, 2007 has been cancelled

2007-01-13T01:18:00.000-08:00

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

The love poem of a creepy old man

2007-01-02T21:00:00.000-08:00

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!

Worst Christmas Gift Ever - From Me to You!!!

2006-12-25T01:21:00.000-08:00

According to Douglas Adams, the third worst poetry in the known Universe was written by the Vogons, a peculiarly nasty race with a penchant for exploding planets to make way for ultimately unnecessary hyperspace bypasses. Here's a sample, reprinted without any permission, but with what we like to think of as the posthumous chuckling of the author:

Oh freddled gruntbuggly,
Thy micturations are to me
As plurdled gabbleblotchits on a lurgid bee.

Groop I implore thee, my foonting turlingdromes
To hooptiously drangle me with crinkly bindlewurdles
For otherwise, I will rend thee in the gobberwarts with my blurglecruncheon -
See if I don't.

The punctuation and line breaks may be a little off - the Editor was, of course, typing from memory. I hate poetry, but the work of a master can always stick in my mind.

The point, however, is that my Xmas gift to all of you, Christian, Jew or atheist, black or white or greenish from eating too much plum pudding, is the first and only worst poetry in the known Universe. Mr. Adams did mention that the worst poetry was found on Earth, but he never gave us a sample. I'm simply fulfilling his dream, and going where no one literate has ever gone, should ever go, or will forgive me for going.

I give you - Leonardo.

The first taste - call it an amuse bouche:

I would like to dream tonight
of a wizard taking flight,
feeling happiness and health,
sharing wisdom, love, and wealth.

Wouldn't we all? This is truly the spirit of the holidays. A wizard taking flight? YES!!!!!

I see your intent
my hope is spent
deep lament

yet I agreed
to hold my seed
so I proceed

let my heart bleed

nobody comprehends
the depths to which my love extends

I am to believe your distaste for me
for who am I to disagree
you have given your decree

in the name of being true
I will hold my love for you
until I see my magick through

I have no words. For anyone familiar with the Editor, this will explain the depth of my emotion.

Now, this next one - if there are any other rabid Adams fans in the house, they will surely recall that the second worst poetry in the Universe was written by the Azgoths of Kria, exemplified by the "Ode to a Lump of Green Putty I Found in My Armpit One Midsummer Morning". Please keep the felicity of that title in mind as you read - well, all I have to say is, I'm wishing y'all a Merry F'ing Christmas right this minute, because you may not live long enough for me to get another chance. Good luck. I love you all - may the Editor's strength go with you.

Ode to Acetylcholine

Acetate and choline are combined to make you up.
AChE reseparates you, then choline gets taken up.

Autonomic ganglia, skeletal muscle: nicotinic.
Cortex, limbic system, parasympathetic: muscarinic.

You help me to learn new things,
and get REM sleep - the dreams it brings!

Botulinum toxin shuts me down by blocking you.
Venom from black widows tires me out, releasing you.

Nicotine's excitatory.
Muscarine's inhibitory.
Curare is nicotinic.
Atropine is muscarinic.

(The first two are the shockers,
while the last two are the blockers.)

Organophosphates interfere with your deactivation -
except in mammals, because we have specialized protection.

Nerve gas is more brutal, killing all the soldiers in the base -
like organophosphates, stops Acetyl Choline Esterase.

If you can still have a happy New Year after reading the above, then please do so with my blessing.

Best of the Season from The Editor, the Zombies, and my bottle of Scotch.

Posts, posts, everywhere, but not a drop to drink

2006-10-03T02:21:00.000-07:00

So, I've been informed by an Anonymous reader that it is past time for a post. And who am I to argue with the demands of my public (which is, of course, vast and capable of great feats of literary discernment?) - therefore, friends, Romans and countrymen, prepare thyselves for a post. And what scintillating subject, you ask, will the Editor choose this fine morning? I hear a cry of "zombies" in the back of the audience. This is a distinct possibility. Or could it be vast quantities of hard liquor, or perhaps something even more sinister, baffling and ultimately enigmatic?

Actually, the zombie lab has changed locations once again, and although this may provide fodder for a subsequent posting, for the moment, we will explore the seedy underbelly of the internet. In five, four, three, two . . .

Life is analogous to the pigs quarter - 25

2006-08-03T01:20:00.000-07:00

If the above title means anything to you, please, please let me in on the joke. It's the title of of a Craigslist posting (women for men), and continues thusly:

Everything looked good when I was little, did it to you? Then I grew up I thought there were all of these things wrong with me but whereinfact the outside world is truly a lude and bottomless practice range targeting the soul and the heart, unless you have tough friends that have ended up being your one and onlys and to whom you dedicate your pathetic crusade for amorality or something. ok. riddle over! Do you agree? I'm 5'10, 150, of Italian and German heritage, still working out at UCSB for my BA with plans to to an MA in Social Work.

Yes. I agree completely. How could one disagree with something so entirely clear and eloquent? Speaking of eloquent, here we have Exhibit B, a woman who describes herself as not only eloquent, but classy into the bargain:
I'd say that the whole ensemble screams class and taste, wouldn't you? It screams it almost as loud as the men reading the post scream while they're running away, or watching their penises permanently disappear. So granted, the Editor is not feeling the eloquence and class this evening, either. But what the hey. I waded through an entire CL personals section, to bring you the best of the best of today's available, hot-to-trot singles. These are the people, people, who have not yet figured out that life is but a lude and bottomless practice range. Get it? It makes total sense. Go stick your head in a bucket of cold, hard reason and come back and read it again.

Then, we have one of the typical "sugar daddy" postings, this time in men for women, which is set apart only by its air of peculiar desperation:

This is something you may not have considered before. Why not meet a man who is concerned about helping you with some of your bills and making your life easier and nicer and making you feel wanted, desired and important. You have much to gain by such a relationship with me and nothing to lose. You are certainly not a bad person for doing this. Rather a savvy lady who is tired of boyfriends with no extra money to help you when you need it. I'm the opposite of that.

Is he the opposite of a savvy lady? I'll buy that. Is he the opposite of a boyfriend with no extra money? That sounds okay . . . until you remember that the "nothing to lose" encompasses only a modicum of self-respect, and any kind of life plan that doesn't involve being a prostitute. Details, details.

Here is a woman who insists upon "no gropping":

That won't be a very hard rule to follow, I mean, would you grop that? Not grok, remember, which involves some kind of philosophical statement about the nature of human relationships, or something. This is gropping, and it's serious business. But frankly, I'd rather grop a dingo.

True Love

2006-05-31T02:32:00.000-07:00

That David was a hypochondriac was painfully obvious to all who knew him; he thought of himself as delicate. Not effeminate, per se, but fragile, pallid and easily injured. There was a coarseness, he felt, about those who could tolerate life without undue bother. Their ability to have a stomach-ache without an ulcer, parasite or cancer unsettled him.

Over the course of his adult life (dating from legal majority, ten years) he had been afflicted with tapeworms, liver flukes, pinworms and other varieties of nematode and flatworm too numerous to mention; mouth cancer, colon cancer, and a tumor in his neck; heart palpitations, flutters, skips and jumps. He had warts, psoriasis, alopecia; his prostate enlarged and shrank again on a bi-weekly basis. Heart attacks and strokes followed one after the other like machine-gun fire, particularly during holidays. He sprained his penis and discovered a rectal blockage almost simultaneously: it was the happiest day of his life, barring only that on which he contracted Ebola for the second time. AIDS and Hep A through C had become a lingering worry, but mononucleosis, arteriosclerosis and muscular dystrophy were just background noise to the litany of migraines, walking pneumonia, eye infections, ingrown hairs, gingivitis, labyrinthitis and kidney stones.

One of the greatest disappointments he had ever had to swallow was that he was forever denied yeast infections, bacterial vaginosis, menstrual cramps and ovarian cancer; but he consoled himself with hemorrhoids, and the little-known fact that men can have breast cancer too.

Most people joke that they’ve put their doctor’s children through college. David really did. The month that he had diabetes (both Type I and Type II) and Lou Gehrig’s disease all at once paid for an entire semester abroad, and no quantity of blood tests could convince him that he would live to see the next hockey season (which, aside from his health, was his only real passion).

He lived in Portland, Oregon, and in fine weather would walk alongside the river looking at the cherry blossoms (watery eyes, sneezing fits) and the old men walking their dogs (hives and sinus congestion). He would peer at passersby through his tinted spectacles (not sunglasses – they make one vulnerable to conjunctivitis), and admire their seeming health.

And, the glasses blocked both UVA and UVB, which was, as he loved to tell others in the park, critical – because he had, at all costs, to avoid corneal abrasion. And he had a condition which prevented his pupils from fully contracting. Even if they did not take much pleasure from these encounters, he did. Thus the karmic balance of the city was maintained, and on the whole he spent his life fairly easily.

At the end of summer, when the air began to chill and the wind whistled through the narrow little tree-lined streets, David retired indoors to brood. He frequently had no one to talk to, and did not drink or do anything particularly suited to his age. To the great surprise of anyone close enough to him to care, he was actually, medically, and without doubt a sufferer from very acute and sometimes debilitating asthma, and was restricted to a set number of activities. A social life was made difficult, therefore.

But he had a parakeet, and he taught it little phrases. It learned to whistle Dixie, because he truly loved the movie Gone With the Wind, and would watch it with his bird perched on his arm; and it could greet the UPS delivery man and the newspaper boy by name. They liked the bird more than the man, and were distressed by his thin stooping shoulders and look of faint puzzlement, which hung about him like a fine mist. He greeted them cheerfully, however, and as soon as they had learned not to ask him, ever, how he was doing, all went swimmingly.

Owen, the parakeet, was always a happy little fellow, and truly loved David more than any of his family had ever done. It was, no doubt, partially due to the fact that the little bird could not understand any of his conversation; but it was unconditional loyalty, something most people cannot boast. David and Owen lived together in the greatest of harmony, and would whistle out the window in unison at the blue jays that congregated in the tree at the corner of the apartment building. Both of them took great joy in the impotent scolding of the jays, as they realized they were being mocked by that funny mismatched pair of birds that lived in the window across the way. It was the cause of great hilarity.

They shared meals, both pecking at bits of fruit, as the sun went down over the river. It was not a life of misery, by any means, and online medical dictionaries could cheer any hour that began to drag more than was bearable.

And, with that and with the hockey season, the winter passed away.

When the cherry blossoms came out again, David carefully wound a scarf about his throat and prepared to venture down to the bank of the river. He would not stay away long, for Owen would be lonely without him. Nevertheless, he looked forward to the fresh breeze, and a rare sunny day in spring. The glint on the water was, if eye-strain-inducingly bright, at least a pleasure after months of grey; David strolled down a little path through the park, almost humming with the sight of it.

He had not spoken to anyone besides delivery men for at least six weeks, and looked about him for someone with whom to exchange a few words. Surprisingly, on such a fine day, there was hardly anyone enjoying the weather outside. David could find no one who looked promising, and began to deflate. He had so looked forward to speaking with someone besides Owen, who, with all his manifold virtues, had a limited vocabulary. But nothing presented itself, and David wandered back home, with that faint feeling of discontent more common to forgotten theatre tickets, the end of good books, and too many hours spent sitting at a coffeeshop.

He had never felt this way before, that something was missing. How could it be? There was his never-failing ability to diagnose; there were Canadians, who despite his patriotism were really just better at hockey; there were movies and magazines, websites and newspapers, and always, at the end of the day, there was Owen, chirping just for him. He shrugged the feeling off, picked up some things at the grocery store, and went home in time for a rerun of a particularly good episode of the Simpsons.

The two of them spent an unusually peaceful evening. David was tired from his walk, and felt a headache, appendicitis, and a recurrence of his Addison’s disease coming on. He wanted nothing more than to rest and nibble some carrot sticks, and felt much better by the time he was ready for bed.

As usual, he carefully folded back the covers and brushed off his feet, before wriggling beneath the sheets with a sigh of contentment. Owen hopped sideways until he was as near to David as he could be on his little swing, where he slept with one eye cocked, and his feathers ruffled cosily. David turned his head towards him, and closed both of his eyes. They slept, listening to the distant sound of the river, and dreamed of Vivien Leigh.

Chewing, Gnawing, Slavering Undead Beasts - It's a Party, and You're All Invited

2006-04-04T02:10:00.000-07:00

So, our friend Mary of Maron Studio (check out their new website, FYI, if you haven't already), has brought me on board as a general zombie consultant on a project they're working on. Now, they've asked me to provide a general overview of the different sorts of biting, gnawing, chewing, and other forms of mastication indulged in by the recently living, currently undead dead in a variety of film (and real!) settings. Feeling that this is a topic of general utility, I have decided to communicate this information through the blog, rather than in a private email to Mary.

Also, that gives me something to post, and I know they've been rather thin of late.

So, zombies eating flesh. Typically, there are two types of zombies represented in film (a subject which Mary and I have already covered in general outline): those that are infected with some sort of super-aggression virus (a la 28 Days Later) and those that are spawned by some process outside of the realm of normal science (most of the rest of the canon, for example Night of the Living Dead, the original Dawn of the Dead, etc). Now, as I know I've said before, these latter type are the real, actual zombies which inhabit my lab (and numerous unfortunate jungle villages, usually near the Equator), whereas the former are a recent invention of Hollywood. As one might expect, in the new, fast zombie representations, the chewing and biting is likewise done quickly, and with dispatch. The zombies run up and begin immediately pulling parts off, fighting one another over severed limbs and bits of tendon, and generally behaving like ill-mannered children with a plate of cookies.

In the original (and accurate) zombie films, the zombies move more slowly. They are clumsy; their flesh is slowly rotting, and their muscles are losing their tone and are under less precise control. The biting and gnawing, although motivated by a very definite and pressing need for fresh human blood, is hampered by an inability to move as gracefully as a living human might be capable of doing.

To recap, even the slowest and most decomposed of undead shambling horror will be hungry at the beginning of the feast, even if clumsy and unable to eat as quickly as it might like. However, just like with any meal, at the end one is less hungry, more sated, and will savor a few more bites in an almost offhand and lackadaisical fashion. In short, after a zombie has had its fill, it will still sit with what is left of its supper, perhaps picking the meat off a hand or foot, or thoughtfully chewing a bone as a digestif. The type of biting, to summarize, is determined by how much the zombie has had to eat.

It is also hypothesized (and this is, of course, one of my current research topics) that the desire to create more zombies causes the eagerness to eat found in a zombie when it takes a new victim. However, this makes far more sense in the context of some sort of pathogen, which would bring on symptoms that could further the spread of the disease. Given that it is still unknown what causes the dead to rise from their graves, spreading terror wherever they go, this hypothesis is at best worthy of further consideration in an off hour. Basically, for the purpose of a good and accurate film, zombies eat quickly when they haven't fed for a while, and slowly when they've had their equivalent of Thanksgiving dinner. Zombies also seem to be more ravenous when they are newly created/newly undead.

