In an upscale cocktail lounge. The place was halfway packed, but there still was enough space to move around.
Friday and his weekday-colleagues had taken over a large red booth, and were in various poses of relaxation. Monday and Tuesday were already half in the bag, and Wednesday wasn't too far from it. Happy hour for them started four, three, and two days earlier. One (who had a mortal's bank account) would not want to even guess at their bar tab.
Tuesday's face was stuck in a huge bowl of a glass, nearly hidden behind a huge spear of garnished pineapples, oranges, cherries, and other large fruits. His left arm kept his face up and he finished a huge pull from two large straws.
"Yaknow, I think they got it wrong when they made the humanids."
"Whaddaya mean...?" Mumbled Monday, "The ever-growing eyebrows?"
"Their inability to make a good chair?" Added Wednesday, his huge hump bulging into the booth's back-rest.
"No," said Tuesday, "I meant when they scrambled their code back in the day."
"So they could never have psychic powers and laser vision?" Thursday quipped.
"No, so they could never have who they wanted."
Monday leaned his head to look over at Tuesday. As he did, he knocked over a huge array of empty Miller Highlife bottles.
"Whaaaaat?" He slurred.
"Look, you see it everywhere." Begins Tuesday, "he likes her, but she likes him, and he likes another woman, and she likes him back, but she's already married. And her husband wants his file-clerk, but he's straight. He wants the broad from accounting, but she wants the guy on the train...and he'd be fine with it, except, she never tells him, and he's wondering if he should get back with the woman who's the father of his child, even though he'd never really love her. It's fucked up. They never should have done it."
"Yeah." Agrees Friday. "But I think there was some sort of plan."
"Oh sure." Tuesday's pretty sarcastic. "There's always (he makes quotes with his fingers) "some sort of plan." Well, if there's a plan, it's pretty fucked up. None of them are ever happy. It's cause they scrambled the code. I say it's fucked up."
"Now that you mention it, it is fucked up!" Says Thursday. "I've never really thought about it before."
"Let's go to master control, hack the computers, and fix it!" Tuesday emphatically finishes his statement with a huge sip through his straws, his face hidden behind his fruit-garnish camouflage.
"Yeah! - Let's go!" Wednesday leans forward and pounds the table with his massive fist. It sends the rest of Monday's beer bottles flying off the table and onto the floor. Friday's brimming whiskey-coke spills enough to soak the bev-nap underneath it, allowing rivulets of liquor to crawl across the table.
"Let's not." Says Friday in a calm tone, watching his drink crawl away from him, across the table.
Monday speaks slowly, with a glimmer of bad-ass in his eyes. He's too drunk to do anything, but not drunk enough to say something with a mean tone.
"Why not Friday?"
"Because I've seen the plan."
"How come they always show you the plans and not us!?" Monday spits back. "We're on equal footing, we're all weekdays! We should know the fucking secret plans too!" He puts his hands on the table to boost his head up. His vision spins around so that Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday are all moving around in a clockwise fashion. He shakes his head, and tries to focus on Friday. "You know how many humanids hate me because they didn't get what they want over the weekend? I'll tell you. Every last one of them!" After saying his piece, his head rolls around loosely on his neck.
Friday leans in, and finishes his drink in a couple of big gulps.
"Look, the only reason any of them do anything, is because they don't have what they want. They decided the only way to keep the shit rolling forward, was to make sure nobody was happy for long. Otherwise, they'd meet up with someone perfect when they were fifteen, and NOBODY WOULD DO ANYTHING! No art. No monuments. No music. No television. No cars, hell, they'd be nothing more than mummies, only moving to get something to eat. Those poor suckers only do things when they don't like stuff. It's got to be that way. Make a humanid happy, comfjortable, and safe...and you've got eight-hundred billion cells sitting on their ass, waiting to die."
There was a long moment, as Friday stopped speaking. He notices a waitress, and gestures for another drink. The pause lasts until Thursday speaks.
"Oh."
Wednesday takes his time.
"I see..."
Monday looks around with glazed eyes that see nothing but huge blobs of drifting color. Then, his head clunks down on the table.
"Okay then," Says Tuesday, "What are we going to do tonight, Friday?"
