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.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
No Fucking Zombies
The Editor had a most disappointing experience today, as the title of the post may have already made clear.
Allow me to elaborate. This morning, during hours generally reserved for blissful Editorial unconsciousness, I arose from my zombie lair and dragged my almost immobile carcass, hissing and growling all the way, to the local cemetery. Why, you may ask? Well, the Editor maintains some forms of (somewhat) gainful employment, as a writer, in fact - believe it or not. If my only contact with myself were this somewhat lackadaisical forum, I would myself not believe such information about myself.
Be that as it may. To the cemetery I went, thinking that at least, should the guided tour on which I was embarking prove dull, I could at least spend the time fruitfully, perhaps digging up some freshly buried remains, or playing ninepins with skulls and little tibia bones. To my great, aforementioned, disappointment, not only was the tour dull but no such macabre entertainment had been provided. Au contraire, most of the tour group seemed content to gawk at a variety of Freemason emblems etched into little slabs of rock, meanwhile oohing and aahing over the tombstone of that stupid chick Domino whose life was melodramatized in the stinking, putrid film of the same name.
I beg my gentle readers' pardons, as the experience has driven me into the arms of liquor and run-on sentences - which vice is the more pernicious, I leave it to your wisdom to discern.
Again, be that as it may. The final word on the cemetery tour: no zombies. None, not one. I mean, I maintain a zombie colony, it's true, and you'd think I'd have enough. But there can never be enough zombies, and there were no rotting hands, thrusting through the turf to grab middle aged women by the ankles. No screaming, no eating of flesh. Just the history of the board of directors, punctuated by coy asides about former groundskeepers. Heady stuff, I tell you.
My one regret is that I failed to plant some of my own zombies in the ground the night before - a few leg gnawings would have enlivened the event immensely. Next time, I suppose - although the next time I go to one of those things I'll bring a hip flask, too, just in case.
Allow me to elaborate. This morning, during hours generally reserved for blissful Editorial unconsciousness, I arose from my zombie lair and dragged my almost immobile carcass, hissing and growling all the way, to the local cemetery. Why, you may ask? Well, the Editor maintains some forms of (somewhat) gainful employment, as a writer, in fact - believe it or not. If my only contact with myself were this somewhat lackadaisical forum, I would myself not believe such information about myself.
Be that as it may. To the cemetery I went, thinking that at least, should the guided tour on which I was embarking prove dull, I could at least spend the time fruitfully, perhaps digging up some freshly buried remains, or playing ninepins with skulls and little tibia bones. To my great, aforementioned, disappointment, not only was the tour dull but no such macabre entertainment had been provided. Au contraire, most of the tour group seemed content to gawk at a variety of Freemason emblems etched into little slabs of rock, meanwhile oohing and aahing over the tombstone of that stupid chick Domino whose life was melodramatized in the stinking, putrid film of the same name.
I beg my gentle readers' pardons, as the experience has driven me into the arms of liquor and run-on sentences - which vice is the more pernicious, I leave it to your wisdom to discern.
Again, be that as it may. The final word on the cemetery tour: no zombies. None, not one. I mean, I maintain a zombie colony, it's true, and you'd think I'd have enough. But there can never be enough zombies, and there were no rotting hands, thrusting through the turf to grab middle aged women by the ankles. No screaming, no eating of flesh. Just the history of the board of directors, punctuated by coy asides about former groundskeepers. Heady stuff, I tell you.
My one regret is that I failed to plant some of my own zombies in the ground the night before - a few leg gnawings would have enlivened the event immensely. Next time, I suppose - although the next time I go to one of those things I'll bring a hip flask, too, just in case.
Friday, March 30, 2007
All right: it's almost April
This is the time of year when Aprille showers supposedly come one's way, or some shit. Not in Southern California, of course, but perhaps there is somewhere else on God's green earth which is not in fact Arrakis, Dune, desert planet . . . cue Kyle MacLachlan looking really intense while communicating with a giant worm in a somewhat suspiciously homoerotic yet bestialic (is this a word?) yet . . . oh god, who cares. It's a giant fucking worm. And it pops out of the sand (got to be uncomfortable with all those crevices, anyone who's ever tried to have sex on a beach like in all those movies where they're doing it in the surf will understand the Editor's point here) and then opens its segments . . . all I'm saying (and Dune is one of my favorite, favorite movies, David Lynch is some sort of deity, don't get me wrong) is that it's a little much.