Anyone interested in helping to find scientific answers to any of these questions, you are more than welcome to swing by the lab. I suggest that you finish any paperwork relating to the distribution of your personal effects, and bring a can of cranberry sauce and some pearl onions.

Loose Women of Low Character

2006-03-26T15:30:00.000-08:00

Well, the Editor has had a pleasant lazy Sunday so far (although such a statement will probably cause a meteor to strike my house, or a plague of locusts - so knock on wood for me) and has occupied some of this time in putting together a proposed piece of artwork/promotional material for the LWOLC show. Now, I know that Tifanie and I, at least, cringe unbearably when presented with the words "postcard mailing" . . . but it might be fun to send something to friends and associates, to let them know when the show's going up.

This is just a preliminary mock-up - I don't know if anyone will like the idea, but tell me what you think! It just seemed like fun.

Back to School

2006-02-10T01:06:00.000-08:00

The Editor has recently returned to the academic world, in the (hopefully not completely futile) attempt to become further edjimicated (sp?). I guess that's why I need skool, I'm not sure if my spelling's quite up to par. At least I've not yet sunk to the levels of illiteracy pioneered by Howie.

Anyhoo. I apologize most profusely for the lack of posts recently. Work and classes have commandeered almost all of the Editorial energy of late. However, I did find the time to finish my contribution to a theatrical work suggested to me by Tifanie and others, and if any of the participants happen to read this, I am no longer holding up the process! Back to zombies and arson! And not a moment too soon.

I don't really NEED to say anything, do I?

2006-01-13T10:38:00.000-08:00

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words, Unless It's a Crappy Snapshot

2006-01-09T17:07:00.000-08:00

For those of you who may have been wasting away with the longing to see the Editor's face and person, here's a recent snapshot:
I'd had a pretty good day. I think my hair looks nice in that one, actually.

And so's you can get a feel for how the Editor spends those long and work-filled days, here's a picture of one of my coworkers (since I know Tifanie misses them, and would love to see how they're doing).

Happy Fucking New Year!

2006-01-01T18:40:00.000-08:00

Hope all of you were as drunk as the Editor. Or possibly not. In any case, Happy New Year from all the zombies here at home.

hwuaaaaarghhh!

2005-12-26T00:20:00.000-08:00

If anyone can explain this sound's linguistic/symbolic/etymological/epistemological significance, please do so. You can find the very sad, tragic utterer of this noise here.

Otherwise, the Editor has been somewhat bogged down with death flu, but managed to crawl out of bed long enough to consume some Christmas roast beast and open presents. Yes, even the hard, cold, relentless, angry, zombie-infested Editor likes the occasional sweater which was purchased by someone else. What the fuck. It's the only thing in life that's free.

Speaking of things that aren't free, it is the rainy season once again here in (normally) sunny southern California. And we all know what that means . . . yes, folks, it's once again time to prepare for the annual zombie holocaust. Zombie survival kits are available for only $199.99, just email me. And, it's easier than ever before! With your payment of less than two hundred dollars, your own kit is as simple as a notarized statement that your home will be safe from zombies! And how does the Editor guarantee this? Shock collars on all the lab inhabitants. So order now, and keep your limbs another year!

Please don't construe this as a threat. All I'm saying is, those shock collars are expensive. And I'm almost out of liquor. Happy Holidays!

Up 300, Down 300

2005-12-19T01:10:00.000-08:00

The Editor has only moments ago returned from a brief sojourn in Las Vegas - which means that the first number refers to dollars, and the second to IQ points, or possibly number of cells in my retinas.

I would like to direct the attention of my gentle readers to my new favorite blog ever.

That's all for now, but more zombie updates coming soon.

A Redefinition of Fantasy

2005-12-11T23:39:00.000-08:00

There are all kinds of people in this world who fantasize. And then there are just as many who enjoy what has come to be known as "fantasy", i.e., sword-and-sorcery type books and video games and movies. The time has come to blend the two.

So, weekly staff meetings. A great idea, which helps the office swap ideas and basically spend a little more face time with one another, and keeps us all in sync. That's good. But still, when I'm sitting there of a morning, I imagine what it would be like to excuse myself for a moment and step out of the conference room. Walk to my desk, discreetly pick up a large backpack, and take it out to change. Then, I would reappear, in the midst of a long dissertation about how the children's theatre program doesn't seem to have much direction anymore, wearing ebony armor from head to toe, and waving around a large, glowing longsword, enchanted with all kinds of nasty things, and bring it down on the conference table, splitting production calendars and brochures neatly in two, with forks of lightning and huge gouts of flame, and announce, loudly, that I Am Lord Nerevar Reborn! This would surely energize the staff to previously unknown heights of productivity. Or at least, would make it a more exciting event than we had ever thought it could be.

And the smiting! The smiting that could be mine! Really, theatre administration has nothing on adventuring, monster-slaying, and other types of heroic pageantry. The zombies are cool, but sometimes, it's just not enough. And isn't that just the story of everyone's life?

In short, sometimes pure escapist fantasy is just not quite sufficient. I need fantastic realism! More actual swords! General availability of magical alchemy ingredients, spells that allow you to walk on water and smite not only up close, but also from a distance; these are the elements of a happy life. Screw Eudaimonia, the Form of Good, and all that other high-thinking nonsense which is supposed to uplift me from the dross of my corporeal existence. And screw religion, too, just for kicks. Give me paralyzing crossbows and ancient ruins filled with brigands and legendary helmets! Give me the capacity to levitate into towers carved from enormous tree-boles, which are populated with taciturn wizards wearing gently luminescing robes! And swords! Did I mention those?

The real problem with fantasy is that by definition, it requires reentry into the actual universe to make it what it is. And that is why it requires redefinition. Find me a fantasy world that I don't have to come back from (that does not involve perpetual hallucinogen use) and I will be a happy Editor. I could post blogs from the top of my sorcerous roost, perched high in the mountains above a slowly meandering river.

There is probably some deep philosophical point which could be derived from this, or possibly just a general Freudian commentary on my childhood. But really, I just want to go to Monster.com and find a job ad which reads:

Wanted: a general adventurer, with some limited scruples and a high endurance score. Experience in pillaging/theft preferred, but will train. Capability to wield enchanted weaponry desired, but some skill with a two-handed battle-axe sufficient. Potential for becoming legendary hero with strange glowing eyes recommended. No Bachelor's degree necessary. Needed immediately. Please apply in person at the sign of the Voluminous Elf-Maiden, and give one copper crown to Mangy Bess, the innkeeper, in lieu of resume. Be smiting-oriented, with quest-pursuing ambitions. No phone calls please.

The Simpler Life

2005-11-30T00:50:00.000-08:00

I am convinced that the disease which afflicts our society is not so much stress, as insisting on yielding to sources of potential stress. I am surrounded, all day, by people who base their sense of self-worth on their levels of dangerous, heart-disease inflicting torment, and yet who consistently moan and bitch about how great life would have been before such irritations; and who yet, in the same breath, speculate on how humans existed before the advent of cellular phones.

Stress is only what you allow it to be. Yes, modern employment is harrassing and filled with little annoyances. The phone rings. The fax machine makes incomprehensible burbling sounds. The printer isn't networked, no matter how many times you click the add printer button on the baffling Microsoft console of doom. Ah, for the simple, gentle life before modern technology, when life was easier, more relaxing . . .

Wake up at 4:30 in the morning, right as dawn breaks. Get dressed, no central heat, no shower. Crawl outside, where it's 35 degrees F. Find some wood. If you're lucky, it got chopped the day before. Possibly by someone else, even. Grab an armload and carry it into the house, which is drafty and has no plumbing. Light the fire, without a Bic, and hang a big heavy kettle. Wait, strike that. Go back outside, pump the water out of the well you dug yourself, put it in a bucket, bring it in, and then fill the kettle. Grind some grain and add it to the water, and eventually, while you stagger back out and (if you're doing well and can afford them) feed the chickens which you have to kill yourself with an axe when you want to eat one, it will boil and you can make some disgusting mess of porridge, which can then sustain you all day while you labor in the fields wearing scratchy sack clothing, so that you can go to bed at dusk (or get eye strain mending your rags by candlelight) and get up the next day and do it all over again. If you're female, you'll most likely die during childbirth at some point, covered in blood and laying in a pile of dirt. No birth control. No painkillers. No antibiotics.

How did people live before cell phones? Well, you were presumably alive for more than the past ten years, you figure it out. Why am I not stressed out about getting up in a relatively warm house, running my hot bath out of the tap, buying a three dollar latte, and sitting down in a comfortable chair and answering email? Because I'm not a fucking moron.

Why do some of us have the luxury of being raw foods organic vegans? (Not the Editor, of course - I devour cows with a spoon.) Well . . . because it's not, in fact, 1800. Or anytime earlier than that. Or later than that, and anywhere else in the world. We have it pretty good, folks. I am not somehow less good at my job because I don't wank all the fucking time. I come home, pet the cat, feed the zombies some human flesh (raw foods of a sort, and organic, most of the time), and play some mindless video games, and really, it's not too bad.

So relax. What's the worst that can happen? We get a temp job. The rent still gets paid. There's still organic soy slime in the refrigerator to suck off of a recycled paper plate. Get over it.

Finally, finally the media has realized the truth!

2005-10-19T19:52:00.000-07:00

I always knew that the Onion was the most reliable newspaper in the country. Although I'm a little offended that they didn't call me for a quote. At least I've succeeded in keeping a low profile, I suppose.

http://www.theonion.com/content/node/41676

It's great coverage of a little-known and deadly problem, but even so their zombie fortification/survival tips are woefully incomplete.

Epistolary Wankery

2005-10-13T00:36:00.000-07:00

Dear Readers,

This is one of those times when, although the idea of writing anything seems too tiring to contemplate, the wanking must go on. Humans seem able to bitch, even when they ought by all rights to be too exhausted even to open their mouths, it's one of the hallmarks of being a part of the species. In fact, if you ever meet anyone who's able to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune with silent dignity and restraint, be assured they're a pod person, zombie, or other verminous doppelganger, and kill them without hesitation. (The Romans knew this, that's why then invented crucifixion.)

So, to prove that I am none of the above, I will hereby wank without restraint.

1) The Editor is currently afflicted with some mystery illness which manifests itself almost entirely in itchy bumps all over the arms, legs, and parts of the torso; no amount of Benadryl seems capable of making this any less aggravating.

2) The (many) pills that the Editor is taking are nausea-inducing and make your head float somewhere above - and not in one of those nice fluffy white clouds, either, more in the smog zone above Los Angeles.

3) While we're at it, why don't I have a whole bunch of slaves to bring me tea at all hours? That sure would be nice.

That was actually some fairly limited wankery, and you should all be grateful. See? I've given every reader something else not to complain about. And god knows my readers in particular need something like that, you bunch of whimpering whiners.

Love, The Editor

P.S. Did I mention that the drugs make you really, really out of it?

Zombies: Back By Popular Demand!!!

2005-09-21T00:34:00.000-07:00

So, some of my (few and mainly imaginary) adoring public have expressed a violent desire . . . perhaps, a strong wish . . . no, all right, fine, a faint inclination, to receive more information on zombie defense strategies.

Well, say no more! The Editor has so painfully few truly useful occupations, that it is a true pleasure to do something altruistic, particularly when none of my readers would honestly have to be too concerned about imminent zombie attack, were it not for the somewhat shoddy security measures currently in force in my lab. Look, I didn't expect them to chew through concrete. It was an honest mistake, it has been rectified, and really, I live next door to an Alzheimer's home - no one can tell the difference anyway.

Back to the matter at hand. As you all recall, I posted a basic primer on anti-zombie tactics, some of which were I admit difficult for the average person to carry out. We are not all professionally paranoid. So, for the layman zombie survivor, I have made up a list of the most bare-bones (pun not intended - besides, if you follow my advice, you may still have flesh on your bones after the holocaust of living dead has destroyed civilization as we know it) essentials to have on hand, in case of sudden attack. There are many lists of this kind available, some of which can be found on our own Homeland Security Website (refer to previous post), but I assure you mine is better, although featuring fewer graphic representations of yuppies being sprayed in the face with biological contaminants.

Zombie Survival Kit, basic version

1 sawed-off shotgun (good for brain disintegration; also doubles as brain-smashing blunt object at close quarters, or when the idiot you foolishly allowed to accompany you, rather than throwing him/her behind you as a distraction, loses all your shotgun shells)

10 boxes shotgun shells (so that you may inevitably end up with one shell and a hundred pursuing zombies anyway)

1 bunch bananas (zombies don't like the taste of potassium; I have verified this through extensive research)

2 coils heavy nylon rope (so that it may inconveniently catch on objects while you are carrying it wrapped around your body, thus delaying you and ensuring your doom)

1 bottle vodka or Scotch (according to preference; actually, this is part of the "General Daily Survival Kit", also available for purchase, but why not include it here)

1 pair high-quality running shoes (cowardice is the better part of valour)

1 spray bottle zombie repellent (may I recommend Super Lerx-Off Brand Liaox Entity Repellent, also good against limp, failed ex-theatre executives)

1 carton cigarettes (obviously)

2 cigarette lighters (to light cigarettes with; also good for cooking food, purifying water, and many other secondary uses)

1 shovel (for some reason, this is always the most-used implement in any zombie attack situation; don't ask me why just get one and hit things with it)

1 attractive female companion (for sex)

1 bumbling male companion (for comic relief, since laughter defuses even the most terrifying and deadly situation, and to be sacrificed later; also provides contrast in eyes of attractive female, making you look almost human)

1 box condoms (ribbed for her pleasure isn't really, so I've been told, just a word to the wise)

2 rolls toilet paper (two-ply)

If space allows, bottled water, non-perishable foods, a radio, emergency flares, and such can be added; but if space allows, you're carrying too much and will fall down, thus being buried beneath an avalanche of ravenous corpses.

With these items at hand, and having followed some of the Zombie Fortification tips previously posted, you can be fairly sure of surviving long enough to come to an even more miserable and demoralizing end than you would have had you simply succumbed to begin with.

New Post Coming Soon

2005-09-17T19:41:00.000-07:00

We apologize for the inconvenience. The Editor's brain is currently under construction. However, in the mean time please note that zombie attacks have decreased 12.7% since 1994, and we are currently occupied with trying to reverse that trend. Thank you for your attention.

AA can't save people; only Jesus can.

