well well well...look what we have

HERE !!!

If this story doesn't cheer you up...wait a sec. I'm sorry, I got confused there. I guess I'm the one who gets cheered up by robot stories. You guys are surprisingly indifferent to robot stories. Anyways, I got cheered up quite a bit.

Speaking of cheered up...in Fjord-related news, Starting Friday, I'll be off on a extra-long Labor-Day holiday to the Great Northwest. So, I'll leave this floating mass of electronic murmers to the care of my three peers, collegues, and co-bloggers, Mindfuck, Q-Dog, and Fjordborg. If for whatever unlikely reason, they should not quite live up to your high Fjordian Standards, I'll be back on Tuesday.

I found something looking over

the internets today. After sniffing out all the latest details about Katrina and...Katrina related disaster details...I saw this headline.

Study: Ozone layer has stopped shrinking

I read further...-- The ozone layer has stopped shrinking but it will take decades to start recovering, U.S. scientists reported on Tuesday. (oh, here's the link)

U.S. Scientists...mmm-hmmm.

So the reason I mention it, is because I saw THIS story yesterday.

- the headline
Major ozone loss over Antarctic

read further...--New readings from the European satellite Envisat suggest that this year's southern hemisphere ozone hole may be one of the largest on record.

So either the ozone layer has stopped shrinking, and is recovering - even though it may take decades. Or, this year's ozone hole will be the largest ever. Well, that's a relief. Anyways, hope you guys are safe, and dry, and in a dark room somewhere, or outside playing in the sun. Whatever - I'm sure we're all gonna be fine.

I'll see if I can find you some stories about robots. Those always seem to cheer you guys up!

YES!

Pssst...hey buddy! Wanna Robot?

It's Been a Weird Day

I've just been fascinated by Katrina. It's just so...overwhelming.

Last night I was knocking back between the stations watching the City Of New Orleans evacuate, and I couldn't help thinking. "I've never, ever seen this happen before. A whole huge city just get up and go."

"Sorry," Said the Mayor, "Don't care where you go, but you can't stay here." And most people listened. So the people who couldn't leave, cause they were poor, or infirm went to hang out in the SUPERDOME...and of course, with sustained winds of 140 mph, the roof started to rip off!

For the rest of the day, I was convinced that the coolest video in the world could be had, in showing the massive roof ripping off the SUPERDOME, and then flying across the city- and impacting into a high-rise with *ahem* quite a lot of shock and awe. Only THERE WAS NOBODY OUTSIDE TO FILM IT! In the end, I'm happy that it was only a couple of vents that gave way, causing some 15-25 foot holes, and making those huddled inside a little more uncomfortable and damp, but alive.

Still, imagine the coverage, if the roof had been ripped off whole, and was sent flying into the stratosphere like a Flying Saucer! Impact predictions! Daring news-chopper piloting! The inevitable impact shot from ten or fifteen different angles, in slow-mo-hi-def-video!

At least I'm glad I didn't miss that.

Well, there's a football game on tonight, and I'm off to watch that instead. It's too hot in L.A. to think about things for too long...except how great football is.

It's Too Darn Hot!

I mean really! It's frikkin hot! I went down the street to the local stripmall doughnut shop for Gatoraid and Perrier, and had to jump between shadows cast from streetlight poles...to avoid being charred to a blackend cinder. I MEAN HOT!

Speaking of rising temperatures,
I saw this and wondered, who's stealing ideas from my own private fantasy world. (and no...I do not mean that I want to dress up in women's noir-styled dresses...you're a bunch of sickos just for thinking I'd do something like that. *humph*)

Anyhoo...I wanted to apologize for the last post - blatant, sickening self-hype and promotion. Disgusting. In fact I've lost nearly all respect for myself, I can't believe I would have stooped so low! Please forgive me, and take my word that I will never do anything so crassly-arrogant ever again.

So...Wanna see something cool?

#1 of about 36,400.
I'm now going to admire myself in the mirror...

What Are We Going To Do Tonight Brain?...

SAME THING WE DO EVERY NIGHT PINKY...


TRY AND TAKE OVER THE WORLD!


If you're new here...
Welcome to Fjord. We are probably the most scattershot blog that's been working since mid January 2005. However, before you go...do me a favor, and read everything from start to finish that you can, till you get to the bottom of the page (B-4 youse gots to hit the "Uber-Bueno Archives" section. Please follow all the hyperlinks...they're not going to lead you astray. I just did the same thing I asked you to do (sans links- but I know what they're up to)) And I figgered, it was worth my time. Lemme know if you think I'm rite or wrong.

Obviously you have 12 minutes of your life to spare, else, you wouldn't be here. SO (to quote the Nike ad Dept.) JUST DO IT!

Exit Sandman!

"Did we make it?" a weak voice asks in the infinite void.
"I'm...not sure." Says another. "What's the last thing you remember?"
"Getting my ass kicked by the Sandman. Dude, it wasn't pretty."
"Me too. That bastard rolled me up like a Home Depot rug." A soft glow illuminates Monday and Tuesday...each with a goodly assortment of gaping wounds, and massive contusions.
Wednesday drifts out of the blackness, a seriously large, and bleeding puncture wound near his clavicle.
"Hi guys." He says, "What's doin?"
"Oh, you know..." says Monday, "Just hangin' in the infinite void after getting our asses kicked by the Sandman. Whataboutchoo?"
"Huh." Says Wednesday, looking around the void. "I guess the same. Tho, I thought I knocked that fucker pretty good. I guess something funny happened."
"Yaknow," Tuesday speaks. "We three don't do enough thinking about what would happen if we could take care of that bastard. I mean, think about how much we could get done! Like Friday don't have to worry about sleep! He's always getting the benefit of the doubt. Problems? Take it up with Saturday."
"You might have something there." Says Monday, 'WAIT! WHAT'S THAT!?" He points into the black. (Right, left, north, up...directions don't really mean anything in the infinite void.)

A pair of headlights pierce the darkness. Then another pair, and another, and another. A pack of vehicles approaches. The rumble of high-horsepower engines shakes strange ripples through the darkness. The three float there, awaiting their fate. Then, a black Lincoln Town Car with dark windows, drifts past. Then another, and another. They surround them, above, beside, below.
"Fuck." Says Wednesday.

Then the black moonroof of the Town Car below them slides open. The torso of a man emerges, and produces a long brass trumpet. He blasts a few notes befitting the emperor in one of those old Hollywood Sweeping Epics. The door to the Town Car abreast of them opens. Thursday steps out dressed in the attire of a Roman General. A huge-nay-massive feathered plume on a shiny silver helmet, a gleaming brass engraved breastplate. It's pretty impressive.

"Hi guys!" Says Thursday. "Hop in, we've got somewhere to be."
"Wait," Wednesday demands. "What happened?"
"Oh, I kicked the Sandman's ass!"
"What about us?" Says Monday.
"You guys are cool. Jeezus! You think we don't know what you did? Now look. Friday's got something sweet planned, hop in!"