"Let's do dangerous things...
and then downplay them."
Happy Friday!
Friday, March 31, 2006
Thursday, March 30, 2006
I am, and always will be, your friend
The small man says to his friend,
"I wish there was more time."
He has no idea of the repercussions of his statement.
(Behind him, is of course, Time. He's already not a puny fella in any shape or form. And his scythe is busy mowing down days and weeks - like a chainsaw cutting through small branches. He grows larger, reaching gigantic proportions, and cuts more - and faster. He laughs at his increased powers, and puny mortals running hither and yon in fear!
The Teevee Gods can help. If you've ever spent an active Sunday - running to the store, getting your haircut, cleaning the bathroom, playing a round of golf, and making your lunch for Monday...you'll wonder where the day went as you crawl into bed. But, if you spend the entire day watching teevee, you'll notice that you have lots of time left for more teevee watching. Still, as much as they want to help, they're only real power is to distract you from the passing clock, and the fact that your chores (and lunch) remain undone.
Point-wise, I'm just saying, wishing, hoping, waiting, and wanting more Time only leads to Time growing bigger, stronger and faster at cutting down the hours, days, weeks, months and years. Perhaps it's time to change the (*gasp - he's going to say it, isn't he!??!*) paradigm, and start wishing for less time. Maybe that will lead to a better, and longer life for all of us.)
The small man's friend replies,
"I don't."
"I wish there was more time."
He has no idea of the repercussions of his statement.
(Behind him, is of course, Time. He's already not a puny fella in any shape or form. And his scythe is busy mowing down days and weeks - like a chainsaw cutting through small branches. He grows larger, reaching gigantic proportions, and cuts more - and faster. He laughs at his increased powers, and puny mortals running hither and yon in fear!
The Teevee Gods can help. If you've ever spent an active Sunday - running to the store, getting your haircut, cleaning the bathroom, playing a round of golf, and making your lunch for Monday...you'll wonder where the day went as you crawl into bed. But, if you spend the entire day watching teevee, you'll notice that you have lots of time left for more teevee watching. Still, as much as they want to help, they're only real power is to distract you from the passing clock, and the fact that your chores (and lunch) remain undone.
Point-wise, I'm just saying, wishing, hoping, waiting, and wanting more Time only leads to Time growing bigger, stronger and faster at cutting down the hours, days, weeks, months and years. Perhaps it's time to change the (*gasp - he's going to say it, isn't he!??!*) paradigm, and start wishing for less time. Maybe that will lead to a better, and longer life for all of us.)
The small man's friend replies,
"I don't."
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Change is in the air tonite
And I'm a part of it.
There's a mess of stuff happening with the West Coast Branch, and I've got like 500 scratchers I have to scratch-off, in order to fund my next endevor.
All I need is 5-G's, and we'll take Fjord to a whole new level.
(and I already won two bucks! $4,998.00 more, and we'll be there!)
There's a mess of stuff happening with the West Coast Branch, and I've got like 500 scratchers I have to scratch-off, in order to fund my next endevor.
All I need is 5-G's, and we'll take Fjord to a whole new level.
(and I already won two bucks! $4,998.00 more, and we'll be there!)
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
I don't know how this all happened...
But there've been 20,000 hits on our little backwater webzine according to the count-O-meter.
Of course, who shows up to spoil this occasion...?
"March 24 (Bloomberg) -- The bog mummies have come to Los Angeles, and they are fascinating and creepy."
(Yeah - creepy like, showing up to suck souls! Why now!!?? - Because at moments of great triumph, soul-energy is at its most intoxicating)
"The mummified remains of six people are highlights of an exhibition about early Europeans that opens this weekend at the Natural History Museum of Los Angeles County. It features flint and bronze tools, clothing, household wares, jewelry, musical instruments and other artifacts that are as old as 12,000 years."
So, if I'm a little pre-occupied in the next couple of days, it's cause I got six brand-new-out-of-state mummies I'm dealing with. Luckily, I knew this was coming, and gots me one of these.
Of course, who shows up to spoil this occasion...?
"March 24 (Bloomberg) -- The bog mummies have come to Los Angeles, and they are fascinating and creepy."