2005-08-09T00:03:00.000-07:00

Amen, brother. Hallelujah. And thanks for the fucking newsflash, Sherlock cocksucking Holmes. The thought above is brought to you courtesy of one of the many brilliant pages littering the blogscape, and I'm not even going to post a link to it because it's so lame. It's about someone who's very Christian and hangs out in jails trying to bring comfort to inmates. Sounds like a good time, doesn't it? Almost as exciting as Howie, though I will admit that Christian guy knows how to spell, if nothing else. Credit where credit is due. Do you think Jesus gave him power over the rules of grammar? Or is that more of a Holy Spirit kind of thing? I need to learn more about Christianity, I mean, I've read the Bible and all, but it just doesn't answer truly important questions like that one.

Do check out this site, though. This person apparently lives under an end table. Does anyone have a different interpretation of this?

Here is the current contender for "Least Likely to Succeed as a Species Variation". Then again, she probably fucks more than most of my entire city combined. Makes you really appreciate Planned Parenthood, don't it?

And for anyone who's ever wanted to explore the seedy underbelly of the wild and crazy antics of Christian college students, now's your chance. I recommend about a teener of really good glass, because otherwise you'll fall asleep before the page even loads.

That concludes tonight's episode of "Behind the Blogs: the Man, the Mystery, and the Pointless Bullshit That Random Idiots Think is Interesting for Some Unknown Reason". Tune in next time for more entirely irrelevant links to things that no one, least of all the Editor, actually cares about.

Two last notes, just in case anyone read this far: the zombies are doing better, after their recent bout with alcoholism. AA didn't save them, though, Jesus did. And just for you, my dear, you know who you are, a link to the masterminds behind a certain piece of soiled weather which shall not be named at this time. Please note the availability of an upcoming album for preorder! Get it EVEN SOONER than if you ran to the store and pressed your eager little nose against the window of the Wherehouse early in the morning of the big day!

It's Like a Bloodstained Hurricane

2005-08-05T03:41:00.000-07:00

What, precisely, is very much like a "bloodstained hurricane"? Pretty much everything, it turns right out. What cannot be compared to a bloodstained hurricane? Certainly not the Editor.

Spork this, bitch

2005-07-29T01:33:00.000-07:00

So here's the question: what do sporks really mean? Are they an existential expression of modern humanity's need for utensils which do . . . gasp . . . MORE THAN ONE THING? Or are they just kind of pointless and plastic? An associate of mine found this site, which he sent to me, and it is possibly the most revolting spork ever made. My zombies won't even eat off of this thing, that is, assuming that they would ever consider using utensils at all, instead of simply ripping the rotting flesh from one another's bones with sharpened, filthy incisors, while moaning and flailing wildly.

Anyway. The point which the Editor was, admittedly incoherently and with the utilization of multiple unnecessary clauses, attempting to make, was: even ravening, slimy, hairless, mindlessly gnawing dead things which kill you and turn you into a living corpse wouldn't use this stupid spork. C'mon, guys, this is not Sporkcalibur. (I know, Mike, I know, I haven't sent it to you yet. Just wait, it'll be worth it, and covered with zombie saliva.) It's FLESH COLORED, for Christ's sake. It looks like a flea comb gone horribly, horribly wrong. For a person who cares deeply about the potential of the fork/spoon hybrid, this is a loathsome and vile excursion into the land of the great travesty of human existence.

Seriously, folks. The Editor may be blind drunk, but some things are just not okay.

It's the end of the world as we know it

2005-07-22T18:38:00.000-07:00

Thank you, REM.

I feel fine now.

Anyhoo. The Editor is currently considering the great and pressing problem of the modern zombie film. Now, no one is more surprised than I that Hollywood would at one point have gotten something right - however, the fact remains that George Romero did have it pretty much spot-on, originally. Zombies are slow. They moan, and stumble, and hold their limbs at always hilarious angles. I mean, it's so funny to watch them, I just never get tired of it. They're so cute. It brings a tender smile to the face of even the hard-bitten and jaded Editor . . . but that's another matter. Like I said, I'm shocked that the directors of zombie movies would manage to have it right.

Which brings me back to NEW zombie movies. Okay, so, what the fuck? Viruses? Running around all fast? I object to this. I happen to know, without any doubt, that zombies act just like they did in the original Night of the Living Dead. I mean, this is my life, for fuck's sake. Who would know better than the Editor? My zombie lab is thriving, since my research staff get bitten one after another, and I really can't keep any of them alive for more than a week or two . . . and they all end up slouching around their cages, making gurgling sounds, and bumping into one another. They do not scream with rage and then figure out how to climb out, and then run like Olympic 500 meter champions after hapless victims who still think that holing up in a shopping mall is a pretty good idea.

See, those old zombie movies were pretty much like documentaries. They showed what really happens when the living dead run wild. These new films, they're just mindless entertainment. So join with me in calling for a return to the classics. No more 28 Days Later, Dawn of the Dead remake bullshit. I want aimless gnawing! SLOW, aimless gnawing, to be more precise, and lots of it.

Rant of the day

2005-06-30T01:36:00.000-07:00

So, goddamn it you guys, I'm totally hooked on this fucking show, and can't stop watching it, and now it's two in the motherfucking morning and I have to be at work in the a.m., as you well know, Tifanie, and I'm still debating watching another episode. You have ruined the editorial life. My lab is neglected, the zombies are starving, my research staff has been drinking beer and fucking off for hours. The emergency ammunition hasn't been restocked in days. I feel like one of the crack squirrels in Central Park, only I'm not quite up to that level of rationality. It could also be all of the codeine and scotch, but who's counting . . . anyway, the next time you loan me DVDs, warn me first that all other activities will cease and I'll sit here for an entire night and obsess over funeral directors! All right? Thanks.

May as well skip this one; I should have

2005-06-26T13:09:00.000-07:00

So everyone has a different way of dealing with suddenly running into ghosts when they least expect it. There are certain times and places where ghosts are almost de rigeur; spooky old castles, crumbling graveyards, the Editor's closet, etc. But what do you do when a ghost pops up in the middle of a downtown bar? Well, some might run, some might ignore the disturbing apparition, others might just shrug and order a slightly stronger drink. The Editor has a beer with it, calls it a close friend, and proceeds to agonize over it for hours or days or years. However: this is a moment of change. I have enough trouble with zombies as it is to allow other sorts of undead to have any kind of impact. Enough already. I never understood before now why people seem to be hung up about their pasts for ever and ever and ever, to the ultimate destruction of everything they try to build. It is simply because it's actually harder and more painful to admit that everything one has held dear, or had faith in, is irrelevant, thus admitting that one's own judgement is lacking, and that all the time that's already been spent on said irrelevancy is time completely wasted.

Therefore, the Editor has made an executive decision. No undead, besides the ones in the lab, will be allowed to affect the Editorial lifestyle; the others can go and fuck themselves. No more time wasted, no more pointlessly self-indulgent wallowing in self-pity, whining, stress, and moments of angst. In short, no more melodrama. I think I'll move on to comic opera, it's a lot more fun.

Presentation of Articles Written by Foreign Students Here

2005-06-20T01:15:00.000-07:00

Pyongyang, June 19 (KCNA) -- "Song of Praising Great Man," a meeting for presenting articles written by foreign students studying at Kim Il Sung University was held at the Taedonggang Club for the Diplomatic Corps on June 18 on the occasion of leader Kim Jong Il's start of work at the Central Committee of the Workers' Party of Korea. At the meeting which began with chorus "Song of General Kim Jong Il" students presented their works carrying their ardent reverence for President Kim Il Sung and Kim Jong Il.

In occasional notes "Before an immortal monument to his autographs", poem "Song of the eternal sun" and other works performers expressed deep reverence of humankind for the President and Kim Jong Il who is carrying forward his cause.

In poem "Song sung on Ryonggun Peak" and record of impression "A country of Songun politics", Chinese and Iranian students stressed that as led by Kim Jong Il the DPRK is throwing bright rays all over the world as a great country shining with Songun politics. Diary "Along the trace of the great man" and written impressions "My pride" expressed eulogy for Kim Jong Il. Korean songs including immortal masterpiece "Azalea" and "My Blessed Life" were sung.

The meeting ended with chorus of the Korean song "Dear Name".

It almost makes Fox News seem like actual information, doesn't it?

A Personal Moment

2005-06-19T02:11:00.000-07:00

The Editor rarely indulges in diatribes about events in my private life; after all, as a zombie researcher, there's not much that's fit to be made public. It's all too gruesome for general consumption. However, in this case an exception has to be made.

About two weeks ago, I realized that I truly do have to get out more. To put it simply, with all that time spent in the lab, and the hours devoted to employment (zombies are a calling, but they do NOT pay the bills, you may be surprised to learn), and the bits and pieces left over being given to these posts, there was very little left for the Editor to have what might be called a love life. So, in order to avoid actually leaving the facility, and interacting with people in a social environment, I put a personal ad on a website.

To my great surprise, the response was good. Several of the emails I received appeared actually to have been written by Homo Sapiens, and living ones, at that. (That's a big thing for me; I spend so much time with dead people, that it's nice to occasionally have a conversation that's not mostly groaning, and attempts to eat my brain. Meeting people in bars is truly challenging.) So, to make a long story short, the Editor went on an actual blind date, a first for me and hopefully a last as well. (I do not mean this to reflect poorly upon my date, as a person; they turned out to be great company, and attractive. But the stress of the event itself, or rather the buildup, was a bit much.)

The stress came mostly from those first few moments of walking into the coffee place chosen for the rendevous, and wondering if I had arrived first, or if any of the singularly unappealing specimens before me was the individual I was doomed to be pleasant to for a minimum of an hour. That was sheer terror. Rarely is the Editor fully unmanned by the strain of impending doom, and this was one of those times. And to make matters worse, the Editor was without an internet connection, and therefore unable to turn to Homeland Security for solace. So there I was, drinking a cup of tea and waiting for the unknown, without even a comforting diagram of an exploding nuclear warhead pointed at the crotch of a walk signal to get me through. That was a dark ten minutes - until my real date walked through the door and turned out not to be a beastmonster. And that is the scintillating true story of the Editor's dating life, the only one which will ever be published here. Back to what's important.

Ideasculptor noticed the very same little Homeland Security picture which most appealed to me - the one of the guy looking thoughtfully at the biological agent, as it comes out of the container and onto his face. The drawing of his thought bubble, which contains a biological contaminant symbol, is indeed particularly fine. "Hm," he seems to be saying, "that sure does look like something that'll curdle my gonads. Kinda seems to be squirting right into my face. Maybe I should just stand here?" Does that reflect the federal government's overall approach to Homeland Security? Are they too busy trying to settle the New York traffic department's copyright lawsuit, based on the suspicious resemblance of the little radiated man to the walk signal, to actually do anything useful? These are all questions which may or may not be answered at a much later date. For now, just remember: If there is an explosion or other factor that makes it difficult to control the vehicle, pull over, stop the car and set the parking brake.

Feeling insecure? Well, you will be.

2005-06-18T01:45:00.000-07:00

Whereas, I have recently acquired my laptop from Ideasculptor; and whereas, he has informed me that I must post once per week to avoid repossession of said cheap and good hardware; and whereas I want to keep it; I am now posting. Congratulations, Ideasculptor, you have successfully blackmailed the Editor. That's actually quite difficult to do, as I'm usually the first to inform everyone whenever I do something illegal, stupid, or just plain embarrassing. Why hide it?

It makes me wonder about you, though, Ideasculptor; these posts don't seem worth an almost new laptop. But whatever you say. I'm not arguing.

So, for everyone's delectation this evening, I direct you to our very own Homeland Security website. Have you ever wondered what radiation looks like, when it's directed at the groin? Wonder no longer. There are stick figures standing by to inform you. Questions about the possible results of chemical warfare? They will be answered, in short, easily comprehended sentences. Frankly, anyone who needs this website, deserves their lung-vomiting eye-bleeding fate. And really, if you're in the last stages of Ebola, trying desperately to drag yourself into the kitchen for some water, or maybe just to die, do you stop in along the way to run "biological weapon exposure symtoms" through google, and then go to the website, and gaze blearily through blood-clouded eyes (if they're still attached to your head) at the small round-headed graphic man standing behind a radiation shield, hoping that all of your internal organs will return to a state of solidity? Actually, that'd probably be about as productive as anything else, at that point. We are all doomed. Doomed, I tell you! Fire and brimstone! Plagues of squirrels! Midgets with AK-47s, descending upon the suburbs in very small helicopters!

Thank you, Homeland Security. I feel much more secure now, in the knowledge that every time I need to see a small, badly-proportioned diagram of several suspicious looking containers of nuclear material, I have somewhere to go.

Howie Part II: Revenge of the Literate

2005-06-14T20:56:00.000-07:00

Howie, my pet. Since posting my last, it came to me that perhaps some of my previous comments may have seemed hurtful, nay, even mean. Let me just state for the record that I feel it to be my bounden duty to educate those whom I feel to be in need of my help. In fact, I feel like feelings, those that you truly, deeply feel, feel more heartfelt when felt up under a cashmere sweater . . . sorry, sidetracked. (Using the same word, over and over and over and over again, has a bit of a drowsy, soothing, hypnotic effect, does it not? Of course, what can one do, when one has the vocabulary of an invertebrate? A difficult quandary, to be sure.)

And I apologize to any more junior members of my audience, who may or may have ever felt up anything at all.

Now, it seems, I must apologize yet again, as I may have just insinuated that no human female voluntarily comes within several leagues of the Fearless Defender of Truth and Italics in the History of Education.

Should I display how truly, deeply, really sorry I feel, yet again? I feel like this examination of all of our feelings might become monotonous at some point.

And it just did. For a moment there, I thought I might have accidentally strayed from my own blog to Howie's. Hmmmmm. But, back to the matter at hand. Just to refresh everyone's memory, here's the previously quoted passage from Howie's blog:

I am not a so-called «bot» and I am not stupid. I am an education major at Princeton University and you do not get into an Ivy League school by being stupid. My GPA is a steady 3.8. I wish to educate those who I feel are uninformed, and I have been vilified. I feel that once you open your mind, you will feel that there is a progressive answer to today's issues. You have to open your mind not keep it narrow. I am messenger for progressive change. My views are shared by many people.

Howie, Howie, Howie. What are we going to do with you? I pray to all gods and idols that were ever made, not release you upon an unsuspecting elementary school class. Can you even imagine walking innocently into your first day in the third grade and finding . . . Howie? Perhaps he'll do us all a favor and join Teach for America, and get himself sent to the worst, most crime-ridden high school any ghetto has ever seen. As a true liberal, and lover of the people, he would no doubt love them even more at very, very close range. He can tell them about how, coming from a college which costs more per year than their entire family's income, he really, truly, knows how they feel, understands them, and wants to educate them.