And he got back into his Lincoln. Around them doors opened mysteriously, and each took a separate ride. The motorcade drove off through the black. They formed into a line, and shortly came upon a huge deco-skyscraper, looking remarkably like the Chrysler Building, only removed from all context in the infinite void. One by one, the dark Lincolns disgorged their passengers, who pushed their way through sculpted revolving doors, and assembled in the marble-covered lobby. Finally, Thursday followed, his armor covered in a billowing red cloak, and carrying a huge metal spear, that pretty much capped-off his Roman warrior look. He glanced over the assembled weekdays.
"Gjod, you guys look like death warmed over." He snapped his fingers, and from hidden doors behind the marble, a crack team of medics, and stylists, and make-up artists went to work.

There was shoving and pushing, and the random command of "You can't do that yet! I'm not finished." Crowds gathered around each weekday, as at least twenty people tired to push their way through the throng, to do their appropriate task.

Finally, they were all done. Monday looked like a million bucks. Tuesday was immaculate, like a gjoddamn angel. Wednesday could have seduced a goddess. Thursday looked over the sixty or so odd humanids who had done the work, gathered back against the walls in a crowd.
"You all have performed magic tonight. Thank you so very much."

With that the crowd broke into a huge cheer! The sound echoed in the marble lobby. It would have made a politician proud. They cheered both at the praise, and the work that had been performed to make the three look, not only presentable, but stupendously wonderful to gaze upon. Thursday made a sweeping motion with his spear, and the others followed towards the bank of engraved elevator doors. Thursday lowered his spear, and deftly struck the "up" button with it's silver warhead. The button lit up with a small glowing yellow arrow.

The doors opened, and the four pressed into the elevator, where a man in the red-suit of an elevator operator, closed the doors. The car began to move rapidly upwards. Softly, and nearly imperceptibly the elevator music grew. It played, "Girl from Ipanima." And it was perfect.

Det-doot-doot-de-doot-de-toot-doo-de-doot...
Det-doot-doot-de-doot-de-toot-doo-de-doot
Det-doot-doot-de-doot-dooooooo...

The Weekdays, shocked from their experience in the void, their rapid transit in black cars, and overwhelming makeover, all felt themselves and each of their muscles, relax.

"The Lounge." Said the elevator operator, with practiced nonchalance. Then the doors opened.

Standing in front of the opened doors, was a very slim, and extremely attractive female. She wore nothing, but a mask around her face, which had an uncanny resemblance of a dark black beak. Around her torso were two black leather straps that held a huge costume behind her of a massive Peacock. Feathers that would put a Vegas Showgirl to shame stuck out at least eight feet in a the bird's fan shape. She opened her arms in an outreach that implied nothing but welcome. The muscles in her arms and shoulders contracted to perk her breasts up to the epitome of "How much do you desire these perfectly huge, and perky breasts." And then swung herself, her perfect breasts, and her feathered costume to the side in a sweeping bow.

Which revealed, directly behind her in a long hallway, The King of All Weekdays, dressed in a gray sharkskin suit, over which was draped a dark red silk robe. He looked...sort of like Ricky Ricardo at home with Lucy.

"Welcome, my friends!" He said. "This week, could have never been possible without you." He gave a wave and gesture with his left hand, (clutching the stem of a martini glass filled with a plum-colored liquid) and from various hidden spaces, four cocktail waitresses with excellent legs, in very skimpy dresses...so skimpy as to give "cocktail dress" a very dirty name, approached with a variety of beverages on trays. They all kneeled and raised the trays above their heads. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday all grabbed something that matched their desires.

"I've arranged for a suitable celebration." Friday continued, "Something I hope you'll find enjoyable." And then he stepped aside, unveiling a room full of lovely and interesting people, and windows that, instead of looking out into dark deep infinite blackness, revealed the skyline view of a massive, and glowing metropolis. The first three weekdays moved forth energetically to mingle, but Thursday stopped.

"This is pretty great Friday." He said.
Friday took a sip of his martini-glass, and in a humble voice, said,
"I could have never done it without you." He swept his cocktail laden hand at the other three who had already disappeared into the throng. "And I mean all of you."

Happy Friday.

Another Installment of Mr. Pigglesworth and Mr. Gimpson!

The 6:25 Liverpool to London train raced down the tracks at 53 and 1/2 miles per hour. Huge wafting billows of dense smoke came back in the headwind, and covered the forward cars' windows with small flakes. Pigglesworth watched the idyllic scenery pass by with glassy eyes, in this gentle snowstorm of incinerated coal.

"I say," Pigglesworth said, nudging his companion in their private first-class compartment, "Gimpson - old man, you should really try this opium I got from the Chinaman at the harbor." With his nudge, Gimpson started, and nearly dropped a huge-and nearly empty bottle of brandy. His head was hanging limp, and he snorted through his nose, and a small trail of clear snot fell onto his whiskers. Drunk as a skunk was an understatement - he was positively pickled in Brandy. Even his boots reeked of the evil-smelling liquor. (it was very, very cheap brandy.)

Pigglesworth was lost himself in a drug-daze, and realized his mistake too late. Gimpson awoke, and began recounting his acceptance speech, for the umpteenth time.

"Distinguished coll-ll-lleag...hic...eagues of the Royal Astro-llol-loll-O-gee-ur-Alll...hic...Shoshiety. Thank," he rolled the next word around in his mouth for a long moment before it came out, "Youse...for...hic...thish prest-hic-prest...idgeoush, award!"

Pigglesworth stared back out the window, and lit a long wooden pipe with a stick match. The room filled with soft white smoke, and the reek of opium mixed with that of cheap rum. It created a foul and unpleasant atmosphere in their closed compartment. Gimpson's ramblings faded to a low uncomfortable din, but still irked Pigglesworth, who just wanted to stare undisturbed, out the window.

Then the compartment door slid open, letting in a wholesome breeze. A man entered rapidly, and slid the door shut behind him. The breeze died away. The man wore a black suit, and carried a black briefcase. He doffed his bowler as he turned around.
"Reginald Smythe, at your service." He said, facing the two with an excellently groomed moustache that reached back to join his brown hair in front of his ears.

"What is the meaning of this sir!" Exclaimed Pigglesworth. "This is a private compartment!"
"Yes, of course," Said Smythe, "But I carry in this briefcase, plans destined for the Royal Navy, and I have fears that agents of a foreign power has designs on them, and I spotted three men that may be, infact, after me and what I carry...and...My god man!" He stopped his narrative, and exclaimed, "What is that horrible stench?!"

Pigglesworth was shaken out of his outrage at the intrusion, by the man's desperate reaction. "I'm afraid it would be my associate, who is blind-drunk on brandy, and myself, who has been adding to the atmosphere by indulging in the horrible drug of opium." Gimpson continued the recounting of his speach, unaware that any interruption had occurred. "That my obser-ser...hic...vations, of the shhhh....shhhh.....sh..steller parallax, in the shouthern hemi...hic...hemi-ish-phehe, might well be the...mosht imp...hic...impor...rrrr...taint..."