Sidetrack officially over. April. Yes. It is undeniably spring, which means that the Editor feels a little remorseful for having only reinstated the year as of last week. What did the adoring public do during those cold, nonexistent months? Hopefully they soothed their sorrows with copious quantities of macerated, distilled and otherwise tastified mixtures of ethanol. That is of course how the Editor has spent the otherwise useless time.
Speaking of which, the Editor has consumed a fair amount of inexpensive grape-based ethanol this evening, so don't expect no sparkling wit or nuthin. In fact, the Editor's zombie-infested bedchamber awaits; I would merely like to state, since I promised such in the previous post, that I love everyone everywhere. The world is a good and happy place. The Editor is drunk.
Sidetrack officially over. April. Yes. It is undeniably spring, which means that the Editor feels a little remorseful for having only reinstated the year as of last week. What did the adoring public do during those cold, nonexistent months? Hopefully they soothed their sorrows with copious quantities of macerated, distilled and otherwise tastified mixtures of ethanol. That is of course how the Editor has spent the otherwise useless time.
Speaking of which, the Editor has consumed a fair amount of inexpensive grape-based ethanol this evening, so don't expect no sparkling wit or nuthin. In fact, the Editor's zombie-infested bedchamber awaits; I would merely like to state, since I promised such in the previous post, that I love everyone everywhere. The world is a good and happy place. The Editor is drunk.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
2007: Probationally reinstated
All right. There has been no zombie holocaust, and there is no cure for the flu; pie has not even appeared on the horizon, although the Editor did at one point attempt to make a pie and was thwarted by the fact that I can't seem to buy fruit without having it magically go bad. However, in spite of the conditions originally set for 2007 having not yet been fulfilled, the year may continue, for now.
Why, you ask? Because the Editor's cold, dry, blackened heart has suddenly been touched by the essential nitwittery of humanity. No, this is not a joke. One movie, one FX broadcast (still on, if anyone's in front of their television) has changed my life: restored my faith in the tenderness of a father-son relationship, spelled out the dangers of humanity's blindness, and given me a whopping good giggle.
Honestly, if people can still soldier on, blithely making movies like The Day After Tomorrow, and even taking it seriously . . . if, in short, there are people in the world stupid enough to a) believe that this film is a prescient exploration of scientific fact, b) shed a solitary tear for the precociously impertinent teenagers marooned in wolf-ridden (?) New York, or c) pay to see such a film in the theater; if these people exist, then the Editor's life has meaning. Of course, I don't think that's what the makers of the movie in question had in mind. They probably intended the touching warmth, without the uncontrollable laughter. At least they succeeded at something.
And after all, they may have begun an Ice Age in the fictional world of the film; but they ended an Ice Age in the Editor's heart. More warm, fuzzy posts will be coming up soon, when topics may include how much the Editor loves animals, the way that multiracial children make me smile, and the essential decency of all the peoples of the world.
Also, please watch for Hell freezing over in the near future. Happy 2007!
Why, you ask? Because the Editor's cold, dry, blackened heart has suddenly been touched by the essential nitwittery of humanity. No, this is not a joke. One movie, one FX broadcast (still on, if anyone's in front of their television) has changed my life: restored my faith in the tenderness of a father-son relationship, spelled out the dangers of humanity's blindness, and given me a whopping good giggle.
Honestly, if people can still soldier on, blithely making movies like The Day After Tomorrow, and even taking it seriously . . . if, in short, there are people in the world stupid enough to a) believe that this film is a prescient exploration of scientific fact, b) shed a solitary tear for the precociously impertinent teenagers marooned in wolf-ridden (?) New York, or c) pay to see such a film in the theater; if these people exist, then the Editor's life has meaning. Of course, I don't think that's what the makers of the movie in question had in mind. They probably intended the touching warmth, without the uncontrollable laughter. At least they succeeded at something.
And after all, they may have begun an Ice Age in the fictional world of the film; but they ended an Ice Age in the Editor's heart. More warm, fuzzy posts will be coming up soon, when topics may include how much the Editor loves animals, the way that multiracial children make me smile, and the essential decency of all the peoples of the world.