(Yeah - creepy like, showing up to suck souls! Why now!!?? - Because at moments of great triumph, soul-energy is at its most intoxicating)
"The mummified remains of six people are highlights of an exhibition about early Europeans that opens this weekend at the Natural History Museum of Los Angeles County. It features flint and bronze tools, clothing, household wares, jewelry, musical instruments and other artifacts that are as old as 12,000 years."
So, if I'm a little pre-occupied in the next couple of days, it's cause I got six brand-new-out-of-state mummies I'm dealing with. Luckily, I knew this was coming, and gots me one of these.
Friday, March 24, 2006
The Answer Goddess
Sits on a fine stool, inlaid with gold and platinum, and each of the legs ends in a polished human skull. The answer goddess is tall, beautiful though with a troubled look on her face. A telephone headset is strapped over a golden jewel-studded tiara, placed atop her luxurious hair, which is done up in a beehive.
Each one of her thirty-two arms moves rapidly, unplugging and plugging in lines to an old-timey telephone exchange. She drops calls as soon as she's done speaking, and moves on to the next. There are a lot of people in the world, and they all want answers.
"My watch band broke." Says a whiney man-voice. She replies in a clipped, but easy on the ears tone.
"Time is just a measurement of the duration of matter in the dimension of space. It's apt to be shorter than you'd like. However, it varies alternately with perspective."
Next call
-a different whiney-toned male with a lisp-
"I went to the denthist this week. Losth three teeth."
The Answer Goddess speaks.
"The body is inconsequential, at best you got what, 60 more years? Take your cobra poison like a man."
Next call
-a mature woman, her voice carrying over the line with real feeling.
"I need a change."
The Answer Goddess does not have time for idle emotional sympathy.
"-There is only one thing you can change - input or output. You must alter one or the other. They are in a feedback loop. A change in one will effect the other. Decide which you can more readily alter.
Next call
-nobody speaks.
She asks,
"what can I do for you?"
A man with a snake-like voice oozes through the headset.
"I'm here to place you into my indexing system. Show me your tits!"
Click.
She's had so many calls like this that it weighs on her mind like an eye-blink that happened 15 minutes earlier.
Next Call
-A younger woman
"I'll be late paying the bills."
Answer Goddess:
"The undertaker waits at the end of the road. His list is of all you owe - and not one line on it speaks of money.
Next Call
A man, 50's probably balding.
"I'm worried about what will happen."
The Answer Goddess replies in a stock answer...let's face it, they're all stock answers. She's heard it all before, for thousands of years.
" -Fear is the one thing that drives all of us. It drives us in front of it like cattle, and sooner or later, we turn around with our worthless horns...or we don't, and get it up the ass anyways."
Next Call
The King of All Weekdays speaks with his rich baritone. She can't place the voice right away, but nails it after the fifth word.
"I told him my theory about eggs, and when I was done, he kinda' twitched funny, then produced a strange gurgle out of his throat, fell to the ground, and his brains oozed out of his ears and nose and mouth like - well, sort of like Pepto-Bismol. I don't know if I blew his mind cause my theory was so profound, or if I just bored his brains to mush. I hope it wasn't the latter.
The Answer Goddess smiles. It's the first good question she's heard in eons. She leans forward, makes a pyramid with her arms, and rests her chin on her hands.
"Obviously you bored his brains to mush."
"You're good." Says Friday. "Can I ask another question?"
"Shoot." She replies.
"Who wants to go to heaven?"
"You've seen it. You tell me." She hits back quick, with a knowing tone. She's been there too. After all, she is a Goddess.
"It's about quitting time, howabout I take you out and show you what it's all about."
"That sounds like a line from a bad 70's F.M. radio song."
"So what? It's a question. Gimme an answer - Answer Goddess!"
She looks at a large and elaborate wristwatch on her 17th arm. It reads 4:58 (and thirty-two seconds)
"Pick me up in three minutes, I've got one more call to take. Then I have to make myself presentable. And I don't want another of your dive-bar nights Friday...I'm a classy dame."
"Awww, but they're so much more fun!" Friday's voice is pleading. She pulls out a cord, and the line goes dead. Five hundred thousand lights reveal the callers still trying to get through. She closes her eyes and randomly connects to her last call of the week.