Smythe moved forward, across the compartment, and opened a window. Papers flew about in the room, and the reek of coal-smoke added itself to the mixture, but gradually the foulness was sucked out. "I hope you don't mind." Smythe said as he sat next to Pigglesworth. "It really was intolerable!" Pigglesworth agreed, "Not in the least old man. Anything for the security of the British Nation."
"Quite." Replied Smythe. "Now, what's with him?" He pointed across to Gimpson, who was still happily recanting his speech.
"Oh, we're on our way to a presentation at the Royal Observatory, where his work has most certainly determined the exact distance of the earth from the sun. There will be a ceremony, and he's been practicing his speech nearly since we started."

Gimpson continued his beyond drunken rant..."Kn-kn-kn...the knowle...deg ensc...enscon...hic...ed in theshe form...ulash, might...nay will well...hic...cshange the cour-rrrse of shi-hic-sciensh, forever!"

"How much longer till the speech ends?" Smythe asked Pigglesworth.
"Oh, another half-hour at least."
"My god man, it's as intolerable as the atmosphere!"
"I understand," Replied Pigglesworth, "But it's no use. He doesn't know what he's doing, and will talk it out to the end."
"Might I have a try?" Smythe said hopefully.
"Anything you can do that might help." Said Pigglesworth.

Smythe got up and walked over to Gimpson, who sat with every muscle in his body limp as a noodle.
"I say old man." Smythe tapped Gimpson on the shoulder. Gimpson's head rolled back loosely on his neck, and his eyes focused on Smythe for a moment.
"Yesh?" Gimpson asked.
"The Royal Observatory presentation is over. You did wonderfully!" He pulled the bottle out of Gimpson's hands, and shook it in front of his face. "Here's the award they presented to you. Isn't it wonderful?!"
"Oh." Said Gimpson, and his hands mechanically grasped for the brandy. After a few misses, they found the bottle. "Yes," Gimpson spoke clearly. "Yes it is wonderful." He took it, and pulled a long slug from it, draining the rest of the liquor at the bottom. Then he fell on his side, and began to snore.

Smythe sat back next to Pigglesworth, and sighed.

They were all much happier.

Enter Sandman!

That bastard's been over me this week like brown on a stick. I'm finding it difficult to do anything productive, as I've been coming home and falling asleep like a skool-kid. It's nearly an embarrassment, when I'm asked "what'd you do last night?" And of course the asker is expecting a suitably rock-star Tsunami answer like "Oh, went to Pitt's house for the divorce party. Skinny-dipped in his hot-tub with some models, did a bunch of coke, drag-raced motorboats, and then after the orgy, things got kinda' fuzzy." However, lately I've been disappointing the fans, and those who live vicariously through me and my crazy life by answering, "Oh, I was in bed by 8 and asleep by 8:15. I've just been really, really tired."

As the heroes shout at the beginning of the end of their action movies, "This Ends Now!" I've just got too much stupid crap to take care of, to get another 11-12 hours of sleep on a weekday.
Besides, when the Sandman starts pushing you around, just like any bully, you've got to push back. 'Course, it's only 5:53 P.S.T., so this prediction (and my estimation of my own strength) might be a little premature. But that ends now!

Sweet Dreams My Little Fjordlings...

Greetin's from the Casa Aloha

Where (if you were here) you would have seen one D. Tsunami stagger through the front door, drop his bags and sacks, and turn on 3 of 4 fans to cool the damn place off from a day of baking Los Angeles sun. And before he could rip off his green gabardine pants, and black Oxford shirt, (poorly chosen for this kind of heat, but, in my defense it was pretty cool and overcast this morning at 7:30 when I was hitting the road) he remembered the precious liquid in one of the sacks, and threw two Miller tall-boys in the fridge. Then he ripped off his clothes, and put on something a bit more comfjordable.

And then the squawking started.

About 6 or 8 months ago, a neighbor brought home a Macaw parrot, and stuck his cage in the window. From there, I could here it's collection of odd-as-fuck sounds, which confused my visitors to no end.
"It's a cat!" One said.
"It's a dog!" Said another.
"It's a kid!" Said a third.

Nope. It's a fucking bird.

Mostly this didn't really bug me (one day I'll tell you about the rooster - but that's another tale) infact, seeings as how my tropical resort might need a little animal ambiance, I was almost sorta' happy. However, as the man says, "there's trouble in paradise."

My home, and the neighbors share the same style of water pipe. Seeings as they were built at the same time, probly made by the same manufacturer and probly laid down in 1933 by the same plumber. Nevertheless, the shower fixtures have a way of producing an extremely high-pitched squeak with every turn, both to activate said shower, and to de-activate the apparatus. It's not so bad when you're doing it...in fact, you really don't even notice.

But, last week - to my chagrin (see I told you I was working some new words into my brain) I found out, that this bored-as-fuck parrot had learned the same exact squeak that my (and my neighbor's) faucets make. Only, it learned how to string that sound in a loop that lasted, well, like ten minutes, before it changed back into the sounds of a strangling dog, drowning cat, and mangled child.

Since I really don't know what to do about it, I'm just going to think of Fjords.

Yep...I think that's going to help.

If you'll excuse me,

I have to figger a few angles out, work some different words into my brain...and check into my laundry situation.

Forgive me for dealing with reality for a gjoddamn day. However, I do have this link to a really great sale.

I hope that will do.

One more thing before I go...

I had expected this to be all over blogs from the moment I read about it, but somehow, it's still sort of flying under the radar. Since nobody else is doing it, I figgered, why not Fjord?

Go. Read.

And think about how you want to go out.

It's Been a Slow Lazy Day at Casa Aloha

And it really doesn't seem like it's going to get more exciting tonight either. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Today, I talked to my brother (whom you may recall works for a cyber-warfare outfit in the great Northwest...(and the rest is uber-classified) anyways, I got the 4-1-1 from him of his latest exploits, which included CLIMBING MT. RAINIER! Clearly, to anyone who's seen that peak in person, knows that's not a feat to be treated lightly. I'm super impressed, and want to give a hearty "Huzzah!" to that feat. Way to go bro!
(if you're lucky, and he does what he says and writes the story down, I'll post it up here for you to peruse. It's pretty great.)

Anyhoo...last night I did some work on another noir piece, that I think turned out pretty good. Since at the moment, it sits at about an even three pages, I'm not going to show you the whole thing, but here's an excerpt.
(Btw-It takes place on a river-barge.)
(BTW- It's got some, ahem, adult situations, so send the kids off to bed. Now!)
(BTW- I hope you like)