So Howie. I will now, out of what piddling quantity of goodness remains in my cold, bitter soul, let you in on a secret. The best way to lose all, and I do mean every last single drop, of credibility as a member of the hoi polloi, is to . . . anyone with me here? Anyone? That's right, go to an incredibly exclusive university, populated almost entirely with the very wealthy, and set oneself up as an intellectual. Yep, that's it all right. The only people who will, for the rest of his life, be able to look at Howie without hatred are well-educated wealthy white people. And they will not tolerate him until he learns to spell.

It seems that in order to complete our analysis of the paragraph above (which is, after all, from one of the greatest philosophers of our time; it would be foolish to dismiss it hastily) we shall have to post yet again, perhaps even later this evening. The Editorial fingers weary, and zombies need to be fed. Wait a minute . . . and I had to ask what we were going to do with Howie, when the answer was right at my rotting, gnawed fingertips!

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the wonderful world of HOWIE!!!

2005-06-14T19:39:00.000-07:00

Well, thank you, thank you . . . I know it's been a while, I'll have to wait for the frenzied cheering to die down before really beginning my post . . . anyway, by popular demand, the Editor has taken a few moments from the ever-absorbing laboratory (I need a new batch of expert assistants, by the way, some more have been eaten) to post a few words.

So. My attention has been drawn to an individual named Howie. Might I add, my unfavorable attention. In lieu of sending a cadre of zombies to his no doubt pitiful, filty, and louse-infested abode (because after all, even zombies have standards, for god's sake), let us examine a specimen of his prose. It's slightly less grotesque than your average stool sample, but only very slightly - don your Hazmat suits please, or at least some goggles and dish gloves. It's really too bad that anyone who is able to read Howie's words of wisdom are already too intellectually advanced to profit from them. I wonder, has he tried reading his posts aloud to the local home for developmentally disabled children? They might enjoy them, or they might at least derive some amusement from vomiting upon him. As would we all, I might add. However. To the point.

Here is a recent posting from Howie's page:

I am not a so-called «bot» and I am not stupid. I am an education major at Princeton University and you do not get into an Ivy League school by being stupid. My GPA is a steady 3.8. I wish to educate those who I feel are uninformed, and I have been vilified. I feel that once you open your mind, you will feel that there is a progressive answer to today's issues. You have to open your mind not keep it narrow. I am messenger for progressive change. My views are shared by many people.

So, let us take this one little baby-logic-step at a time. After all, the Great Howie, Educator of all he Surveys, may deign to stop in himself at some point, and I do so want him to be able to follow along. The rest of you, who are in all likelihood able to construct a paragraph, please be patient as I lower my Editorial style to a sufficient depth.

We can leave to the side the first sentence, since statement one is patently irrelevant, and the second, open to a longer debate than I, at least, happen to have time for. The fact that he is an Education major at Princeton is quite possibly true; it is unlikely that anyone, were they to invent a provenance for themselves, would choose something so ineffably dull.

Now, it seems that my supper is ready, but I would like to point out to you, oh Howie the Infinitely Educated, that George W. Bush, whom you deride continually, if without wit, is himself a graduate of an Ivy League school. Whilst I'm away having a peaceful dinner, please do decide between these options: a) G.W. Bush is actually intelligent; or b) you may or may not in fact possess the intelligence of an average sized tapeworm. I'll be looking forward to hearing your commentary on the topic, when I get back . . . and I will be back.

An evening at the theater

2005-05-06T22:06:00.000-07:00

So, a short comment on zombies and their activities. They mindlessly eat flesh, wander about moaning, and generally can't do a whole lot of useful and productive activities. I just happen to be at the opening night of a production at the local theater, and happened to think about this while watching the audience milling about drinking free wine. Random, don't you think? Don't know why that would even cross my mind, really.

However, there's much to be said for the free wine. It is 1) free; 2) wine; 3) free wine; and there's not really a four, as with two words and one combo there's not much you can do.

So ends the Third Age.

2005-04-16T01:22:00.000-07:00

Here reprinted by permission of the author, namely me, is my opinion of Peter Jackson and all of his post Aussie-slasher works.

This was stimulated by wandering through the science fiction and fantasy section of Borders, and seeing, I kid you not, "The Backstory of Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings For Dummies" on the shelf. I postulate that, in fact, the movies were made from that volume, rather than anything actually written by J.R.R.

My Heart May Be Full of Bile, But Viggo Mortensen's Mouth Is Full of Choad: A Review of Peter Jackson's The Two Towers
by E. Worthington, Esq.

Perhaps the second thing which should have aroused my anxieties concerning the film The Two Towers was the fact that the screenplay was written by director Peter Jackson's wife, Frances Walsh. (The first thing, of course, was the abysmal paucity of merit in its prequel, The Fellowship of the Ring.) Now, it is of course possible that a screenwriter could be hired out of sheer nepotism and still, by chance, possess some modicum of talent. Unfortunately, we were not so lucky in this instance. Ms. Walsh is a member of the 1% of the population who could genuinely benefit from a junior college English class, the kind where they teach you about metaphors for 17 weeks or so. Hmm . . . let's think for a moment, shall we, class? Just based on the fact that The Lord of the Rings is a novel of the fantasy genre, perhaps the theme might be, to hazard a guess, Good versus Evil.

Very well, this established, some keywords for Good: intelligence, morality, honor, dignity, nobility . . . these are words which we fervently wish we could apply to the film's representations of Tolkien's characters. To our dismay, however, every single one of them has been transformed, through Ms. Walsh's magical keyboard, into a shaggy, uncouth caricature of him or herself. (I would suspect her of having accidentally mistaken the Harvard Lampoon's Bored of the Rings for the original text, and adapted that into a screenplay, were there any trace of the collegiate satirists' wit, style, and ingenuity to be found in the script of the movie.) The most glaring example of this is the conversion of Aragorn, who is (according to Tolkien - I assume most would accept him as an authority in this matter) over a hundred years old, and the descendant of the ancient kings of Middle-Earth. He is above and beyond the normal man: his wisdom is second only to that of Gandalf and the Elven elders, his strength and resilience are unparalleled, his greatness of soul undoubted.

But, hey presto! Suddenly he is a swaggering biker-movie escapee, with his head thoroughly soaked in canola oil. One scene, which it pains me to recall, is a particularly good exemplar of this. He strides into Theoden's great hall, shoving the doors open violently, and shakes the excess grease from his head like a dog, spattering the guards with droplets. The expression on his face could only be described as sulky. From dignity to the puerile pique of offended machismo: what a marvellous imaginative journey Frances Walsh has made.

Of course, she cannot bear the entire weight of the blame. And she doesn't need to -- there's plenty to go around. Someone other than her had to have decided to cast Viggo Mortensen in the role of Aragorn. I say, blame Peter Jackson, who really should have known better. Even the unknown, inexpert actors whom he hired to star in his 1987 alien-invasion tour-de-force Bad Taste had more than two-and-a-half facial expressions, which upon careful observation is the most that can be credited to Mr. Mortensen.

In a like manner, the personality of almost all of the characters has been drained out of them by this film. Theoden, instead of reviving his strength of will, and desire to have some control over his own destiny (as evinced by his decision to go to Isengard and confront Saruman), just gets highlights and a bad case of yellow-belly. Essentially, he changes not at all, and is the same wimpy loser he was when Wormtongue ran the show.

Faramir, whose decision to let Frodo go his way was in direct contrast to his brother Boromir's weakness in the face of temptation, as Tolkien had it, is now a second Boromir, attempting to take the ring from Frodo and then realizing the error of his ways. David Wenham is obviously a competent actor, and was actually well cast in the role of Faramir. The part which was written for him is a travesty, but he can't be faulted for that. But the portion of the film dealing with Faramir is poor not only from the perspective of plot accuracy, but also simply as filmmaking. Much time is taken to show Frodo and Sam struggling on foot through the wilderness, but when Faramir takes them to Osgiliath, and then brings them back to Ithilien, mere seconds of travel time are allowed. It is a mind-bending continuity error, to say the least.

But to the issue at hand. The essential problems with this film are then, first, the lack of understanding of the underlying point of the story, and second, the gross plot changes which are apparently made at random. Granted, a director who has to work with Hollywood is compelled to make some changes, some allowances for a shallow, puerile audience, in adapting literature to the big screen. Two different media require different methods. Well and good. For example, the omission of Tom Bombadil in the first movie is understandable; there is no practical way to present that segment of the story in a format which a mass market audience would appreciate. Omitting the entire journey to Isengard, however, not only seriously retards the development of the plot but deprives this same audience of one of the most exciting and interesting episodes of the story.

And some changes seem self-defeating. The addition of a battalion of Elvish warriors who arrive at Helm's Deep just in time to save the day is not only stupid in and of itself, but takes so much screen time that other things have to be edited out. Instead of sending Elves from Rivendell, why did they not simply include Aragorn and Eomer's heroics, or the dark trees, the Huorns from the heart of Fangorn forest? These things are exciting, adventurous, atmospheric, and lend themselves very well to portrayal on film. Not to mention, they were actually imagined and written by Tolkien, who in case you've forgotten (as Peter Jackson and his lovely bride seem to have done), actually wrote this story in the first place.

Not only have they eviscerated the plot, but along with it they have sucked out any actual soul or meaning which was to be found and replaced it with the very worst of teenage "culture," if such a word can be applied in this context. But, as I expected nothing better, I am not disappointed. So much for standards.

There can be only one . . .

2005-04-14T19:14:00.000-07:00

So, spring is upon us, and zombies are experiencing the first throes of young love . . . the Editor is experiencing a total lack of young love, for a wide variety of reasons too tedious to explore here, but they are good ones. Having zombies really does occupy the majority of my time. Sort of like children, only dead, rotting, and out to kill you by any brutal means in their power. The Editor retracts my penultimate statement. I believe it is exactly like having children, although as a crusty old unmarried individual, this is based solely upon the experience of others.

So we turn to a consideration of the relative intellectual merits of employees in the service industry, for no apparent reason. The Editor has recently been plagued with several young ladies, employed by the local coffee shop nearest to the place of employment of the Editor; no matter how many times I request a medium sized English Breakfast tea, it never seems to quite sink in. I have received decaf English Breakfast, Earl Grey, Chamomile, hot water with no tea bag in sight, and on one memorable occasion, a double nonfat latte. Is it a hearing problem? Does the Editor's slurred, (frequently hungover . . . ahem) morning tones make "English Breakfast" sound so much like "nonfat latte"? Or are these folk simply the most abject of morons? The research staff is working on it, or at least trying to; but unfortunately, they work best when drinking a caffeinated beverage of choice, and such does NOT seem to be forthcoming. Ever. No matter how I beg, plead, beat my head against the counter, and run screaming from the coffee establishment, in tears. (The Editor is fragile, in that brief period between waking and drinking tea, which is why this is such a daily trauma.)

A small example of the general mental capacity of these girls:

Brunette Girl: Do you ever, like, use the computer?
Blonde Girl: Yeah, sometimes, I mean, to like, go online.
Brunette: Cause I never go on the computer. But when I do I like, try to touch the screen.
Blonde: (unencouraging noise)
Brunette: Yeah, there's this, like, computer at my house, and like, I touch the screen and go, like, why aren't you working? And then I like, see the mouse. Heeeee HHHHHEEEEEEE!!!
Blonde: Oh my god, like, yeah. Is it a laptop or something? I like, used computers in high school, and I could, like, get a really good paying job, but I mean, it's so not me, or whatever.

God help us all.

Especially the Editor, who depends on Tweedledee and Tweedledum (except that they're both Tweedledum) to get my morning sustenance to me in good order. I'm just going to get an IV, and trail it around after me, rattling the wheels and drooling on myself, just for effect.

The above is entirely verbatim; it was seared on my memory, as if someone had stuck a burning hot brand of the word "Nitwit" on my brainpan.

Just to continue the day's seeming dialogue theme, I will leave you all with a few lines from the most excellent film "The Chronicles of Riddick", which has the unique distinction of comparing unfavorably with "Battlefield Earth". ("Battlefield Earth", for those of you not in the know, is a movie produced by John Travolta at the behest of L. Ron Hubbard, in which he also stars as a "Psychlo", a big alien with finger prostheses and platform boots. Some guy rides around on a horse with flowing blond hair, and rats are eaten. So when I say that C of R is a poor film by comparison, you know what I mean. They're both must-sees, in every sense.)

Random guy on the planet of Crematoria (!): What're you gonna do with that soup cup?
Riddick: It's a teacup.
Random guy: What're you gonna do with that teacup?
Riddick: I'm gonna kill you with my teacup.

Think it couldn't get any better? Well, Riddick DOES kill him with the teacup, and then fights the Necromongers for the rest of the movie. My god, it gave me feelings no other cinematographic experience has before or since. Feelings I had thought impossible . . .

Now you all know that the Editor is alive and well, I shall depart for distant climes once more. So long, suckers.

I have been informed that my last post is getting old

2005-03-20T02:51:00.000-08:00

Thank you, Ideasculptor, for your commentary on my silence, which has lasted lo these many weeks. You see, the zombie lab has moved from Cuba to California, since I have a new identity, and I have been dealing with logistics, the scope of which my reader cannot even imagine. Moving body parts, and pushing them through customs . . . getting the zombies to seem like humans, for the drive past the Mexican border . . . getting passports for said zombies . . . what country do you even pretend that they're from? My god, it's a full time job for more staff than I have left, given the fact that I fed most of them to my research subjects.

I am now reeling from the effort, and dead drunk. Scotch is the usual beverage of choice, but tonight we attempted the Jack Daniels, and are feeling it, oh yes. Good old American whiskey is not for the faint of heart. The Editor is faint of heart, and wishes to pass out on the most conveniently available horizontal surface. Actually, the horizontality of said surface is negotiable; as long as it is sort of warm, or at least not outside, we'll be all right; the zombies are locked up for the night, and all is quiet on the western front. Good night.

I have a buffalo on my hand

2005-02-24T01:04:00.000-08:00

I love the stamps that they give at shows. Sometimes they're just a star, or a heart, or something lame - but then, there are those random ones which linger for days and make people ask "Where the hell were you?" And those are the stamps to cherish. Once again the Editor is drunk and smoking, wondering why the full moon did not bring zombies, or sex, or . . . possibly both? Well, we won't go there. But Tifanie seemed to have a happy birthday, and the Editor is getting relief from financial worry tomorrow, in the form of a largish check - and the zombie lab will be fully equipped once more! I tell you, since the flight to Cuba, the lab has been sadly under-funded. We have plenty of cigars, and not much else.

Mike M., please be assured that as of tomorrow, your spork is on its way. And it will be no ordinary spork, let me tell you. My entire research staff is engaged in finding the best, shiniest, most technologically advanced spork that money can buy. Tifanie and Ideasculptor, your name-brand Lerx repellent is in the works as well. The rest of you, well, you get nothing. Take it and like it.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TIFANIE!