It's the whiney man's voice whom she dealt with four minutes ago.
"My watch band broke, I really liked that watch band! What do I do!!??"
"-time is a measurement of the duration of matter in the dimension of space." She begins, but then realizes it's the same guy. What are the odds of him calling back, and getting through!? "Why worry about time?" She says with exasperation. "Worry about why you're not having sex with more people! Besides, it's Friday...and I don't care."
Happy Friday.
Each one of her thirty-two arms moves rapidly, unplugging and plugging in lines to an old-timey telephone exchange. She drops calls as soon as she's done speaking, and moves on to the next. There are a lot of people in the world, and they all want answers.
"My watch band broke." Says a whiney man-voice. She replies in a clipped, but easy on the ears tone.
"Time is just a measurement of the duration of matter in the dimension of space. It's apt to be shorter than you'd like. However, it varies alternately with perspective."
Next call
-a different whiney-toned male with a lisp-
"I went to the denthist this week. Losth three teeth."
The Answer Goddess speaks.
"The body is inconsequential, at best you got what, 60 more years? Take your cobra poison like a man."
Next call
-a mature woman, her voice carrying over the line with real feeling.
"I need a change."
The Answer Goddess does not have time for idle emotional sympathy.
"-There is only one thing you can change - input or output. You must alter one or the other. They are in a feedback loop. A change in one will effect the other. Decide which you can more readily alter.
Next call
-nobody speaks.
She asks,
"what can I do for you?"
A man with a snake-like voice oozes through the headset.
"I'm here to place you into my indexing system. Show me your tits!"
Click.
She's had so many calls like this that it weighs on her mind like an eye-blink that happened 15 minutes earlier.
Next Call
-A younger woman
"I'll be late paying the bills."
Answer Goddess:
"The undertaker waits at the end of the road. His list is of all you owe - and not one line on it speaks of money.
Next Call
A man, 50's probably balding.
"I'm worried about what will happen."
The Answer Goddess replies in a stock answer...let's face it, they're all stock answers. She's heard it all before, for thousands of years.
" -Fear is the one thing that drives all of us. It drives us in front of it like cattle, and sooner or later, we turn around with our worthless horns...or we don't, and get it up the ass anyways."
Next Call
The King of All Weekdays speaks with his rich baritone. She can't place the voice right away, but nails it after the fifth word.
"I told him my theory about eggs, and when I was done, he kinda' twitched funny, then produced a strange gurgle out of his throat, fell to the ground, and his brains oozed out of his ears and nose and mouth like - well, sort of like Pepto-Bismol. I don't know if I blew his mind cause my theory was so profound, or if I just bored his brains to mush. I hope it wasn't the latter.
The Answer Goddess smiles. It's the first good question she's heard in eons. She leans forward, makes a pyramid with her arms, and rests her chin on her hands.
"Obviously you bored his brains to mush."
"You're good." Says Friday. "Can I ask another question?"
"Shoot." She replies.
"Who wants to go to heaven?"
"You've seen it. You tell me." She hits back quick, with a knowing tone. She's been there too. After all, she is a Goddess.
"It's about quitting time, howabout I take you out and show you what it's all about."
"That sounds like a line from a bad 70's F.M. radio song."
"So what? It's a question. Gimme an answer - Answer Goddess!"
She looks at a large and elaborate wristwatch on her 17th arm. It reads 4:58 (and thirty-two seconds)
"Pick me up in three minutes, I've got one more call to take. Then I have to make myself presentable. And I don't want another of your dive-bar nights Friday...I'm a classy dame."
"Awww, but they're so much more fun!" Friday's voice is pleading. She pulls out a cord, and the line goes dead. Five hundred thousand lights reveal the callers still trying to get through. She closes her eyes and randomly connects to her last call of the week.
It's the whiney man's voice whom she dealt with four minutes ago.
"My watch band broke, I really liked that watch band! What do I do!!??"
"-time is a measurement of the duration of matter in the dimension of space." She begins, but then realizes it's the same guy. What are the odds of him calling back, and getting through!? "Why worry about time?" She says with exasperation. "Worry about why you're not having sex with more people! Besides, it's Friday...and I don't care."