The Helmsman shifted his right hand off the wheel and onto a chrome handle. It clicked forward three notches. The Esmeralda bit into the water, slightly enough, that a landlubber would not have noticed. Both the Captain and the Helmsman knew, and felt the ship move, breaking through, and across the current. The Captain settled back onto his chair, and looked out past the newly steaming mug.
Then the bridge appeared. It was made of two massive concrete arches, that met in the middle of the channel upon a large concrete island. One hundred fifty feet above the river, nestling on the top of the two arches, a road carried cars that zipped across like fireflies. The whole affair was lit up with powerful lights. 'It's worth it,' the Captain thought, 'it's a beautiful bridge.'
The Esmeralda's searchlight hit upon the concrete island, holding up the bridges middle, and drifted past. The Helmsman spoke softly,
"Lovers at nine o'clock."
As the Esmeralda slid past the concrete island, the Captain cast a glance out the open side door of the bridge. It was obvious what was going on.
A man and a woman had defied whatever signs and fences had been put up, and had climbed one of the arches. Probably crawling on their stomachs, they had passed scant inches below the road deck, and then descended down to the concrete island, sitting fifty-feet from either shore, smack in the middle of the river. After a while of sitting in the midst of a suitably romantic setting, making whatever kind of talk a man and a woman make in the middle of a river. They had disrobed, and the man had thrown the woman -hands and face against the beginnings of a massive concrete arch- and was fucking her from behind.
The Esmeralda had moved up so quietly that they hadn't, in the middle of their engagement, noticed. By the time the massive tug's diesels had broken them out of their lover's euphoria, it was too late to adopt any posture of covered shame. They did, what people do constantly to ships and trains and trucks. They waved.
The man pulled himself out of her, gave a shit-eating grin at the boat, made a slight sweep of his hand towards his cock - erect and still glistening with pussy juice, shrugged his shoulders and waved his right arm in a friendly "Hello."
The woman, still in a black bra, faced the boat with a clean-shaven frontal, then reached up with both her arms, and pulled her breasts free. She grabbed one, and pulled it up, so she could lick its nipple. Then she gave an up-and-under look, and made a shy movement with her hand. Her wrist pivoted three times as the scene disappeared from the open bridge door.
"Damn." The Captain said, and took a sip of his coffee.
"Yer damn right is what." Said the Helmsman. The Captain took another sip off his mug and said,
"Port three."

This is pretty cool

Mini-Homes!

Only in Europe for now, but an enterprising humanid could probably get one onto a container ship.

And now...it's time for another "classic" post from FJORD!

February 2nd...2005!

I was thinking about this one for a couple of days, and wanted you to read what I was thinking about. You guys should really read our outstanding archives!

Doom...Dooom...DOOOOOOOOM

I've been thinking a lot about doom lately. It's not the kind of word a guy like me throws around lightly, because, it's kind of a heavy word. One might say that it means - destined to a tragic fate, and one (if that were someone's name) would be dead-on right. However, doom also means, just plain old fate.

I'd certainly like to be the guy that was doomed to take up the banner of the fjords, and march them to such greatness, that through the demand of the people, the Feds had to suck it up and provide a fjord for every citizen of the U.S., or at least a really big one per neighborhood, so they could share it. Now there's a doom I could really be proud of.

I haven't crunched the exact numbers just yet, but according to the census department 295,397,996 people live in the country just now, and I figure for about 10 bucks a person, we could really be looking at a feasible plan. However, when I first proposed this to the Secretary of the Interior, he said, "Mr. Tsunami, how on earth do you expect congress to authorize an expenditure of nearly three-trillion dollars for fjord construction? You're batshit-loonball crazy!" And then he had his goons throw me out -with extreme prejudice- to the street. Fucker.

Fjord construction wouldn't take place in a void. I mean, guys have to move dirt, draw up plans, put landscapes in place, construct water delivery systems...this kind of spillover could employ every unemployed person (and temps, and people with crappy jobs, and those who just like to be outside...) and all those people would be making more money, they'd pay more taxes, and they'd spend more of their money on electronics and in boutiques and on cute Japanese pop culture toys - right? More tax! It's simple economics. Fjord construction would, in the end, pay for itself.

Not only that, but, consider the countries that might begin to think likewise, and begin fjord construction plans of their own. These people would look for expertise in fjord building, and where would they look? Not to Sweden, not to Norway - those guys don't know dick about making fjords, they had fjords right there when they moved in. No, they'd come to America, and hire our guys out as contractors and specialists.

Of course, our strategic competitors would begin worrying about a fjord-gap, and start a program of their own. I'm thinking Chinese here, those guys could get a Fjord program up and running (and for far cheaper labor costs for sure) in no time. But hey, would it really make me worried that there were fjords being made in China? C'mon, they just barely shot a guy into space, (we've been doing that for near 50 years!) and we all know their fjord project would be riddled with corruption, and fall well behind schedule. Probably would be shoddy quality fjords too.

Soooo...doom. I suppose this might be my doom, I guess that's the funny thing, you never really know what your doom is, until the very, very end. Then you can look back and go, "Huh? So that was my doom." And after that realization, you'll probably mutter the words, "Great...juuuust great."

Anyways, if you're ever up in the dark of night, unable to sleep, and wondering about what your doom is, or is going to be...wouldn't it be nice if you could take a short stroll, and ponder that huge and massive question at your own scenic fjord?

Your damn right it would.

Happy Friday

The King of All Weekends

Lays on a table. His normally rock-solid physique limp as a wet noodle. A tall Swede with long platinum hair rubbed her hands over his back.
"Aaaahhhhhh!" He exclaimed as she worked out a knot under his right shoulder blade. Nearby a J-Pop act with a cute as hell front-maiden threw down a tune that was slinky and cute, and horribly catchy. They played at full rock-show volume. On the far side of the room, Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday sat around a formal dining table in Rat-Pack attire. A tuxedoed and white-aproned waiter unveiled a fancy dish, under a silver domed platter. A portrait artist complete with beret and pencil-thin mustache, captured the scene in oils.
"Hey Friday!" Tuesday shouted over the J-Pop band, with a mouth full of oily duck. "What are we doing this weekend?"
Friday sighed softly, as the massuse worked his lower back. He turned to her, and in a voice he was sure would be drowned out across the room, asked, "Why do I have such lame co-workers?"
She smiled a little laugh, but professionally, just moved her fingers to smooth the muscles around his spine. She used her nails to give him a little treat.
"Ooooh!" He said to her, then the band crashed to a halt at the end of their song.
"I'm hopping in a cab." Friday said to the table, "And driving very far away from all of you!" Tuesday choked on his duck, and grabbed a glass of reisling and drank a gulp. The portrait artist sat up on his stool, and observed the reactions of the weekdays around the table. This was much better material to work with!
"I'm sick of you guys always riding on my coattails." Friday continued. The Front-damsel of the J-Pop band looked at her bandmates, unsure if they should continue with their set, or wait for more words. "Maybe if you would come up with something to do instead of finding out what I'M DOING ALL THE FUCKING TIME!" (The massuse pulled her hands back in shock at the words yelled at the table of weekdays) The drummer's sticks click together uncomfortably, and the artist's brush made soft furious scrapes on the canvas.

The door burst open, and Thursday entered. He had a hook where his left hand should be, an eye-patch, and a fake parrot on his shoulder. "I got 'em!" He cried out to the deathly quiet room, obviously proud of himself. "Front row tickets to Scourge of the Shipping Lanes!" The three weekdays looked at each other and to Thursday, and then to Friday, who smiles from his table.
"What," Friday asked, "You guys don't want to see fucking great Pirate Rock?"

He got up from the table, and began to get dressed. "All of you are coming! Painter, grab your canvas! Massuse! Get your coat! J-Pop! You know what to do!"