2005-02-23T00:14:00.000-08:00

Croon along with me, people: "I'm in the mooooood for zoooombiiiiiiies. . . "

2005-02-22T00:15:00.000-08:00

The raging thunderstorm and pouring rain is, once again, making the Editor feel that it is zombie time. Of course, all the time is zombie time, but now in particular. So, once again at Tifanie's request, here are a few rules for fortifying your abode, and making it cozily safe from unwanted undead intrusion.

1) First, soundproof your house, and install blackout curtains. This will ensure that any festering night-time wanderers will be attracted to your neighbors, rather than to you; or at least, that said neighbors' screams of fear will be your zombie early-alert system, rather than the mysterious sounds of breaking glass in your living room, followed by eerie moans.

2) Make sure that there are at least two exits; preferably, one of them should lead to a private helicopter landing pad, which is unapproachable other than by your secret door. (The door should require a retinal scan; but we won't press the point.) We all know what happens when the zombies are streaming in the front gate, and the victims are backed up against the garden wall, seemingly unable to climb. For god's sake, avoid this gaffe, and have another way out.

3) You should be able to climb; zombies can't. The staircase in your house should be collapsible, and the second story well stocked with shotgun slugs and canned food.

4) It has been speculated that zombies carry a zombie virus; have ample supplies of bottled water on hand, to avoid having to consume suspect city tap water. It pollutes your precious bodily fluids, anyway, with all that fluorine, so you're better off no matter what.

5) Paranoia, paranoia, and more paranoia: I can't stress this enough, people! Be AWARE that zombies could lurk behind every bush! In every vehicle! Right outside your door right now, as you sit and innocently read this posting, not cognizant of your imminent gnawing doom!

6) Do not do as the Editor is doing now, which is, sitting by an open French window, quietly smoking and enjoying the thunder and lightning. This is courting disaster. However, I might point out that I do have a large gate, which is difficult for a normally coordinated human to open; several blunt objects ready to hand; and an easy escape route out the back of the apartment, through the bedroom window, and over the neighbor's fence, which leads to high ground which is eminently defensible.

7) Last but not least, do not hesitate to use decoys. Do you know anyone who is expendable? Take these people with you, as you flee from the zombies. They are excellent bait to be thrown behind you, thus delaying your fiendish foes for those possibly critical instants of chewing and mayhem. Remember, in any group of ten or twelve who begin a battle of wits against the zombies, there are only one or two who survive, battered and out of ammo, to tell the tale. You want to be the one or two, so take a few coworkers with you when you run for it. They may come in handy.

So follow these simple rules, and you too can survive the coming zombie holocaust! And if we're all alive by morning, and not pelting down the street being pursued by ravening half-human living corpses, have a pleasant Tuesday. This public service message was brought to you by Super LerxOff, Inc.

Tifanie, I'm just trying to make you happy

2005-02-21T21:58:00.000-08:00

The ever-eloquent Tifanie has posted a complaint to her blog about how none of her friends have written anything cool. So, here's her daily dose of weird blog finds, for entertainment and edification.

First off, everyone go and encourage this guy. Something about the way he hates high school and is miserable makes me want to cheer him up, and possibly Fed-Ex him some tequila. Anyone want to chip in? Seriously, everyone go harass him. I would have thought it was so cool, when I was that age, to get picked on by a bunch of older people.

Then there's the "Practioner" at Hypnotic Reflections, who informs us that Porn Actors are People Too. He's obviously got the biggest heart this side of King Kong, and probably the hairiest back, too. And the smallest dick. I bet he hasn't gotten laid since 1833. Wow, that was sophomoric, and kind of cathartic. Moving on.

If you like oranges . . . then you'll LOVE oranges-resources!!!!! Seriously, this person is Cologne's soulmate. See, Cologne is prolix to the point of verbal diarrhea . . . yet utterly and completely sociopathic. Oranges person is reticent, yet descriptive . . . and utterly and completely sociopathic. This site kind of reminds me of the LoveLine radio show, and the night when this teenage kid called in to say that he thought he had a cantaloupe seed stuck in the end of his penis.

And this was just a puzzler. Read the comment, to be really confused. This is pure and simple proof that zombies really are on the internet.

I did not mean pass my pain

2005-02-20T02:17:00.000-08:00

Yes, more brilliant poetry from the writers of the many blogs of blogspot. Joey's poetry and thoughts are right up there with the other blue-ribbon winners of the past; that is, they inspire feelings which the Editor has never really felt before, even after that truly unique experience with the not-so-fresh shellfish and bottle of tequila. Apparently, being in love makes you high as a dove. That's fucking great, man. Of course, eagles and hawks are higher, and seagulls probably are too; but that doesn't rhyme with "love". You can end your line with another word, man, just to let you know. The Editor is too drunk to even think about the many problems with Joey's maunderings; there is only so much the stomach can stand.

All I'm wondering is, if you're such a loser, why share it with the world? You're just asking for people like the Editor to come along and tell you what a completely pathetic waste of web page space you are, which in fact I did. View it at the link above.

Happy Fuckin' Valentine's Day, Y'all

2005-02-15T00:10:00.000-08:00

I hope someone else out there isn't just listening to the Velvet Underground while drunk and smoking endless cigarettes. Actually, I know they're not. They're crying into their drinks and wishing they had a Velvet Underground CD in which to drown their sorrows. That makes me happy.

You may already be a loser!

2005-02-06T23:48:00.000-08:00

Well, another night, another post, and voila! The contest results are in! Now, I could give it a couple more days, and you know, sort through the vast number of entries which have been overflowing from the Editorial In-Box, but as Tifanie and Ideasculptor stepped right up to the plate and solved the naming problem . . . here are the finalized names:

The dashing hero shall now and forevermore be called only James Cheshire.
The petty, sneering sister-in-law is now officially Kimberly Cumberland.
And the evil, conniving, extremely well-endowed-in-the-bust ex goes by the undeniably wicked-sounding name of Aevelyn Miltford.

Some modifications were made, admittedly, to the original entries, but they're winners nonetheless. Sorry, Tifanie, no one can have the last name Cummings. It just suggests porn a little too vividly. Perhaps I'll use it for my zombie romance novel; it can be the last name of Zombio's love interest. And Ideasculptor's entry of the first name Digby . . . well, my friend the author will certainly attempt to find a place for that name, because it's too damn funny. We're thinking perhaps the weasely little non-love interest, who attempts to feel up the heroine at a garden party when no one's looking.

Tifanie's prize, for providing so much useful nomenclature, is a year's supply of new Super LerXOff, a dermatologist recommended liaox-entity repellent. (This site is sponsored by LerXOff Inc. Offer not valid in the Blaglorbian solar system. Not packaged for individual sale.)

Ideasculptor wins the runner-up prize: I'm not going to give Cologne his home address! (I failed to mention that this would be the anti-prize, for really bad entries. Funny, should have made that clear.) But because I like Ideasculptor so much, he will also receive one bottle of Super LerXOff, and the great pleasure of knowing that his entry inspired a whole new "plot" twist. (These things don't really have much plot, you know.)

And, one final announcement. Since the rest of the Overground research staff failed so signally to contribute anything useful to the search for names, they will all be thrown to the zombies. No, I'm sorry, the decision is final. You know who you are. So if anyone's looking for an unpaid internship in the lab, please post a comment here, as there are six openings as of ten minutes from now, when I will carry out my implacable revenge.

You may already be a winner!

2005-02-06T02:38:00.000-08:00

The Editor is holding a contest, open to anyone who is foolish enough to waste their time on this zombie-filled rag. To wit: a close friend of the Editor (we all know this one, don't we, as in, "a good friend of mine has an embarassing rash . . .") is rather short on cash, and is strongly considering prostituting his or her (the pen name will tell you nothing) writing talent (such as it is - but don't say I said so) to make some money. This friend is, in short, writing a romance novel. Said bodice-ripper is already under way, but some of the characters still exist without a name. So. If you can sucessfully name 1) the heroine's bitchy sister in law; 2) the hero (who has a working name already, which could use some improvement); or 3) the hero's bitchy ex-girlfriend, you could win any one of thousands of fabulous prizes! We are not going to say exactly what those prizes are, as there are too many (and they're too good! really!) to go into at this time. But they're really, really awesome.

First and last names please. This is set in modern England, as the hack house for which the Editor's friend is writing has very specific guidelines. And all of the above characters are rich and glamorous, and make the heroine feel inferior, until she realizes that spunk is worth more than sophistication any day of the week. Retch. Anyway. Any help would be appreciated, as there is only so much combing of baby name websites that one person can stand. Or so I hear.

In other news: the Teva-Uggs are now being proudly displayed by my favorite trash website, go fug yourself. (No, I didn't mean that personally, it's the name of the site, dammit.) View them here. And Cologne, our favorite blogger whackjob, has not deigned to respond to our comment on his/her/its page. But he/she/it (I'm leaning towards it - anyone with me?) has managed to post 12 entries since I left my comment, on Thursday. Read them if you dare.

But I'm done for tonight. I've been inspired by my friend's noble efforts to make quick money by selling his/her talents into bondage to the forces of Darkness. I'm going to go start my very own zombie romance novel, and believe me, it'll be a doozy. Just picture Fabio's rotting flesh, clad only in a shirt which is open to the waist, and leather trousers, and you'll get the idea.

Luke, you will die; I have botched my Dark Mittens.

2005-02-04T01:05:00.000-08:00

Has anyone else ever compulsively listened to an album, over and over and over again, until you hear the songs IN ORDER all day long in your head, and can't stop, even though you know you ought to and the other CDs are right there, ready to be switched? This is the Editor undergoing some sort of mild self-inflicted aversion therapy, except that it doesn't seem to be working. And besides, I have no desire to begin to dislike the album to which I am listening, and if I did, I wouldn't be listening to it.

This is circular reasoning. I am beginning to sound like the philosophy major I once most inadvisably was. So enough wanking, on to a few brief selections from the best faces and minds currently at work in this small, unpleasantly self-referential universe we call blogger.

I am pleased to announce that the "Young at Heart" campaign now has a face for their brochures. And what a face it is - I believe it accounts for that alluring smile on the visage of Mona Lisa.

Randomly, there is a blog titled "Darkside of Knitting." I am getting an uncontrollable visual of Darth Vader, kneeling before the Emperor and making his report; at which point the Emperor looks up from his half-completed Dark Mittens and blasts Vader with blue lightning, for distracting him and causing him to drop a stitch. Actually, it sounds like a better screenplay than anything George Lucas has been able to choke out of his withered little brain lately. I mean, Jar-Jar? What is his excuse? Was he dead at the time? Talk about instant aversion therapy.

Also, may I recommend Superpoet to your attention. Anyone out there read the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy? This blog singlehandedly puts the Vogons to abject shame. The site proudly proclaims that the "poetry" in question is not autobiographical. Well, that's nice. At least, if the author's life isn't quite as bad as the doggerel posted by him or her, he or she might not need to commit suicide within seconds. Please note the witty heading. Superpoet must have outsourced his or her web design to Oscar Wilde.

And that, my dear readers, is the end of tonight's exploration of the blogs of others. What a journey it has been.

One final note: I have posted a comment to Cologne's blog, which you can read here. If I receive any response to my urgent query as to the meaning of this insanity, rest assured my loyal readers will be the first to know.

lor herx

This is posted at the risk of using every cliche in the book

2005-02-03T01:55:00.000-08:00

Having recently spent several days in the company of a very elderly woman, who despite numerous physical problems and frailties continues to cling to life with astonishing persistence, I am astounded at the human body's desire to live. (Cliche number one.) Eighty years of working and living and general wear and tear aren't enough to pull the life from someone, even if they genuinely are a little bit tired of the struggle. And now, having just received news of the sudden death of a person who had not yet had the opportunity to reach the age of eighty, or in fact, thirty, the Editor is moved, once again, to wonder at the ways of the universe. There's cliche number two, hope you were ready for it.

Now, plenty of others are going to eulogize this individual, and they will doubtless display more eloquence, poetry, and depth of feeling than the callous, cynical, practical Editor could muster in a month of Sundays. And how, really, does one go about summing the qualities of any individual into few enough words to post in writing, or say in front of an audience? A whole lifetime is the only unit of time sufficient to describe a living mutable being, and a lifetime, in this case, is precisely what is no longer available for the task. No doubt she would have described herself through her own actions, given the chance, better than any fumbling outsider could do with posthumous, useless praise. There's no real reason to dwell on a mischievous smile, never-failing good humor, and an ability to drink Mountain Dew by the cask without ever losing composure. Nor a tendency to appear at dive bars dressed as if for a senior prom, with wildly curled hair and prominent freckles. Competence, intelligence, kindness; hopes, dreams, aspirations and ambition, are now equally irrelevant. Would the elderly woman I know have gladly given up what's left of life for her, if she thought it could prevent one young person's gruesome and utterly, utterly pointless end? Yes, most likely. Would it have done any good? No.

Please note, the Editor is under no illusions as to the originality of these sentiments, nor are my trite remarks phrased in any more memorable way than anyone else has ever found. Unfortunately, the need to continually attempt to express the completely inexpressible is as much an inevitable part of the human condition as death. I gave up counting the cliches. If anyone comes up with a complete total, and I'm not drunk somewhere, let me know.

Suxx0rz III: Return of Lerx, Son of Haxx0rz

2005-02-02T02:22:00.000-08:00

My research team and I were sitting around the (newly transplanted to Cuba) zombie lab this evening, sipping Scotch and discussing important science things, and we were struck by the resemblance of this new internet dialect, which includes such words (possibly acronyms?) as "liaox", "lor", and "herx", to the ineffably lame, earlier internet dialect referenced in the title of this post. We're wondering if perhaps the (no doubt) brilliant computer geniuses who thought that "suxx0rz" was a witty way to lambast their opponents have now grown older, and spawned a generation of lerx enthusiasts. The generation gap would be about right, the mentality is certainly on par; it gave us food for thought. Our staff pycologist already checked all known sources of internet acronyms without luck, and is rubbing his head in continuing puzzlement, as are we all. Any information is, as always, appreciated, and we will provide more updates as we damn well please.

And now for something completely different, yet equally baffling. Our linguist at first thought that this entire blog was written in Esperanto, or perhaps Zbglorbian, but we have now decided that it belongs to the Indo-Moronic language group. Here's an excerpt from a post titled "Casual Friday Cologne", for your reading lack of pleasure (at least, we assume you wouldn't enjoy it, if you could understand it at all):

Necktie morning simple panties panties lolita lempicka paloma picasso dressed modestly casual friday cologne, hanae mori perfums fashionable necktie kolner perfume getting ready tie a tie neckties. Aftershave then use aqua di gio michael kors pantymen diapers girdles tie a bow tie casual friday cologne, dusseldorf well dressed girdles jo malone crossdressers hour glass figure aftershave bijan bvlgari. Crossdressing men began colognes how to tie a tie keulen joop for men dress casual friday cologne, floris crossdressing interzum fracas keln michael kors transvestites necktie gingham.