Also, please watch for Hell freezing over in the near future. Happy 2007!
Saturday, January 13, 2007
Due to a concatenation of circumstances, 2007 has been cancelled
I'm sorry to be compelled to make the announcement here, but 2007 has been cancelled. The Editor's nasty flu, a complete lack of pie, and the deceptively zombie-friendly weather (and simultaneously absent zombie holocaust) have led the Editor to declare 2007 a complete wash.
However, anyone wishing to reinstate 2007 as a year in good standing may send the Editor a pie, cure the flu, or kill a whole bunch of people and reanimate them, giving them a strong desire to eat the living flesh of others.
Thanks,
The Editor
However, anyone wishing to reinstate 2007 as a year in good standing may send the Editor a pie, cure the flu, or kill a whole bunch of people and reanimate them, giving them a strong desire to eat the living flesh of others.
Thanks,
The Editor
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
The love poem of a creepy old man
To continue the theme of bad poetry, here is a poetical offering written to a good friend of the Editor's by a former professor of hers, with whom she had a short relationship recently. This was his tribute to her beauty and charm, reprinted with her kind permission:
The name carries far
Beyond any claim,
No gravity to contain
This daybreak,
Or beauty each breath taken gives back.
The light on your skin,
An astral kiss in the dark histories
Of what might have been,
The place where exhausted worlds dream
Of going.
And that vanishing point, too,
Concealed like a weapon or gift,
Where life and little death happen
To the chosen who bring you there,
Where pleasure and pain merge
Like true believers,
Reckless in knowing.
Your heartbeat behind manic drumbeats
And electric strings
This awkward body cannot keep time to.
Your soul hidden by constellations I want to see
But dying stars I may already inhabit.
Your light forever trapped in the time and space
I have become.
There's not a lot to be said about this, except that the author of this poem teaches writing classes. Let's hope his students don't pay very much attention to his lectures. My friend is offering a prize for anyone who can make any sense of this poem, other than the thinly veiled reference to orgasm in the middle.
FYI, Tifanie, I don't think there's a single woman in the world who would want to be described as having abundant thighs. That's got to be a turn-off. Thanks for the excellent comment, let the bad poetry continue unabated!
Beyond any claim,
No gravity to contain
This daybreak,
Or beauty each breath taken gives back.
The light on your skin,
An astral kiss in the dark histories
Of what might have been,
The place where exhausted worlds dream
Of going.
And that vanishing point, too,
Concealed like a weapon or gift,
Where life and little death happen
To the chosen who bring you there,
Where pleasure and pain merge
Like true believers,
Reckless in knowing.
Your heartbeat behind manic drumbeats
And electric strings
This awkward body cannot keep time to.
Your soul hidden by constellations I want to see
But dying stars I may already inhabit.
Your light forever trapped in the time and space
I have become.
There's not a lot to be said about this, except that the author of this poem teaches writing classes. Let's hope his students don't pay very much attention to his lectures. My friend is offering a prize for anyone who can make any sense of this poem, other than the thinly veiled reference to orgasm in the middle.
FYI, Tifanie, I don't think there's a single woman in the world who would want to be described as having abundant thighs. That's got to be a turn-off. Thanks for the excellent comment, let the bad poetry continue unabated!
Monday, December 25, 2006
Worst Christmas Gift Ever - From Me to You!!!
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Posts, posts, everywhere, but not a drop to drink
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 . . .
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 . . .
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Life is analogous to the pigs quarter - 25
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
True Love
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.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Chewing, Gnawing, Slavering Undead Beasts - It's a Party, and You're All Invited
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.
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.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Loose Women of Low Character
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.
Friday, February 10, 2006
Back to School
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.
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.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Monday, January 09, 2006
A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words, Unless It's a Crappy Snapshot
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).
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).
Sunday, January 01, 2006
Happy Fucking New Year!
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.
Monday, December 26, 2005
hwuaaaaarghhh!
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!
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!
Monday, December 19, 2005
Up 300, Down 300
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.
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.
Sunday, December 11, 2005
A Redefinition of Fantasy
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
The Simpler Life
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.
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.
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