And with that, the band kicked into "What shall we do with the drunken sailor" And the front-girl slaughters the English...you've never heard the song sung so cute.
"Whrat sharr we do wit de drunkern sairor! Purt heem in a boorrt and thrrorw heem overr!" Smiles are everywhere. The band finishes and the room breaks into applause. When it dies down Friday shouts,
"TO THE COSTUME SHOP!"
And the whole party files out of the room, and boards a black cargo-van, bedecked with a massive Jolly-Roger skull-and-crossbones flag flying from a pole attatched to the luggage rack on top.

Happy Friday

Have you guys heard this one?

The Power Ranger Murders!?!

a story like this just sort of makes me...giddy.

I just want my slice of the Americ...*ahem*...I mean, Fjordian Dream!

(I was told there would be no math on this test!)

So how's Your Fjordian Dream comin' along?

As I watched the talking newsmonkey this morning, I realized, he was not talking about me. That made me a little introspective. The last time I was interviewed by a major news organization was...1988 (where I was mis-quoted with disastrous consequences for Panama, and their misunderstood leader, Manuel Noriega - but that's another story.) Anyways, I think by now we all know our actions can have bizarre and unexpected side-effects. What's that line, "With great power comes great responsibility?"

Well, let's do a little logical deconstruction of those popular linguistics, howabout?

Look at it switched up in this fashion. "With great responsibility comes great power." Well, that's obviously not true. Hell, it's hard enough just to get yer ass to work on time. That's responsibility. Responsibility is making sure the kids got clean diapers and the dog's eaten his heartworm pill. IS THAT GREAT POWER? Umm, yeah, I kinda thought not.

So, where does that leave us with our Fjordian Dream? I'm not positive, but I'm pretty sure it's going to take more than superhero movie-logic to get us there.

Let me make another logical deconstruction of some semantics.
The first popular catch-phrase I'll start with is this classic...
"An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure."
Then let me add "make sure you get your pound of flesh!"
So.
1 ounce of prevention = 1 pound of cure
1 pound of flesh = 1 pound of cure...
therefore
1 ounce of prevention = 1 pound of flesh.
Seems logical no?

So if you decide you'll practice prevention, considering you're a humanid weighing in at say, 145 pounds, that's 145 ounces of prevention - or nearly 9 pounds of the stuff you're going to need!

See - that stacks up. We have to make sure these linguistic equasions work. Words are a lot more slippery than say, numbers...or robots...or attack dogs. But anyways I'm getting a little off target here. The point I'm getting at, is what must occur for the Fjordian Dream to come true?

Here's the math...
Let's start with the answer first, since it's something we can all relate to.

"And I will shit the shit of the rich!"

Now, the variables...
X = Your chosen vocation in order to make your Fjordian Dream come truje.
Y = The effort and luck expended towards "X."

X(*,/,+,-,(or whatever))Y = And I will shit the shit of the rich!

I'm sure some of you mathematically inclined Fjordians can work the numbers better than I can...however, I'm sure the answer is so simple it'll shock the hell outta the talking newsmonkey tomorrow.

-Tsunami-

Today, I have very little

to offer. The body's tired, the mind's working with 1/4th it's usual wattage. But, since I know you're all visiting to see SOMETHING...

Here's a website with some super great and really cute tiki art.

And here's a great collection of Sci-Fi drawings from back in the day, that are totally worth waiting for the slow download speed.

And check out this super-great performance art idea. The Ministry of Reshelving!

Hope that's enough to get you through.

Continuing Your Robo-Tuesday...

I wasn't able to track down the people who had digi-cams, or phone-cams that were there at the Robochrist Industries preformance a week or so ago. Mainly because I didn't try. However, I did find this LINK which has a lot of what you need to see! (and it's pretty great - so go there!)

C'mon! Just Go There!

deet...deet...deet deet deet...FJORDNEWS...deet..deet

It the latest developments in the world of robotics, a Japanese team of developers have created a "robotic skin" which can detect temperature, and pressure!

"Both of those characteristics sound compelling. The material sounds like it could have lots of functions," Dr Douglas Weibel, of the department of chemistry and chemical biology at Harvard University told the BBC News website.

The transistors used in the circuits and the semiconductors both use "organic" materials based on chains of carbon atoms.

This makes them mechanically flexible and relatively inexpensive to fabricate.

There is even speculation that because of the way the "skin" is created, it might be able to do things normal skin can't...which means, a fully functioning ROBO-SEXBOT, might just be around the corner!

Now, if we can only get some people working on the "pleasure circuit" things'll really start to take off.

Good Evening

I usually don't talk about "big" news stories, 'cause, mostly by the time I get at them, they're pretty stale. Plus, the West Coast Branch of Fjord (or: the only fully functioning branch of Fjord) just doesn't have the global newsgathering abilities that I'd like. However, this "Helios Air Crash" in Greece has an interesting sub-plot which just came to light.

Coroner Philippos Koutsaftis told AFP news agency that the main hypothesis for cause of death was asphyxiation.

However, a defence ministry source quoted by Reuters said it appeared that the bodies had been frozen solid.

here's a little timeline of events...
1. 0900 [0700GMT]: Helios Airways Flight ZU522 leaves Larnaca bound for Prague via Athens
2. 0920 approx: Plane reaches cruising altitude of 35,000ft
3. 0937: Plane enters Greek airspace
4. 1007: Air traffic control unable to contact aircraft
5. 1030: Greek ATC issues "Renegade alert"
6. 1055: F16 fighter aircraft scramble
7. 1120: F16s intercept aircraft; pilots observed slumped over controls
8. 1205: Aircraft crashes near Grammatiko, 40km north of Athens

So somehow within about 2 hours something happened inside the plane, that FROZE PEOPLE SOLID! It's a horrible tragedy, but in some freaky X-files Sci-Fi way, it's curious as hell. What happened? I don't rightly know, but as a guy about to take some vacation plane trips...should I be inquiring if I'll be frozen solid in route?

333

Three hundred and thirty three! That's a lot of posts! Don'tcha think?

Well, I'm not going to dwell too long on it. It's time for your Fjordian Linkfest!

Cool Old Shit!

Speed Eater

One of the best headlines I've ever read.
Mummy smugglers jailed for life

The physics of love?

check out this DOOR!

Sun worshipers, rejoice!

Newman?

Okay gang, nothing more to see here.

Howdy...

I'm working on things today, and don't have a ton of time for this, but I wanted to say something about the stat that came out last week...that every second, a new blog is being created. Depending on how fast a reader you are, that makes oh, three or so that have been made since you clicked over, and read this paragraph.

That's a lot of people throwing their thoughts out into this medium, and that stat is fucking nuts. Still, I think probly five percent of people who start a blog are going to be satisfied with it. To actually sit down and work at something day after day, with any sort of quality, is hard as fuck. (8 more just started) I'm pretty sure, when historians comb through the data-files of the internet they are going to find a billion junked blogs...with three or four posts, drifting forlorn and covered in digital spiderwebs. I haven't heard of any stats telling us, how many blogs are abandoned every second, but it'd be interesting to know.