Dear author: when the world needs a schizophrenic, metrosexual genetic cross between James Joyce and Vladimir Nabokov, we will let you know. What exactly is this? A stream of consciousness informing one of which colognes to wear at which times of day? How incredibly . . . unique. The Editor is now deeply lamenting the choice I made, when setting up this blog. Having wavered, for longer than I will even admit, between garbled, disturbingly semi-pornographic perfume advice as my theme, or the admittedly less adventurous general commentary route, I eventually chose the latter, to my lasting shame. But at least this need is being served! And most efficiently! Cologne, the name of our prolific poster, has written a total of 244 posts, coming to 47,409 words, since November, and ALL IN THE SAME STYLE. Yes, if you printed the entire oeuvre, in a 12-point font and double-spaced, you would have approximately 190 pages, quite a magnum opus to be sure. And at an average of 24 posts per week, anyone who has this peculiar need is having it filled more than three times a day! Well, we are humbled in the face of Cologne's industry. What more can we say.

This is a side note, but I would like everyone to remember that they saw it here first. Apparently, The Onion, which truly is America's Finest News Source, has also picked up on the looming threat of the avian flu. See? This page is totally au courant.

And, to all of my fans out there, I have this to say to you: Others plan others next did wandering badges yovo bastards, badges jealousy crazy bitch revlon prove it crap shut up.

Have no fear, the Editor is here, or at least in Cuba

2005-02-01T01:39:00.000-08:00

Well aware that my adoring public has been holding demonstrations of grief in public places, wearing black armbands, and spontaneously bursting into tears anytime zombies are mentioned in casual conversation, I have decided to relieve everyone's anxiety and post a few words of reassurance.

Yes, the Editor is alive and well. Yes, I did get my limbs reattached. And no, the zombies DID NOT escape, ravage the town for three days, spread their vile disease to almost everyone, and have to be bombed out of existence, at which point the Editor was able to escape to Cuba, and get a new computer to post with. If you heard that, it's completely false, the pictures are doctored, and no, I am not fleeing from the just retribution of the law.

This message will self destruct.

There was an unfortunate incident in the zombie lab . . .

2005-01-28T01:31:00.000-08:00

And so I'm typing with one hand, as the other was inconveniently bitten off last night - the zombies weren't quite as sedated as we thought. Apparently Paris Hilton got them all riled up again, after they were lulled to sleep by American Idol. Seems they're more like humans than previously hypothesized, at least, some humans. Therefore, tonight's post will be short and sweet (in contrast to the typical long and bitter). I'm also missing an ear, and part of my left leg, but hopefully my resident research surgeon will have everything sorted out in time for me to write more tomorrow night. I just hope he can operate missing half of his liver, which seems to have been devoured, as we can't find it anywhere.

Also, the zombies seemed to be mumbling something about "momimonnia"; or perhaps "eudaimonia", we couldn't tell. We think it's an Aristotelian term, so if there are any philosophy majors out there, we could use your input! We couldn't get them to understand commands in English, so maybe a philosopher would be willing to translate. Thanks in advance!

The research staff's scratching their heads over this one

2005-01-27T03:47:00.000-08:00

The Editor now has an assistant in researching alien presence on the internet. The charming Tifanie has found another example of the use of this strange dialect, which is quoted on her site. We managed to translate the last excerpt, but this one has really left us baffled as to its meaning, if any. Tifanie has posted an open call for information; I strongly second the motion. I will send a bobble-head Jesus doll to anyone who can find the answer to this strange conundrum, as my own pycologists seem inadequate to the task.

And I'm most grateful to Tifanie for finding and posting something of interest, thus saving me the trouble of doing so. The Editor is delighted to have a night off from the usual crucial task of providing the world with breaking news and critical information, and thus, I will return to my zombie lab and the top-secret work awaiting me there. (Several zombie specimens were captured during the most recent attack during the rainstorm, which you might recall from an earlier post. Currently they're quiescent, having been sedated by repeated doses of reality television, but they might wake up at any moment.)

I'll get y'all drunk enough to enjoy this blog, see if I don't

2005-01-25T23:53:00.000-08:00

Well, the Editor has tackled weighty issues like performing molluscs, hangovers, aliens, and zombie attacks too many evenings in a row. And I did, at some point, promise drink recipes would appear on this site. So, I gave the research staff the night off, and every topic covered tonight will be as light and fluffy as Ariel the mermaid's brain tissue.

The first featured cocktail of the evening is the "Green Dragon", as follows:

2 measures vodka
1 measure green Chartreuse
shake with ice, strain into cocktail glass
(warning: the Editor is no lightweight, and could barely finish a second one)

Now, for any of my readers unfamiliar with green Chartreuse, or yellow Chartreuse for that matter, a brief history: French Carthusian monks have been producing this specialty liquor at their monastery since (they say) 1605; certainly the date is very close to that. It's made with grape spirits, macerated and distilled with more than 130 different herb and plant extracts; you can pick out quite a few of the different notes, but anise is the dominant flavor. Green chartreuse is the stronger of the two, at 55% alcohol, with yellow clocking in at 40%. The Editor is quite biased in favor of the green, which has a stronger kick, and I think a more well-rounded flavor as a result. Here's the really fun fact about Chartreuse, however: the color was named after it, not the other way around, making it unique in the annals of liqueurs with colorful names. One other note on the topic of Chartreuse. There is something about it, other than just the alcohol, which is hard to describe - a feeling of warmth spreads from head to toe, a certain kind of slack-brained fuzziness descends, and it hits far harder than it ought. It's a real favorite, I have to say, and excellent on its own.

Now, here's a fascinating-sounding one, straight from the Chambord recipe book which comes with their delightful gift set, which the Editor is thrilled to have received for Christmas. I was already a fan of Chambord, and now possess the sexy little cocktail shaker and matching jigger and spoon. Sometimes, I'm very glad Jesus was born. But, at any rate. Chambord is a sweet (so sweet it must be mixed) and very delicious French black raspberry liqueur, which comes in a spiffy round bottle with lots of gold stuff stuck on it. It's a stylish and tasty addition to any liquor cabinet, and if you get some, you can try the "Vanilla and Jasmine Martini". If anyone does, please let me know how it turns out - I haven't tried it yet. My list of cocktails to sample at some point is about ten miles long, despite diligent attempts to reduce the backlog which take place at least once a day.

1 shot vodka
4 whole vanilla pods
3/4 shot Chambord
1 1/2 shots cool or chilled jasmine tea
1/2 shot vanilla vodka (Ed. note: try Grey Goose Le Vanille)
1/2 shot sugar syrup (Ed. note: you can make your own - 1:1 hot water and white sugar, then cool)
Split two pods, scrape seeds into shaker with other ingredients and ice. Shake, strain into two cocktail glasses, and garnish each with another vanilla pod.

We hope you have enjoyed this brief respite from world news and social commentary. Tune in tomorrow for more prancing aquatic zombie aliens!

Singing fish: scourge of the Western world

2005-01-25T14:34:00.000-08:00

This evening, viewing a rare hour of television, the Editor was moved to wonder: what is it about dancing, singing, cartoon fish which sound like stand-up comedians which so holds the public in thrall? We offer for examples:

The Little Mermaid - "Sorry, sorry. This movie is so wonderful and just makes me feel so good. I always cry at the ending. It's just so happy and giddy and... oh! Just watch the movie, you'll know what I'm talking about." -- "Lovable characters like Sebastian, Scuttle, and Flounder gave the heart to the story."
Finding Nemo - "John Ratzenberger does a hysterical turn as the school of fish we all saw in the previews." -- "The world of "Finding Nemo" is simply alive with lovable creatures swimming about their daily lives under the ocean, darting across the screen in playful manners."
The Little Mermaid II: Return to the Sea - "Great new characters are added including Dash the walrus, who has been given such a great personality that viewers can't help but to find him likable, especially children." -- "The film is great, but nothing will replace the original (which in my opinion is the greatest film ever made). It's second best to the original. "
Wee Sing Under the Sea - "The over twenty musical numbers include three original songs, "Bubble Bubble", "The Clam Dance" and "Pollution Solution.""
Shark Tale - "The story was simple but fun, I really liked the way the parallels between a vegetarian shark and coming out of the closet." -- "Next, I introduce Oscar the hyper bling-bling fish (voiced by Will Smith)."

Are musical, anthropomorphic fish really enough of a brilliant concept to warrant such a barrage of aquatic hijinks? The Editor thinks not. However, who am I to argue with this (hopefully three year old) film critic's opinion: "I like the ending [of the LM] where Triton made a rainbow for everyone." Yay, a rainbow! For everyone! It's the happiest day of my life, since that day the bad man didn't take my ice cream cone.

The Editor is particularly amazed by the vast number of slobbering cod-o-philes who seem to think that these animated extravaganzas really give one a great understanding of undersea life. For example: "it Opens up a new world for kids and shows you what the ocean really contains and how the fish really act." Oops, I must not have been at the beach the day that troupe of acrobatic sunfish swarmed out of the surf and burst into spontaneous song. And strangely enough, the octopus in biology class didn't favor us with an orchestral rendition of popular seventies love ballads - but then, with all of those people around, it must have been shy.

Newsflash for everyone who's ever masturbated to a screenshot of Lara Croft: Ariel the little nubile mermaid DOES NOT EXIST. Don't believe these people are really out there? (Well, okay, we all know they're really out there, that's not what I meant.) Here's the proof: "I have a major crush on Ariel ever since i was young, she is a beauty for Sore-Eyes and the soundtrack is excellent too." Glad to hear that. We recommend Visine and getting a fucking clue, for this sort of ailment.

Apparently we're not the only ones who noticed the striking similarity between all of the above films, which is that most of the characters belong beer-battered on a plate with chips, and instead are psychotically swimming (and dancing!) around the TV screens of the unsuspecting, terrorizing generations of youngsters with their ill-conceived musical mummery.

"Some say it's unfair to compare Finding Nemo and Shark Tale, them being totally different movies with the only matching characteristic being antropomorphic fish, but it seems that the comparison is inevitable."

Totally different movies. Okaaaaay. So one's about a fish, doing something pointless while singing, the main draw of the film apparently being some B-list celebrity as a slightly more annoying fish, who sings a little more. And the other, which is TOTALLY different, is about a fish, doing something pointless while singing, the main draw of the film being several A-list celebrities playing fish which look like them, and singing all the while. Who says it's unfair? Let them step forward! [Deafening silence] Indeed.

"I'm allergic to fake sentiment and pathetic feel-good movies but I was really touched by this one. " [Finding Nemo]

Where did it touch you? Do you feel violated? I don't like having singing fish in that particular place, myself, I must admit. Once again, Visine may reduce the swelling.

"The characters are very memorable and some of Disney's most beloved, with Sebastian the crab providing both a side-kick and an important role."

I will not insult the intelligence of my readers by pointing out the flaw(s) here.

Just to provide a fair and balanced overview of the intellectual capacity of the IMDB site's commentators, however, I will provide this moment of sanity.

"I never thought I would say this, but this movie is worse than "Return of Jafar". " [LM II]

See. One sensible, thinking individual out of a sea swarming with Disneyites and creepy tapdancing oysters. Thank god. Actually, that sort of makes it even more distressing, doesn't it? So here. I don't want anyone to feel down, after reading this, and therefore:

The Editor made a rainbow for everyone!

Now don't you feel better?

I've got a nasty fever, there are feathers sprouting from my shoulders . . . BIRD FLU!!!!!

2005-01-23T02:47:00.000-08:00

Just as a friendly warning, the Editor would like to point out that having a little snack in the evening, and researching haemorrhagic fever outbreaks, are not necessarily two occupations which go together. This is simply a suggested rule of thumb, which the Editor, moments ago, decided to break. Uhh, the Editorial stomach isn't taking it too well, I must say.

However, I did come across several articles about recent cases of avian flu in Vietnam, which were most interesting. I would like to state quite clearly, avian flu is NOT a haemorrhagic fever at all. Just got some news, is all, and what sloppy, bass-ackwards reporting it is. I really liked this quote from one of my news sources:

Bird flu has killed 32 people in Thailand and Vietnam, and millions of chickens across Asia this year. The World Health Organisation has warned it could combine with a human virus and spawn the next flu pandemic, killing millions.

Several things: we really enjoyed the "32 people . . . and millions of chickens" bit. Something about the phrasing caught our eye. And another: I would like anyone who reads this, who knows more about molecular biology than the research staff of Overground (I know there's plenty of you out there; we mainly have pycologists), to please explain how one virus "combines" with another. We are familiar with the basic progression of retrovirus infection. (Quick refresher: a retrovirus, HIV being a prime example, essentially cuts and pastes its RNA into the DNA of a host, thus producing more virus proteins when the host expresses its own DNA. At some point, there is no cell within the host (or bacterium within the colony; most retroviruses attack bacteria, and the Editor could discuss this for hours, but will spare the readers) which is not infected, and whammo! you're effed. It's an exceptionally elegant form of attack.) However, avian flu is not a retrovirus, and even if it were, as far as we know, there are no virus-specific retroviruses, which is the only way that two viruses could "combine" by this method. Then, there's mutation, which involves the adaptation of a virus, semi-accidentally, to its new environment (read: host, or host species) thus becoming a different virus through natural selection. That's still one virus, not a combination.

The writer of the article, or perhaps WHO, though I hope not, seems to think that if you toss a couple of viruses in a martini shaker, preferably without ice, one evil super-virus is liable to come out the other end, intent on world domination. It is very possible that the avian flu virus could mutate into a human flu virus, and then kill a lot of people. For now, "it could . . . [kill] millions"; yes, it HAS killed millions, of chickens, dumbfuck, like you just said a sentence ago. It's a chicken virus. If it mutates into a stable, reliable human virus, well, then we'll see.

This isn't a really big issue. The point is, it's bad reporting, and ignorant reporting, and sensationalist reporting. The Editor is not happy with journalists or statisticians right now, but then, what else is new.

And one more thing. The media, and our friends the statistical experts, seem to think that someone ought to be shocked every time a "new" virus emerges. Okay, well, there's lots of things in the universe, and on our planet, which haven't necessarily been observed scientifically. Let me just faint dead away. And dare we suggest that historically, and logically, and deductively, and every other kind of adverbial phraseology we can think of, packing large groups of any species into an increasingly small and unhygienic space kind of invites infection? Anything any member of the group has, every other member will, very soon. Any viral mutation gets spread increasingly quickly. Any heretofore unobserved viral strain can be spread instantaneously. So, you put millions of chickens in miserable cramped spaces, and they'll get sick. You put millions of miserable chickens in the same cramped spaces as millions of humans, and eventually, something will mutate and everyone, feathered and not, will be miserable together. THIS IS NOT NEWS, at least not to anyone who's ever heard of the bubonic plague (rats, not chickens, but same idea), for fuck's sake!!! The Editor is enraged by this, and will not accept any suggestion of calming the fuck down and getting over it, so don't even bother.