Happy Friday.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Have you ever felt really, really small?
It's probably due to a lack of perspective. Compared to this, you're absolutely titanic!
And please remember this as you're busy monsterizing your way through tonight and into the K.O.A.W.!
And please remember this as you're busy monsterizing your way through tonight and into the K.O.A.W.!
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Fjord Defends Its Honor!!!
I was re-reading some stuff I wrote a few months ago. The one I wanted to bring your attention to was this. My speculations on cat-brain parasites. (which alter the brain chemistry in any creature they infect, and according to science, by gender as well.)
Our pal Hash (who's own spot seems to be off-line at the mo - so no coolb hyperlink) left a few words about the post. I responded, and it turns out, a further commenter left something that should be shared.
"Anonymous said...
fjord you apparently have not read any current info on toxoplasmosis. and hashbrown, you are a complete unkind and crazy person if you read something this man said then had your cat put to sleep. how horrible. it saddens me for there are unkind and crazy and mostly ignorant people in this world fjord apparently you don't research anything and just a cat hater. kille or molested any children lately"
Now, I've mentioned before, there are enemies of Fjord. There are also people who don't at all understand Fjord...and that's fine. But when you start writin stuff like: "it saddens me for there are unkind and crazy and mostly ignorant people in this world fjord apparently you don't research anything and just a cat hater." I just have to ask/say:
1) English is the primary conveyance of Fjord. If it's not your 1st tongue, lots of stuff will loose most/all meaning.
2 Unkind??? Some of the nicest people you'd ever meet read Fjord. (did I also mention how attractive we are?) We are inclusive to the point of ridiculousness.
3) Crazy??? Yeah - guilty as charged.
4) Mostly Ignorant??? Okay, that's gone too far. There is no-one who reads this webzine that's ignorant. We might not know whats-what in Iraq, or happnin' with the Federal Budget, be we know tons about robots, and zombies and particle accelerators, and mummy attacks. What do you know!!??
5)Don't research anything??? Did you notice the links to that post? I suppose some stuff gets past our pals at BoingBoing, but the BBC??? Are you on a soap-box and calling the BBC a liar? It's cool - it could happen, just bring some proof.
6)Cat Hater??? Well, I'm allergic to cats, and I'm a dog guy myself...but that don't mean I don't have cat-friends. You can ask them...seriously.
7)Kille or molested any children lately??? Come on, now, you're walking off the plank into total lunacy. Fjord, while full of adult content, and content that's too sophisticated for younger (or stupider) readers, wants only happy childhoods for whatever annoying brats who are spoiling my wait in the grocery-store with their crying, or in the park, or at the club-listening to prodigy playing "Smack My Bitch Up," or at the Denny's trying to get a short-stack at 2:30 in the A.M. when I gots to work by 8.
8) Anonymous...as a helpful reminder, that last statement "kille or molested any children lately"
should have been ended with a "?" mark.
9) Fuck you and the duck you rode in on.
10) You've got no right to show up on my webzine and criticize me or my readers under the name Anonymous. I got a bloggin' handle myself, but you can find me without too much fucking trouble. When yer accusin' me, or my readers of "child molesting or kille" - why, you'd better be proud and unafraid of your creds. Elsewise, we'll wipe the floor with yas, and make some sort of slander/libel suit against you. And if you haven't come up against the legal prowess of Skewerburger, Skullcracker, Fishmonger and Brick, be warned...they're a bad-assed legal team.
Yers,
-Tsunami-
Our pal Hash (who's own spot seems to be off-line at the mo - so no coolb hyperlink) left a few words about the post. I responded, and it turns out, a further commenter left something that should be shared.
"Anonymous said...
fjord you apparently have not read any current info on toxoplasmosis. and hashbrown, you are a complete unkind and crazy person if you read something this man said then had your cat put to sleep. how horrible. it saddens me for there are unkind and crazy and mostly ignorant people in this world fjord apparently you don't research anything and just a cat hater. kille or molested any children lately"
Now, I've mentioned before, there are enemies of Fjord. There are also people who don't at all understand Fjord...and that's fine. But when you start writin stuff like: "it saddens me for there are unkind and crazy and mostly ignorant people in this world fjord apparently you don't research anything and just a cat hater." I just have to ask/say:
1) English is the primary conveyance of Fjord. If it's not your 1st tongue, lots of stuff will loose most/all meaning.