There are plenty of sites that have spent hundreds of thousands of dollars, to promote, host, design, and put content on, their internet dream, that just drifted off to die when the revenue stream didn't work out...and a blog? Shit, you ever even bother to hit the "Next Blog" button at the top of the blogger toolbar? Most, you'd read and never bother to come back. Fjord drifts between 25 and 80 unique visitors a day (lots less on the weekend) and most of those people pop in at random, and never come back - and this is something I throw a little bit of effort at every day. The bigger blogs can pull in 10-20-40,000 hits a day, which is a HUGE audience, but even minor-league television shows get 3 or 4 million viewers in an HOUR. (just to keep things in perspective)

Well anyways, the timer for my pasta just went off. I had it set for 7:30 seconds, and that's when I started writing this. That's 450 new blogs since I started this post. I sort of wonder what their expectations are.

The Mob Had Torches...

And they followed Friday towards the river, with various cries of "Vengeance!" and "Death!" Friday looked grim, more of a man on a mission look than his usual chipper easy-going self. He had a burlap sack thrown over his shoulder that was full of a mass of moving things.

Friday lead the mob down off the main road, and onto the trail that lead to the river. The mob's torches cast strange, ominous shadows in the trees and undergrowth. The path lead up hills and down into hollows, and after a while the sound of flowing water overcame the various voices in the group, saying things like, "I can't wait.." and "they got this comin'" and "where's the liquor? There was supposed to be booze!"

Finally the path lead to a rocky outcrop over dark moving water. Friday turns and faces the mob. "I have come here to do what you all have wanted! Let it never be said that Friday does not deliver!" The mob goes nuts in a frenzy of hellish delight in what is about to transpire. Then from a nearby cave, a wizened old hermit emerges, using an oak branch as a staff.
"Oh Mighty King of All Weekdays!" He says in a voice that cuts through the mob's shouts like a chainsaw. "What is the meaning of this?" His tone demands an answer. The mob looks confused.
"These good people," Friday says, "have all been slighted by what I have in this bag, and I'm going to throw it in the river, so we can watch it sink." The crowd cheers as one. Torches are shaken in the air, along with a pitchfork or two.

"What do you have in the bag?" The old hermit asks. Friday, opens the bag, and pulls out a dark cat by the scruff of the neck, with the word "Wednesday" formed (or written - who can say how it really happened) in white upon its side.
"The first four weekdays of this week, old man." Friday says, throwing the cat back into the bag with a muffled "Meyowlrr."

"Friday," The old man gestures with his stick at him, and the crowd. "It is amazing, the string of annoying and devilish events that fate can string together...one might even say, unbelievable. However, it is only human nature, that the blame should be laid at the feet of something...tangible. These Days - these cats, were not the bringers of such trouble. Troubles merely fell upon them. You cannot blame them for what has transpired! Look into your hearts for the reasons why your evils occurred!"

The mob casts uneasy glances at each other, and some of the fire goes out of their eyes.
"Just go home," the hermit says with conviction, "and let the poor days be."
Some in the mob, convinced, turn and start walking back...words mumbled "hey, yeah, the old coot's right..."

Friday watches for a moment, then turns and hurls the bag that flies up in a huge arc, it hangs high in the air suspended for a moment, then down quickly, to splash into the dark water of the river. It floats for a second and sinks with a gurgle. The crowd goes crazy! Grown men dance arm-in-arm! Random maidens are smooched! A man throws his torch at the old man - misses - but it lands in his cave, which explodes into flames. Cheers echo through the forest! Friday looks pleased. The hermit walks up.

"Why did you do that!? Didn't I convince you?"
Friday sticks his thumbs into his vest-coat pockets, and looks down from his perch on the rocky outcrop. "Actually," he says, "You did. It's just today, I really, really don't like cats."

Then he yells out to his rambunctious mob. "Party at my place!"

Happy Friday.

I had a loopy post...

all set to go, dealing with the astrological reasons for why this week has been soooo fjucked up. I didn't really think it was great, but I was going to do another after it, and most of the times, the ones I think are sub-par, turn out to be exactly what you people want to read. So as I posted it. Of cjourse Blogger ate it. It's been that kind of week.

So, I decided to clean up a bit, since my joint's been suffering the adverse effects of "birthday row." As I was doing so, I came across the two DVD's I bought last night on a horrible impulse...but they were two I wanted, so WTF right? So I cracked them open, and what do I find? ONE OF THEM IS MISSING!! (The 1st disk of the Golden Edition of "Monty Python's Holy Grail - ya, I'm a geek - big Whoop-de-do.)

So I'm pretty steamed. Blogger ate my post about what a lame-assed week it's been, The Video Store screwed me, and I have to go back (and who knows what kind of Hotwheel's Racetrack that's going to be...and judging from this week - it'll be something.) So THEN, I decide, I'll install Microsoft Word on the Casa Aloha's main compooter, (having had that horrible virus back in February - you'll recall, about the time my teevee EXPLODED! Then my Girl - in a lovely display of love thru objects, bought me my current machine...which didn't come equipped with WORD...just, yaknow, "microsoft works word processor." Which apart from being pretty lame - at least is better than A PENCIL!

However, last weekend, the lovely Kitten on D. Tsunami's arm, gave him a CD with THE WORD! (I found it buried under the refuse of my coffee table - which, as you will recall, I was busy cleaning.)
"Hey!" I said to myself, "Let's install this while we have a second." So I plugged the CD in, and whaddayaknow...my compooter seems to not want to believe there's a CD loaded with helpful software in it's drive. "AND THAT." I thought to myself, "IS FAR MORE FITTING OF A POST ABOUT HOW THIS WEEK SUCKS." Then the one blogger ate.

So...instead, I'm going to review the series of "new version state quarters" that I found on aforementioned coffee table. (in only the order I found them, and then stacked them up.)

1) Oregon. A View of Crater lake. It's Amazing. One of the best new quarters out there. Well done OR!
2)Connecticut. A big giant tree with the words "The Charter Oak" This has been one of my favorite quarters since they started making new quarters. So far only a couple have surpassed my liking for this coin. But it's got staying power. CT Rocks!
3) Tennessee. A guitar, a trumpet, a violin and some sheet music, with the words in a banner that read "Musical Heritage." Lame as fuck. TN your coin rots.
4)Delaware. A guy on a horse with the words "Caesar Rodney" (? WTF?) and "The First State." Simple, attractive, totally works for me. DE - B+.
5)Iowa. An old-timey prairie skool house, a Little House on the prairie-dressed skool teacher and some kids planting a tree. The words "Foundation In Education." Hey, the words are great...100% behind, but god the coin's ugly as fuck. Fugly! IA - see TN. BOOO!
6)Minnesota. Well, I'm a little prejudiced, beings I spent a long time there. A loon and some fisher-folk on a lake, with the words, "Land of 10,000 Lakes" onit. Perfectly acceptable as a coin. Reasonably nice, but it also looks like the graphic-motto for the state lotto. A blown opportunity for something better. All-in-all C+. MN, I hoped for better.
7)New York. A rendition of the State, and the Statue of Liberty, with the motto, "Gateway To Freedom." Totally standard. Not horrible, nowhere's near great. Since it came out a long time ago I've also watched it wear poorly. NY, yer a great state, your coin, total "C."
8)Wisconsin. A cow's head, an ear of corn, and a huge government-sized round of cheese. Underneath on a banner written "Forward." When I first saw this one, I thought, "What the hell were they thinking!" Then, it became clear what they were thinking, they were thinking they were going to make the best damn coin Wisconsin could make. (like a lot of things Wisconsin does.) After a while I realized they couldn't have made it any better. WI, well done. A+
9) Last but not least, Virginia. Three old-timey tall-ships just sailing along. Above the words "Jamestown 1607-2007" and underneath "quadricentennial." It's always been one of my favorites since the new series came out. (what was that - 2000? anyways) it's got an enduring quality that's totally likeable, and up to this point has only had a few that can match it. So once again, VA! Kickass job. A+

Well, I've left out a lot, but then again, that was the stack I had on my coffee table, after I cleaned the damn thing up. I'll do more when I have another bad week. Now I gotta go see if I can get my money back from this goddamn DVD ripoff. Jeesh.