So, I'm going to go and spit in a cup and stir it for a while, and wait for the next deadly super-virus to emerge. Cause I'm a scientist, and stuff.

Thanks again, MSNBC

2005-01-22T02:35:00.000-08:00

Well, the Editor once again refused to admit that the only thing to be done about a hangover is to just suffer the torments of the damned until you stop feeling whatever misery you're feeling. So, I found myself on google looking for "hangover remedies", in a desperate bid for a page which reads "Click this link and your nausea will disappear! Magic elves standing by!" You know you're having a bad day when the magic elves sound like a good idea. Anyway. I found this fuckwitted commentary from MSN:

This is serious business. In a 2000 paper, Tulane University researcher Dr. Jeff Wiese and other researchers concluded that drinking cost the United States $148 billion in lost productivity each year, most of it from next-day hangovers at work.

How did they come up with this figure, for one, and two, how much university funding went into these results? What kind of researchers are they, anyway? And really, does it take a team of professors to prove that having a manic team of jackhammering mice rampaging through your skull makes you slightly less able to function normally? And in the end, okay, given most jobs out there, does it matter if that email Re: Accounting Procedures gets to the Assistant Marketing Flunky twenty-five seconds later than it would have, because you actually went out and enjoyed yourself for a few hours the day before? Could the mind-numbing bureaucratic bullshit which most people spend their days doing possibly be related to the need to drink themselves into some kind of stupor when finished for the day? Also, what about all of the enormous revenues being pumped into the economy by people spending money on all of the booze required for a $148 billion hangover - I bet the nation spends more than that trumped-up figure on nightlife every year. (FYI, cheap tequila has been found by many independent researchers to reliably cause at least a one billion dollar hangover, if you'd like to contribute to your company's loss of productivity anytime soon.)

It seems that MSN feels that it's a serious problem that adults can go out and drink, and then get up and go to work the next day - all based on something that someone said about something, at some point. I just love the proliferation of completely unsupported statistics, particularly in relation to random facts which are irrelevant in the first place. I'm going to start titling my posts "New Study Indicates that 46.3% of Rhesus Monkeys Don't Like Cheese" and "Startling Number of Cheetos Consumers also Prefer Mint-Waxed Dental Floss", or perhaps, "100% of Editors are Bored as Fuck by Pointless Graphs Which Only Demonstrate Topography of Own Navel". How about "Research Indicates $806 Billion Spent in 2004 on Researching Statistics Relating to Statistical Research". Disprove that figure if you can, I'm going to go and decrease my productivity with a quick one.

i LikE 2 DanCe And SinG liKE noBodY's WaTChiNG oR lisTenIn..So i CaN bReaK daR gLaSsEs

2005-01-21T03:45:00.000-08:00

I would like to direct everyone's attention to several comments posted by Ideasculptor, which . . . I can't even begin to Editorialize on this topic. The comments are appended to "More Best of Blog" etc., two posts back. Please read them, or you'll be happy you didn't. I mean . . . just read them, if you can.

Also, I had some fantastic photographs taken of me this evening, looking like the bastard lovechild of Willy Wonka and Marilyn Monroe. No one is going to see them on this site, as they've been classified at the highest levels of government. I would just like to say, the Teva-Uggs in which I appeared would make the ladies at fuggingitup extremely proud. Yeah, you heard that fucking right, Teva-Uggs. Tevuggs, as we at Overground like to call them, being in the know and all that; new fashions have to have bold adventurers, willing not to wear them in public and completely destroy all evidence that they were ever worn at all. The Editor is proud to admit to being such.

Anyway, thank you very much Ideasculptor and Tifanie for a lovely evening of Scotch and political argument. It is rare that the Editor has such a pleasant few hours of diversion and wit, amongst congenial and large fuzzy cat-owning souls, not to mention the 18 year aged Glenlivet, which tastes quite distinctively of smoked oak. It's really incredible how much of a difference that six years makes; the Editor is in the habit of consuming 12 year aged Scotch on a daily (did I say that? I meant hourly) basis, and is happy for the change. I suppose twelve really is too young, but eighteen is fair game on all fronts; which applies to just about everything, when you think about it.

I meant wine, whiskey, and other spirits, of course, not high school girls.

Just an idle dream

2005-01-20T16:54:00.000-08:00

Is anyone else already really really open to the idea of another Pixies tour? The Editor is pleased to say that I saw them when they came through my town, and I hope the rest of you can say the same. Now I want more. More!

Pinky, Where the Hell's the Brain: More "Best of Blog 2005" Awards

2005-01-20T01:36:00.000-08:00

News-flash update! The Editor is often careless about bookmarking sites; I have been kicking myself for not saving the address of our alien friend, who communicates with bobble-head Jesus dolls, according to my recently fired sub-editor. Well, cry no more! The person responsible for this atrocity, Pinky, aka Julia, has been identified! If you're in search of pain and suffering, look no further: the full adventures and provenance of Lerx and Liaox are now available for viewing, absolutely free! (Of course, if you would like to contribute to the Editor's noble research, the bank account's always got room for more, especially since it's almost empty. And my pycologist really deserves a raise.)

Now, for those of you who enjoy sneering at pop culture, let me direct your attention to two sarcastic, witty women with a very well-ground axe. The Editor was amazed by their collection of possibly the most deplorable fashion moments in recent history. Light entertainment, to be sure, but very much worth a look.

I passed over a site which took far too long to load (the Editor's broadband has been delayed; the local cable company's name is not spelled, but is in fact pronounced, "Cocks", which I think sums it up pretty well) but I did read the introduction, which seemed to refer to the author of the page: "The poetic angel lives on." Oh, my mistake, I was fool enough to believe the wild rumors. You mean, the poetic angel didn't really die in that dramatic snowmobile accident? Shocking! And it'd been whispered in my ear by an inside source that the poetic angel had been devoured by a rampaging herd of rabid wildebeests recently, while on an extended poetic angel safari. What a relief to know that the poetic angel survived its multiple brushes with death. Let me say it one more time. The poetic angel.

On a different note, and this is pure Editorial, "kristallnacht" strikes me as a tasteless blog title, the fact that the site has nothing to do with Nazism notwithstanding. Wait, the site's not related to the Third Reich . . . at all? All right, then six out of ten for tasteless, 17 million out of ten for pointless. Friggin' moron.

And this just in: a bulletin for Pinky: I have found your new best frenz, if not your brain.

why have tings become lyk tt...y?? we hv been gd frens for the past yrs but now...y? u hv changed,u R no longer e one i used to be with. not the one i used to laugh with. not the one i used to joke with. not the one i used to play with. not the one i used to smile to. not to one i used to talk to. not the one i used to chat to. not the one i used to gossip with. not the one i used to go for break with. not the one i used to call to. not the one i used to find familar with. not the one i trusted with. not the one i confide with. not the one i could cry with. not the one that had been in my good memories with.

I think this one is from the planet Earth, but may be receiving telepathic communications from a far-off galaxy. For thousands of years (or so I presume; the Editor is not in fact thousands of years old, yet) humans have speculated as to the existence of something else out there, something mysterious, advanced, and meaningful - this was usually classified under the general heading of God. For at least the last century, humans have become increasingly obsessed with the idea of little green men. (The Editor will not here expound multiple theories as to the correlation of the rise of atheism and concurrent rise in paranormal investigation and interest, but be aware that such theories do exist, at least, they will once I expound them someday.) At any rate, the common thread of all such speculation is that this "something else", be it gods, God, demons, ghosts, aliens, or the Yeti, will in some way be more advanced than humanity, with unique and possibly incomprehensible wisdom to offer. We are disappointed to learn that the aliens, at least, have ONLY incomprehensibility to offer, and some very bad spelling. What a great anticlimax it is, to be sure.

I mean, can anyone reading this honestly think for an instant that Lerx and Liaox would be able to pilot a technologically advanced flying saucer for more than ten seconds before crashing it into a telephone pole? I'd maybe give 7-2 odds on two minutes on a tricycle, if their planet has no telephone poles.

Liaox and Lerx

2005-01-19T06:03:00.000-08:00

My assistant editor has just suggested that perhaps these mysterious beings are actually bobble-head Jesus dolls. It's an interesting idea, but he's still fired.

Disclaimer attached; there should always be one, really

2005-01-19T01:34:00.000-08:00

(So here is the Disclaimer: Nothing quoted in this posting is being used for profit in any way (as if it could be), AND it is quoted for research purposes only. I just don't want anyone suing my blog. Hah. As if this organization could settle with anyone for more than the price of a pack of gum.)

So once again, we have proven ourselves to be solely dedicated to public service. We have selflessly toiled through a long list of blogspot's finest offerings, and have come up with two real blue-ribbon winners. Remember my instructive comments of a few days ago on the subject of the proper use of grammar, punctuation, and spelling? Well, here's an example of the fine prose which can result from ignoring (or perhaps, total ignorance of) such:

oh ... halo !!! long time no see liaox ... i was banned from comp ... now ok lerx ... so can post back lerx lor ... school was actuali terrible on the first day of the orientation ... know e reason ??? coz i didnt know any new frenz !!! ahh !!! terrible ... then the second day i know almost all the student councilors lerx ... lol !!! then i know e whole class ... or the other way round ... coz i dunno do wad then the class know me lerx ... then now i know more frenz lerx ... haha ... cool rite ??? got nth to sae lerx ... hmmm ... lol !!! bye !!!

Now, one is tempted to let this manifesto stand alone for posterity . . . except for one small problem, which is, it actually took my handpicked team of linguists, xenobiologists, and cryptographers two weeks to render a fairly accurate translation. It appears to be addressed to some entity named "liaox", or perhaps another called "lerx"; my research group speculated that perhaps "liaox" and "lerx" were two opposing gender-modes of the same organism, which possibly exists in a state of transdimensional flux; or, at least, confusion. The confusion was agreed upon by all seven of my experts. Their translation, which caused some real hair-pulling and two fistfights, was grudgingly agreed by all to run something like this:

Hello, Liaox, haven't talked to you in a while! I was banned from comp[uter lab]. Now, okay Lerx, I can post back to you also [???]. School was actually terrible, on the first day of orientation. Do you want to know why? Because I didn't make any new [friends]. Oh, it was terrible. Then [on] the second day I met almost all of the student councilors, Lerx. [alien laughter] Then I knew the whole class. Or the other way around. [???] Because I don't know [...] then the class knew me, Lerx. And now I know more friends, Lerx. [incomprehensible amusement, doubtless concept of humor foreign to humans] Cool, right? Got [nothing?] to say Lerx. [alien thought processes, and more laughter] Bye!

This is the result of backbreaking labor, using the most advanced equipment and the most sophisticated techniques known anywhere in the world. We're trying to discover if this posting is indeed the result of an alien civilization, and if so, how we can avoid all commerce with them in the future.

Our second winner is obviously, unfortunately, from this planet. However, well . . . this one should just be read first, and commented upon after.

I'm enjoying watching Scrubs series everynight! 1,2 episodes.. they're funny & well done too. I read somewhere the whole Scrubs, Andy McBeal et cetera are in someway more close to our new pycological attitude. All those insights, micro sequences showing what the character is actually thinking, they are very catchy and funny!

My linguist, and a highly trained pycologist (heh heh) went over this one with a fine-toothed comb, and their conclusions were as follows. First of all, they were certain that the cast and creators of "Scrubs" would be delighted to know that they had captured the attention of the highest common denominator of American society. Secondly, they inferred that the author of this riveting fragment had in fact "read [something] somewhere"; a good sign, on the whole, although the results of this erudition were, frankly, somewhat disappointing. All of us were puzzled as to why Ally McBeal had changed her (his??) name to Andy, but, as none of us were ever fans of this particular television delight, we speculated that perhaps some sort of plot-driven sex change operation had occurred. My experts also deduced that the author liked both of these programs, and in fact found them both "catchy" and "funny", and also "well done".

Now for the Editor's editorial. Anonymous author, may your name be ground into the dust with your pathetic and blighted existence: We here at Notes from Overground refuse to acknowledge any of our attitudes as "pycological". We don't have diseases like that. Or something. Uh . . . And then there's the question of "all those insights". Indeed. The insights, the Editor is sorry to inform you, are if possible even more micro than the sequences to which you so glancingly refer; and were the Editor to attempt to collect them for analysis, it is highly doubtful that they would cover the end of our standard-issue nickel plated microspatula. May we suggest that you have a brilliant career as a theater critic ahead of you, so long as you exclusively cover elementary school productions of "Santa Claus in the Land of the Evil Elves".

But I digress. Quite seriously, if anyone knows whether or not Andy McBeal really did have a sex change operation, will you please notify my research staff immediately? My pycologist in particular wants to have a look.

This is something to see . . .

2005-01-18T21:15:00.000-08:00

There may be more of a posting later, when tempers run high and the clock runs low, but for now, check this guy out. A grand adventure and a noble cause! A hero for the downtrodden, science-fiction loving masses, truly. Actually, there's no sarcasm at all. I like this guy.

Tomorrow, my life of ease and pleasure must end:a reflection on the mortal coil

2005-01-18T01:35:00.000-08:00

Having formed a plan to go to a temporary agency and seek gainful employment tomorrow, I shall take a few moments to wank about the vicissitudes of fate. As some of you may already know, the Editor has been gainfully unemployed for several weeks, and has happily filled said interval with a successful (read: did not end up broke and naked and walking home across the desert hallucinating) trip to Las Vegas, a great deal of drinking, more drinking, some sleep, and several historical novels, not to mention various turns at short-term contract labor to pay the bar tab in the meantime.

Now, I face the fate of all mankind, except those born with a trust fund: I will work for some pittance, in a job which offers no scope for creativity, advancement, or drinking. Well, I suppose I could find one which had at least one of the three. But not all. Wank, wank, wank, I know. That's actually the end of my complaint. In fact, I've become remarkably stir-crazy lately, probably because I haven't not worked for three weeks since 1999. On the whole, I recommend a brief period of unemployment to anyone, especially when you can walk out of your crap job and get the the car to Vegas, while honking the horn and screaming "See ya, suckers!" at the top of your lungs. I was a pussy, though. I didn't yell that until I was out of earshot. The Editor lacks the courage to be properly rude, at times, and in fact still needed to return for a last paycheck. Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all, it seems.