2 Unkind??? Some of the nicest people you'd ever meet read Fjord. (did I also mention how attractive we are?) We are inclusive to the point of ridiculousness.
3) Crazy??? Yeah - guilty as charged.
4) Mostly Ignorant??? Okay, that's gone too far. There is no-one who reads this webzine that's ignorant. We might not know whats-what in Iraq, or happnin' with the Federal Budget, be we know tons about robots, and zombies and particle accelerators, and mummy attacks. What do you know!!??
5)Don't research anything??? Did you notice the links to that post? I suppose some stuff gets past our pals at BoingBoing, but the BBC??? Are you on a soap-box and calling the BBC a liar? It's cool - it could happen, just bring some proof.
6)Cat Hater??? Well, I'm allergic to cats, and I'm a dog guy myself...but that don't mean I don't have cat-friends. You can ask them...seriously.
7)Kille or molested any children lately??? Come on, now, you're walking off the plank into total lunacy. Fjord, while full of adult content, and content that's too sophisticated for younger (or stupider) readers, wants only happy childhoods for whatever annoying brats who are spoiling my wait in the grocery-store with their crying, or in the park, or at the club-listening to prodigy playing "Smack My Bitch Up," or at the Denny's trying to get a short-stack at 2:30 in the A.M. when I gots to work by 8.
8) Anonymous...as a helpful reminder, that last statement "kille or molested any children lately"
should have been ended with a "?" mark.
9) Fuck you and the duck you rode in on.
10) You've got no right to show up on my webzine and criticize me or my readers under the name Anonymous. I got a bloggin' handle myself, but you can find me without too much fucking trouble. When yer accusin' me, or my readers of "child molesting or kille" - why, you'd better be proud and unafraid of your creds. Elsewise, we'll wipe the floor with yas, and make some sort of slander/libel suit against you. And if you haven't come up against the legal prowess of Skewerburger, Skullcracker, Fishmonger and Brick, be warned...they're a bad-assed legal team.
Yers,
-Tsunami-
So I'm talking
to the receptionist at the Dentists office and I bring up dental hypochondriacs, which is a bizarre affliction I just learned about. She says, "It's like they come in, and they know there's something there...and we look, and poke around and take x-rays, and nope, there's nothing there. But they can feel it. They know there's something - it has to be something." But anyways, I go back, and they put me in the chair, and I notice something a little - off - about my dentist. Something in the eyes, I think. So as she's about to "numb me up" I leap up out of the chair, whip the sword from my cane, and brandish it towards her.
"Yer not going to inject me with your cobra venom!" I yelled.
She looked shocked. Not - "I'm your dentist about to inject you with novacain and you brandish a sword at me," shocked...more of a "I was about to inject you with cobra venom under the guise of novacain, and you found out," kind of shocked.
It's not mentioned enough here on these pages, that correspondents at Fjord have a large array of enemies. One must keep up an almost constant guard, or face a horrifying array of vile tortures and gruesome deaths.
Needless to say, I underwent the procedure with a different dentist, in a different office across town, with no anesthetic. Apart from being a little more safe, it also felt like a more authentic experience.
"Yer not going to inject me with your cobra venom!" I yelled.
She looked shocked. Not - "I'm your dentist about to inject you with novacain and you brandish a sword at me," shocked...more of a "I was about to inject you with cobra venom under the guise of novacain, and you found out," kind of shocked.
It's not mentioned enough here on these pages, that correspondents at Fjord have a large array of enemies. One must keep up an almost constant guard, or face a horrifying array of vile tortures and gruesome deaths.
Needless to say, I underwent the procedure with a different dentist, in a different office across town, with no anesthetic. Apart from being a little more safe, it also felt like a more authentic experience.
Linkbs are coolb!
This, is a super great bit on a couple of designers who are working on the puzzle of clothing as interfaces with technology. I totally dig the idea of the kinetic dress, that changes colors depending on what the wearer is doing.