Hooray!

Sometime during my long rambling walk to the store with Fjord Borg (whereupon I purchased some "Southern Style Sweet BBQ Chicken Wings" (which are edible, but in no ways as delicious as the name implies)) Fjord turned 10,000.

As it's a skool nite, please celebrate responsibly!

9,985!

Pretty Close!

Now, if you'll excuse me...it's time for laundry.

Damn...

There was some seriously ridiculously stinky/moldy crap in my fridge. Even though I threw it out into the cold cruel...(well - Los Angeles in August, THE HOT CRUEL) world...I hope those spores and fungi and whatnots look back with fondness over the time we spent together, and thrive in whatever trashheap they find themselves. Then I hope they grow strong, and evolve into a massive entity and take over said trashheap. Then I hope they mutate from some strange chemical leaching into the soil from Cal-Tech or an old Nuclear test-facility. And then I hope they grow, using old cars, and cable and bungie-cords, and discarded washing-machines, microwaves, and old large furniture as limbs, into a functioning sentient being seventy feet tall and reeking a hideous stench. Then I hope this giant animated trash pile will walk the land smiting my enemies!

I suppose there's no telling what any of our offspring are really going to become, but sometimes you just have to kick them into the street and hope for the best.

14 years ago, Tim Berners-Lee created the first website. Here's a nice interview on what he thinks is going on.

Birthdays, Birthdays...crap enough with all the Birthdays!

FJORD'S TURNING 10,000!

That's right my fine fjellow Fjordians! 10,000 smackers! 10,000 tiny electronic murmers! 10,000 mouses caressed with silken fingers! 10,000 track-balls being gently pulled one way or another. It's kinda' hot.

Anyways, I'm going to go some light summer chores around the Casa, and I hope to hell you had a better Monday than I did. Jeesh!

FJORD! KJEEPING YOU UP-TO-DATE

By explaining the past.

If you like history, you should probably read this.

And if your thing is Japanese Car Models, then you should go here.

wow...ahhh sorry, I got lost over at that last one for a bit. Anyhoo, I'll be posting more about robots in the near future. For now, I have to make a C.D., or a novel, or a movie, or, umm, something.

I HAVE SEEN THE FUTURE

AND IT IS INDESCRIBABLE -

I've ripped the LA Weekly's review off, 'cause I have no idea what the fuck I saw last night...but quick read this, and then I'll tell you a little more.

ROBOCHRIST INDUSTRIES

The Subjugator, the Necropod, the Manipulatrix names for a new gang of superheroes? Actually, they're robots that destroy things...not humans but RVs, full-scale houses and any piece of metal that gets in their way. For over 10 years, artist Christian Ristow has been constructing stainless steel, zoomorphic beasts which wrestle each other to the finish with their giant meat-hook claws and blazing breath. Ristow's transformers have created such a rumble that filmmakers such as Steven Spielberg have hired this mad scientist for his animatronic skills in War of the Worlds and A.I. Don't worry, these robots won't take over the neighborhood. However, Ristow is known for creating a stir at the Burning Man and Coachella festivals. "I always play by the fire station's rules," says Ristow. "But I was tired of dealing with the bureaucracy at the Coachella Festival. So I executed a performance which wouldn't get me asked back." Providing the soundtrack to this futuristic tractor pull will be Stigmeta, a Christian punk-heavy metal band and Captured by Robots a rock group comprised of androids. At the parking lot of the Steve Allen Theater at the Center for Inquiry West, 4773 Hollywood Blvd.; Fri., Aug. 5, 8 p.m. (323) 960-7785.

This...was a block away from my house. I brought my digital camera...and to my lasting shame, it's batteries were gone. (if I get pictures I will post them..cause...damn...)

It was a parking lot, with a big wood derrick-like tower, a television housed in a tower of six oil-drums playing a video loop of a creepy televangelist, a mannequin sitting at a dinner table, another sitting in a chair facing the crowd, and a steel skeleton. There were four "bots" and about half-a dozen humans with remote contols, and these beasts were amazing! Huge metal jaws lined with giant chainsaws! Attatchments that shot flames 20 feet! Mechanical claws! Tank-treads! Hydraulics! Fuck - I honestly (and maybe for the 4th time in my life) don't have the words. At the end, the parking lot looked like the scene from the Terminator, when, in a post apocalyptic world, robots crushed the skulls of dead humans! There was nothing left except a bunch of ruined junk and a crowd of a hundred people cheering their asses off. My Gjod-it was beautiful.

I realize this post has left a lot to be desired, but I had to try and tell somebody...oh, and quite a fitting night for Fjordborg's Birthday.

Friday's Been Too Busy With Other Things To Notice

August has been picking off weekdays like a master marksman at skeet shooting. "Pull" She shouts, and Wednesday flies up - a helpless clay pigeon. BAM! Shards fall from the sky like pieces of a plate, to join the pile of parts of Monday and Tuesday. Thursday looks back over next Sixteen weekdays lined up behind him. He looks to Friday, who sits casually unawares in a rattan chair, sipping a misty glass full of gimlet.

"Friday!" Thursday hisses, but too softly for Friday to hear over the Martin Denny that oozes from the potent sound system. "FRIDAY!" He says louder. The King of all Weekdays looks up. "Look," says Thursday, "If we don't do something, it's going to be September in a heartbeat!"
"So?"
"So, when it's September, it's no longer Summer! You really want Fall to be here, like, tomorrow?"
"Hmmm. You might have a point." Friday gets up, and walks towards August, busy reloading her over-under shotgun. "Distract her." He says over his shoulder. Thursday nodds.