But I suppose this rant will really be about workplaces which promise much and deliver little. One wonders why one would hire an intelligent, experienced person for a management position, dump an enormous project (the procuring, setting up, and running of a new and complicated piece of specialty sofware) on said person, who then worked 70 or 80 hours a week, without having a day off, ever, for two months, and then come around to their desk every ten minutes or so and bitch about their choice of pen. Yes, pen. Apparently, only pencils are appropriate when writing on certain types of lined paper, as the Editor was to learn in detail over the following weeks. Verbally, and in written memos. (Which were not, I might add, written in pencil. Hypocrites.)

Ahem. This, of course, is after the fact, but somehow it still feels good to vent my spleen about it. The point is, I wonder how people can sabotage their own organizations so effectively, without even seeming to notice what they're doing. The lovely Tifanie is now pretty much holding down the fort for me at this pestilential hellhole; I can honestly say that meeting her is the one and only good thing to have come out of this utterly wasteful experience. Anyone who reads this, and knows her, please treat her with kindness and care during the term of her sentence. Her supervisors are both evil, evil bastards, with black souls rotted down to their maggot-ridden cores. A good exorcism would probably help the place no end, or a zombie attack. But I've given up hope of that.

But wish me luck at the temp agency tomorrow. I hope they find me qualified to enter data, or perhaps operate basic telecommunications equipment, such as, y'know, phones. It ought to be fun, actually; since temping doesn't feel like actually having a job, I can pretend to be unemployed a while longer. And temp employers usually don't notice if you're hungover. In fact, they probably wouldn't even notice if I were a zombie, lucky for me . . . I mean . . . heh heh . . . even though I'm NOT. Really.

So what are your blogs all about?

2005-01-16T01:53:00.000-08:00

I have been considering once again: why do we (I'll use we, since obviously I'm here doing this too) all get online, some of us once a day or more, and rant to the world? Well, the theory I'm evolving, having looked at a LOT of different pages on this site (do I have more time to burn than others? right now, yes) is that it's the technologically advanced equivalent of the mimeographed Christmas update letter, at least in many cases. Too many friends to call each and every one and tell them how little Timmy did in school? Send out a massive missive, and get it all done at once. Do they all care? Maybe, maybe not. But at least all the bases are covered.

Then there's the idiots who seem to think that writing in the fomat of a blog gives them the excuse to completely ignore capitalization, punctuation, spelling and syntax. Okay, news flash for anyone who falls into this category: rules of grammar were invented for a reason. And I'll tell you what that is. Ready? All right, because you can't fuckin' understand what the sentence (quote unquote, in many cases) is supposed to be about without some even perfunctory attempt at structure. At some point I will copy and paste some of the more gross examples to this site. I doubt it would violate any international copyright laws, as, frankly, anyone who claims a right, copy or otherwise, to some of this stuff can have it with my blessing. Then again, who needs more trash on their blog. There's certainly enough on this one as it is, correctly spelled and properly formatted trash notwithstanding.

And my last complaint (this started as an analysis, of sorts - how did it become a laundry list of small irritations?) is the vast number of non-sequitur pictures on profiles. I'm assuming there are not in fact any cartoon rabbits posting blogs at this time. If there actually is a blog written by Harvey, then my conception of the world has just undergone a radical alteration, not for the better. No picture (such as the Editor) or a photo of oneself, makes sense. It's not a crime against nature or anything to represent yourself as Hello Kitty. It just makes everyone wonder . . . does this person not have a face? Do they, if in possession of such, dislike it so much that they need to pretend to be Daffy Duck? I guess it shows a lack of confidence, which is unfortunate. Either show the world what you look like, or try to get by on who you are, but don't make everyone try to respond to a screenshot from Dragonball Z for god's sake.

One last completely unrelated note. I highly recommend the film Shaun of the Dead to anyone who likes zombie movies. A good portion of the humor is actually dependent upon having seen other zombie movies, but in this context, that's not a bad thing. It's a genuinely original contribution to the genre, and although gory, as all zombie movies really should be, it won't shock anyone who's seen, say, Cannibal Holocaust. And that's an extremely extreme example. This did not come from my new releases plan, by the way. I decided to take the day off and actually watch something I wanted to see, sorry to disappoint any masochists-by-proxy out there.

A brief update, from the depths of the morning

2005-01-15T03:51:00.000-08:00

Has anyone ever noticed how maudlin impulses become almost overwhelming towards the wee hours? The Editor has difficulty retaining an objective point of view around this time of day, or night. Everything seems imbued with extra nostalgic meaning and depressive possibility. This is probably the copious quantities of excellent Glenlivet speaking, however, so please disregard anything which seems . . . maudlin. Perhaps it's not the wee hours, but being drunk during the wee hours, which is at fault. See, if bars stayed open twenty-four hours, this issue would not arise, as the Editor could continue to play pool until the sun was safely up. (I do not at this time have the resources to install a pool table at home; if anyone wishes to contribute to the cause, please let me know. A sucker's born every minute, so I've heard.) In the meantime, I am doomed to pick-up games with random folks at the pseudo-imitation-English pub down the road. I'm sorry, but this is California. We do not have English pubs here, as, well, it's not England. And my friend, who accompanied my on my mission to find a game of pool this evening, informs me that the mixed drinks at this place are just awful. I wouldn't know, as I drink, you guessed it, Glenlivet. Which it would be a form of sacrilege to mix with anything, except perhaps some hot water and a spot of lemon, in a dire winter emergency.

And once again, this is California. Define "dire winter emergency"? Well, there's some water on the street, see, and the temperature has dipped below the point where it's comfortable to wear a t-shirt outside at four a.m. Having lived in less benign climates, the attitude of my neighbors towards weather of any kind seems a bit hyperactive and overblown. But then, they moved here to spend their vast bank accounts on luxuries of the most decadent sort, and spend their time demanding that the very tides obey their commands, egged on by their mobs of personal assistants and interior decorators; much like King Canute and his council, only without that excellent monarch's common sense.

Anyway, I don't play golf, surf, or believe that the universe revolves around my ability to walk out onto the patio of my mansion and drink a pina colada in the middle of January; thus, rain isn't an issue, except for the zombie problem, of course. You mean you haven't seen it in the news? Thank god for blogs: it's the only place for a real update on the state of the world.

The great plan has had an interesting side effect

2005-01-14T05:00:00.000-08:00

So having put my plan of random, yet highly organized, crap movie watching into action, I find that I am much less inclined to watch movies. I didn't intend this, but it certainly has worked out well. I went out today and interacted with people, something I'm usually quite prone to do, but not since acquiring the amazing cheap movie rental account. I did watch 2 Days last night, and found some enjoyment in it . . . when one lives near Los Angeles, one finds some amusement in the skewering of LA stereotypes, at least. I still have not mustered the courage to tackle 30 Years to Life, however. Tomorrow, tomorrow it will happen.

In the meantime, the Editor will try to catch some sleep before the sun comes up, and ponder why it is that a film which is supposedly about urban sophisticates features a title which makes a direct reference to prison. Oh, yes, it's because it's about black people. I forgot. The Editor is not on the left-leaning end of the political spectrum, by any means . . . and yet, some things are just plain offensive. I will update my vast readership as soon as this undoubtedly hideously dull and irritating motion picture has actually been viewed. For now, this is Tokyo Rose signing off.

A new form of Zen

2005-01-13T01:24:00.000-08:00

No, not meditation, nor incense, which causes the Editor some unfortunate sneezing homicidal allergies. Nor yoga, perish the thought. But I did say new, didn't I?

To make a long story short, or rather, a short story shorter, I have recently acquired a new movie rental account, at a little DVD place right around the corner from my cozy, zombie-fortified abode, which offers an excellent rate for unlimited rentals with no late fees. Well, this seems like a good opportunity to catch up on all of those fine Cannes-acclaimed films which one does not always have the chance to view immediately, right? Wrong. Several people have described my plan, variously, as "insane", "OCD", "just plain weird", and "a big waste of time", and puzzlingly, "rock on, freak!". The Editor is not one to take naysayers seriously, so I have forged ahead. Tally ho!

But what is this bold, this daring plan, you may ask? What revelation am I about to unfold, the very tingling anticipation of which holds you glued to the edge of your undoubtedly Swedish modern computer chair? It is this: I shall, beginning RIGHT NOW, watch every new release in the store, in strict and exacting alphabetical order.

This sounds like an anticlimax. But think, just for a moment. Jumpstart the old battery and process the depth of pain and anguish, and possibly, just possibly, spiritual revelation which this may entail. For example: having glanced over the shelf once or twice, I know that my future holds such screen gems as Species 3 and, chillingly, The Princess Diaries 2. I can only hope that the latter is moved to the Adolescent Crap Section, where it undoubtedly belongs, before I reach the letter P. But that would be cheating. Out of common sense, I have omitted the following from my must-watch list, however: tv shows now packaged for rental; re-releases which have been somehow remastered or special-editioned in a desperate bid for revenue; films which were released on video pre-DVD, and have now been released on disc, see above.

Everything else . . . and I do mean everything else . . . will be watched, you know it, in alphabetical order. Tonight's (and possibly tomorrow's - I may not last that long, or I may kill myself first) picks are 2 Days (tagline: "Film is a dying art" - oh god no), and 30 Years to Life, which also has a lame tagline . . . it's all very punny, in a bad sort of way. The first one is about a lame wannabe actor who hates himself and wants to die. The second is some sort of African-American we're-turning-30 comedy. So I'm just going to go and lock up all of the knives and sleeping pills, and see what happens.

But who knows? I may reach a state beyond pain, beyond anger, beyond disgust, and open a door into a new and wondrous world of complete desensitization to any emotion whatsoever. I love the 21st century.

A comment! A comment! My kingdom for a comment!

2005-01-11T03:11:00.000-08:00

Breaking news! The beautiful, charming, and resilient Tifanie (please view her story of terror and woe filming someone's asinine tv pilot at Zaca Lake) has posted a comment to this site! A momentous occasion! None of you are in a position to appreciate this, but I have broken out a second bottle of Glenlivet in honor of the occasion. The comment was actually posted some hours ago, but as I was too busy dealing with the zombies, it slipped my notice momentarily.

Zombies are a strange and wondrous conundrum. On the one hand, yes, they are animated corpses, gnawing living human flesh with complete disregard for the pain and suffering they cause, and spreading their foul illness to all who cross their path; but on the other hand, they're people too, aren't they? Actually no, they're just animated corpses. Sorry, any allegory vaguely related to philosophy majors can be ignored at this point.

And why, you may ask, does the Editor have it in for philosophy majors? Well, really, I don't. They're just such easy targets. Ask one to defend him or herself with reason, and suddenly, one hears more about dead people than one wants to know. Once again, we come to zombies. I rest my point.

In other news: Cheez-Its remain a favorite with Editors everywhere; penguins really are fucking cool, despite their popularity among an entirely irrelevant assortment of international bloggers; and zombies and philosophy majors have absolutely nothing in common, no matter how many similarities there may superficially appear to be. Granted they both mumble unintelligible nonsense; they both chew on body parts, without reference to whom they might belong; they are both, as groups, incapable of reasoning which doesn't go around and around and around in a circle, wheeeee! But they are different. Never forget it.

And having completely vindicated the honor of philosophers everywhere, I leave you with a thought from Monty Python, as I hie myself to much needed bed:

Immanuel Kant was a real pissant
who was very rarely stable;
Heidegger, Heidegger was a boozy beggar
who could drink you under the table;
David Hume could outconsume
Schopenhauer and Hegel;
and Wittgenstein was a beery swine
who was just as sloshed as Schlegel.

There's nothing Nieztsche couldn't teach about the raising of the wrist . . .
Socrates himself was permanently pissed - - -
(second verse, etc.)

And the excitement continues to build . . .

2005-01-10T20:11:00.000-08:00

The world of blogging has no doubt been taken by storm by the entry of this, my first attempt at a blog. The cheering crowds besiege my very apartment. So, in response to great public demand, another post! Hear them shout with joy!

Actually, it's rather rainy here - the freeway is closed both north and south and any other direction you can think of, thus leaving my town stranded in the pouring rain. It seems that the time is ripe for a zombie attack, but I will probably be disappointed. In short, my post derives from simply having nothing better to do besides step out the front door into a no doubt zombie infested rainstorm. Having no desire to be wet, or devoured by the ravening undead, or to undergo any other inconvenience of the sort, blog it is.

I also took the time to post some interests on my profile, simply to click on them and see who else had listed the same things. A surprising number of people listed penguins as an interest. Do all of these people regularly think about penguins? Do penguins strike some sort of deep chord in the human psyche? (To reiterate my previous comment, do not attempt to answer this philosophically.) I suppose they are some of the most stylish examples of fauna in existence on the planet. They wear tuxedos, after all. In regards to other interests with which I experimented, I would recommend avoiding anyone who has "ninjas" in their interests.

So the question becomes: what interests are most likely to draw the optimum response, from people whose interests actually coincide with one's own? If anyone actually responds to this blog, based on my listing of "PEZ dispensers", I think it will be time to worry. The bottom line really is, it is impossible to distill oneself into five or six keywords, or it ought to be. Honestly I didn't try that hard, as is evident. And favorite movies and music? What does that really have to do with anything? And how can you choose? Why do people like top ten lists so much? Is it the only certainty available in the universe?

Ponder that, while I go see if that unholy scratching and moaning coming from the patio is a zombie, or something far more sinister - such as one of my friends, out of beer and looking for a handout.

What is this blog all about?

2005-01-10T03:38:00.000-08:00

That is, of course, the burning question on everybody's minds. Who knows? Not I, for one. I'm simply curious about what happens when you put your random musings out in the world, for someone to notice, or care about, or more likely not. Is it an expression of loneliness and insecurity, or self-confidence and supreme ego? Are there any philosophy majors reading this? I sure hope not - I was one, and got as tired of myself and all of my classmates as the rest of the world must already have been. So, any purportedly philosophical answers to any question posed on this blog will be at best ignored.

So, let us approach the question from another perspective. What will most often be posted here? Well, probably drink recipes, for one. If you're not drunk while looking at this sort of site online, start now - you'll probably need it before you're done. Information which I think is useful for the world to know will probably comprise another section or two. And, there will be the odd political rant and movie review, and update on the state of the world as I see it. (This is definitely trending towards the egotism end of the spectrum, I can see already.) For now, I want to define "overground".

There's a great deal of interest, especially in the young, in anything which is secret, elite, special, or underground. Well, why not? What's life for, if not creating an infinite subdivision of categories which make one cooler than thou? Well, this is overground. It is not secret, unless one equates secret with being completely unknown. It is not elite, unless you prefer to think so, in which case, carry on then. It is only special in that it is unique, because there's only one of me and one of you, gentle reader. Therefore, it is overground. It is not cooler than anything, as I'm sure everyone will agree. And why do I disapprove of underground? Because everyone who drinks whiskey becomes equally drunk, unless you're Irish, in which case, rock on. And that's as philosophical as this is going to get.