I haven't done much research on this particular branch of technology that fuses my lust for fashion with my desire to be Master of All Technology, but I might. The dress gave me the idea of how squids can rapidly change their color (almost instantaneously) to communicate. (-warning PDF file here)
And I decided it would be cool as hell if a dress could sense another dress, and change color, depending on what the other dress (or it's wearer) was up to...
Anyways, this was from the super cool place, we-make-money-not-art which you should visit. I sent Reg over there, a quick email about what to do in L.A., and got a very nice letter back.
I haven't done much research on this particular branch of technology that fuses my lust for fashion with my desire to be Master of All Technology, but I might. The dress gave me the idea of how squids can rapidly change their color (almost instantaneously) to communicate. (-warning PDF file here)
And I decided it would be cool as hell if a dress could sense another dress, and change color, depending on what the other dress (or it's wearer) was up to...
Anyways, this was from the super cool place, we-make-money-not-art which you should visit. I sent Reg over there, a quick email about what to do in L.A., and got a very nice letter back.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
I've been saving this...
For the right time. That time is now. Our good pal Hashbrown sent this in as a response to my post about where to get cool bag-gear. He's obviously ahead of the Fjordian curve.
I also enjoy the massive cocktail, and the fact that you can tell he's reading Fjord thru the reflection. The tuke's fuckin' sweet too.
Thanks Hash.
Has someone been neglecting you???
Aww...
Poor, poor, super-adorable and most attractive of all webzine readership, looking at me with your beady little eyes, and begging to be scratched behind the ears...we've talked about this.
Since this internets thingy is on a hyper-advanced dog-years-like time frame, it may have seemed like forever, but really, it's only been three days! Anyways, don't worry, I didn't forget. In fact, I brought something for yas!
Who'd like a Flying Cow?
If that's not enough for you (and you read nothing I do...this'll be new) - here's another installment of our continuing series from the cyborg-warfare department, altho I'm not exactly sure if an insect-bot really qualifies as a cyborg, but a swarm of robo-wasps would scare the fuck out of me, no question. However, you might remember that I did some research into anti-bug robotics a while back. I'm certainly going to have to do some modifications to my original design - which was for normal household beasties...but at least I'm not starting from square one! Yeah, yeah, laugh all you want...but what about you? You got any defenses against robo-bugs?
All right then.
-Tsunami-
Poor, poor, super-adorable and most attractive of all webzine readership, looking at me with your beady little eyes, and begging to be scratched behind the ears...we've talked about this.
Since this internets thingy is on a hyper-advanced dog-years-like time frame, it may have seemed like forever, but really, it's only been three days! Anyways, don't worry, I didn't forget. In fact, I brought something for yas!
Who'd like a Flying Cow?
If that's not enough for you (and you read nothing I do...this'll be new) - here's another installment of our continuing series from the cyborg-warfare department, altho I'm not exactly sure if an insect-bot really qualifies as a cyborg, but a swarm of robo-wasps would scare the fuck out of me, no question. However, you might remember that I did some research into anti-bug robotics a while back. I'm certainly going to have to do some modifications to my original design - which was for normal household beasties...but at least I'm not starting from square one! Yeah, yeah, laugh all you want...but what about you? You got any defenses against robo-bugs?
All right then.
-Tsunami-
Friday, March 17, 2006
There's no title needed...we all know.
IT'S THE 600th POST ON FJORD!!!!
(obviously it's because we like you)
Friday knows that this day is the one holiday that's truly designed for drunks. It's wondrous and magical, and there's only one thing that can ruin it.
Weaponized Leprechauns.
Yeah, we know about weaponized sharks, weaponized deathbots, and weaponized electrons, however, this might be the most insidious weapon ever devised. Deep in the Pentagon's dungeons of the Special and Magical creature detention facility, (where they perform other creepy experiments) scientists have been genetically tinkering on Leprechauns, in order to turn them into controllable W.P.O.T.D (Wee-People Of Terrible Destruction.)
Ever seen an army turned into a field of Shamrocks? A secure facility breached by a teleportation? Guards drunk instantaneously on Irish Whisky? Well, that's cause you haven't seen the awesome power of a W.P.O.T.P.