"That's a nice looking fowling-piece." He says, with a slight Dean Martin drunken sway.
"Thank you Friday." August says, snapping the engraved barrels together with a solid click, to the fine-polished walnut-wood butt of the shotgun. Friday watches his reflection in the wood take a sip a from his glass.
"PULL!" She shouts. Thursday leaps from the mechanical arm with a horrific scream.
"NOOOOOoooooaaaaAAAAARRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGG!" (he says)
August lines up the shotgun and blows Thursday into numerous pieces that fall to the earth with a light clatter. Smoke drifts from both barrels. She breaks the gun apart, and the ejector shoots two spent shells to join a pile of others burying a small purple wildflower ten feet behind her.
"Hey, just for a lark," Friday says offhandedly, "let me load it, wouldja?"
August holds the weapon with an uncertain look on her face.
"C'mon. " Friday encourages in his charming party-boy way.
A ghjost of a smile forms on her lips, and she hands the weapon over. He holds it deftly in his left hand, and looks down the barrels as if he knows what he's doing. Then in an instant, he's thrown his drink square in August's face!

She gasps, with that uncomprehending look a beautiful woman gets when, well, a drink gets thrown in their face. Mouth open in a shocked gasp, gimlet soaking her dark hair and blouse (to wonderful effect, I might add)
She tries to scream, but instead stutters, "I...I...FRIDAY!"
"That's right!" Friday stands looking sadly at his empty glass, "Damn lady, you've been knocking us off like there was no tomorrow. And for what? Nothing. The last real month of Summer, and you act like it doesn't matter! Now, slip into something more comfjordable, and we'll go do something fun." Friday tones down his voice to a charming growl, "Something that'll be worth remembering."

Happy Friday!

I've been doing this a long time

and I thought I'd scoot back to when I started doing this whole "Friday" thing, and re-post the original. It's more of a proto-post for what Friday has become, but you can understand where it's gone, from where it comes from.

ENJOY!

Friday, January 28, 2005
It's Been Quite a Week, Hasn't it?

As I invigorate myself with a fortified beverage after another monumentally long day, I have to say, "Something is up with this week." It's as if 2005 rose up in one big mob of days (shaped like Thor or Odin or somesuch) and said, "Hey man, this year is different." And then down came the hammer, or lightning bolt or whatever. It's been that kind of week.

There was a study released about two weeks ago that claimed that due to the light striking the earth, the most depressing day of the year is January 24th. Now Monday January 24th has come and gone this week, and I don't think even residual effects of the most depressing day of the year can account for what has been going down. There's something else that's up, and change - for good or bad - is in the air.

However, here at Casa Aloha, nestled snugly in the overlooked East Wing of Hollywood, CA, one D. Tsunami prefers to dwell on the King of all weekdays. Does it matter that the entire cleaning staff here at my resort up and quit? No, for the most regal of all weekdays is here. Does it matter that sickness is running rampant in my little burg? (even felling the resilient Fjord Borg!?! - must also be a rampant software virus...) Not if my rigorous hand-washing policy has it's desired outcome, because the most august of days has once again, fulfilled its destiny and returned. And hell, am I really that callous to think, train-related commuter delays are really not that bad, as long as it's not my train? Possibly. But my fellow Fjordians, Friday is here, and I for one, am ready to bow down and acknowlege its greatness.

Plans? Let me just say this. When the Sultan of Swing comes to your door and asks you to crush the town with him, are you going to say no? NO! You embrace the fact that he took time out of his busy schedule, and hope that you don't ingest too many psychedelics and Bacardi bottled malt-beverages before Monday rolls you out of bed with numberous slaps to the face saying, "You idiot, why did you do that to yourself again?!?"

(the answer to monday's proddings is, of course - "Because you suck.")

But this isn't a post about regret, about what we shouldn't have done during the weekend, because...because I hear that very Sultan knocking right now. That very august, regal, and King of All Weekdays is here, and he needs me. I gotta scram.


Happy Weekend

A Quick Link...

for those of you who want to read something...umm...sort of more challenging, than what we lay down here at Fjord. (like being creeped out by the dead)

The Real Bomb!

At the very bottom are sommore links to summore ideas about the subject. It's worth a look.

I'll Be Your Stud-Muffin, Baby!

Of course, this is the pickup line of the Man named Gevork G. Azatrayan! (the name has been slightly changed to protect the innocent (and this blog) from a random "google" search.

Perennial med-student, owner of a 1997 Lexus (leased-with his parent's money), nightly club-goer with plenty of bling...and rarely, if ever, really lucky. In fact, most of his success can be attributed to either a) his parents/family or b) the fact that he keeps his friends well lubricated with quasi-legal hormones thru his med-skool contacts and/or cheap rent from various (and shadily financed) properties thru (a) he is associated.

A name I came across during my daily routine, and it struck me as...slightly odd. In my line of work, I come across a lot of strange, unusual, cool, and bizarre names. Sometimes I write them down.

More often I think about the power that names lend to the people that own them. I feel most of the time that people own names, just as much as names own people. Like, a long time ago, I found "Lonnie Godbolt," and Gjod did that make me wonder about the fellow that owned that one. Like, to everyone he introduced himself to, he was just plain unassuming humble "Lonnie." When infact, in the basement arsenal of his soul...he was GODBOLT! (Clearly, a man to be trifled with - At Your Peril!)

(saaaay, "Peril" might be an excellent heroine's last name, no? Ahh right - probly been done.)

Anyways, incase you stumble upon something unusual in your work-a-day world, drop us a line and share with the class!

DeathBlog 2005!

Well, it's nice to see that someone did something while I was away. Thanks for the B-Day good wishes Mr. Hashbrown! Seasons Greetin's to you and yours where-eva' they may be.

Now...down to the real business at hand...

Out there - past the borders of fair Fjordland, inhabited by fair Fjordlings (and by fair I mean "comely" - of course) there is strife. And by strife, I mean, of course - bombers!

And it seems these bombers all hate each other...the stealth-bombers hate the car-bombers...the belt-bombers hate the F-16/F-18 fighter-bombers, and the mail-bombers hate the subway-bombers, and the suicide-bombers hate the Olympic-bombers...and they're all tryin' to blow each other up. I think it's over something someone did a long time ago...or maybe it was last week. Anyhoo, I'm getting the feeling like it's not going to stop.

Of course, in my bullet-proof robot-defended Casa, I don't have that much to fear...and when outside, I'm not much worried...I could dispatch any of the above bombers with my swordcane, no prob. But I am worried about being fucked with when I'm dead. How am I supposed to do anything about looters (of whatever bombing faction you wish to name) stealing my treasure or desecrating my body while I'm helpless, friendless, and dead?!

That's why I'm speculating I'll have my sarcophagus to packed with explosives! When they come to steal my stuff/move my body for a new strip-mall/study and display my remains - BOOM! Haha! Didn't expect me to be a Death-Bomber didja! I'm expecting many people to join my faction. Couldn't you just see it, 1000 years from now a string of random bombings from beyond the grave! It'd be like the Pharaoh's Curse...only more 21st Century Modern.

Morticians will be vilified! Gravediggers will be driven from the county! Tomb-robbers will seek gainful employment! The gravely-ill would be plied with questions from the NSA! Zombies will never be trusted again! The dead will be left to rot in non-scary piles! Mediums would be consulted to try and infiltrate Death-Bomber cells from beyond the grave! The government will declare a Global War Against The Dead! It, as you can see, could get really out of hand.

Which is fine with me, cause, yaknow, the dead kinda' creep me out!

I can't quite go there today.

Or anywhere really, I've got stuff to do.