However, knowing Friday like we do, we also know he's not the kind of guy to worry about that kind of stuff, until it's in front of him, messing with his good time. In which case, he will deal with all threats with equal ruthlessness. And that's what needs to be said tonight. Friday will take care of evil leprechauns, and spend an evening getting smashed and playing harmless pranks with the good ones. You should do the same.
Happy Friday
(obviously it's because we like you)
Friday knows that this day is the one holiday that's truly designed for drunks. It's wondrous and magical, and there's only one thing that can ruin it.
Weaponized Leprechauns.
Yeah, we know about weaponized sharks, weaponized deathbots, and weaponized electrons, however, this might be the most insidious weapon ever devised. Deep in the Pentagon's dungeons of the Special and Magical creature detention facility, (where they perform other creepy experiments) scientists have been genetically tinkering on Leprechauns, in order to turn them into controllable W.P.O.T.D (Wee-People Of Terrible Destruction.)
Ever seen an army turned into a field of Shamrocks? A secure facility breached by a teleportation? Guards drunk instantaneously on Irish Whisky? Well, that's cause you haven't seen the awesome power of a W.P.O.T.P.
However, knowing Friday like we do, we also know he's not the kind of guy to worry about that kind of stuff, until it's in front of him, messing with his good time. In which case, he will deal with all threats with equal ruthlessness. And that's what needs to be said tonight. Friday will take care of evil leprechauns, and spend an evening getting smashed and playing harmless pranks with the good ones. You should do the same.
Happy Friday
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Write
err, right - I mean, rite, dig?
Being a writer has some advantages. Sometimes you find yourself in polite society, and your talking out about retirement plans or something, when all of a sudden, you're talking off on a tangent about the smog monster, that's hovering over the basin absorbing people's hemoglobin - and that leads you go off about the blood-curdling human sacrificial rites of the Mayans, and describing in gory detail, their method of slicing open a victim's chest with an obsidian knife, and taking their gory, blood-slick and still beating heart out of their body and holding it up for their strange and psychopathically named gods.
Whereupon, you then realize, most people don't really talk about these kinds of things, and people around the copy machine are looking at you with dazed, and dropped-jaw looks. You know from experience, in mere seconds, they are forever going to regard you as a deranged weirdo who may be a practitioner of Satanic (at best) or Cannibalistic (which - as
we all know, can get really really fucked up.) rituals when you're not at work, and should by no means be trusted ever again.
Which is exactly the right moment to mention something along the lines of, "The reason I mention this is that I'm doing some research for a piece I'm working on. I'm a writer." It's kind of like a "get out of jail free" card. Nobody will question whatever crazy fucked up crap
you're into, as long as you preface it with "It research for a book I'm working on."
Even if you're not a writer, it's a handy trick. Try it sometime.
Being a writer has some advantages. Sometimes you find yourself in polite society, and your talking out about retirement plans or something, when all of a sudden, you're talking off on a tangent about the smog monster, that's hovering over the basin absorbing people's hemoglobin - and that leads you go off about the blood-curdling human sacrificial rites of the Mayans, and describing in gory detail, their method of slicing open a victim's chest with an obsidian knife, and taking their gory, blood-slick and still beating heart out of their body and holding it up for their strange and psychopathically named gods.
Whereupon, you then realize, most people don't really talk about these kinds of things, and people around the copy machine are looking at you with dazed, and dropped-jaw looks. You know from experience, in mere seconds, they are forever going to regard you as a deranged weirdo who may be a practitioner of Satanic (at best) or Cannibalistic (which - as
we all know, can get really really fucked up.) rituals when you're not at work, and should by no means be trusted ever again.
Which is exactly the right moment to mention something along the lines of, "The reason I mention this is that I'm doing some research for a piece I'm working on. I'm a writer." It's kind of like a "get out of jail free" card. Nobody will question whatever crazy fucked up crap
you're into, as long as you preface it with "It research for a book I'm working on."
Even if you're not a writer, it's a handy trick. Try it sometime.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Monday, March 13, 2006
Aloha!
Greetings from the Casa Aloha.
Your Minor League Media Demon has a lot on his plate right now.
We’ve just taken on a class at the community college, and for the next four Monday’s, there’ll be light posting, if any. On top of that, I’ve got a draft of a script due on Wednesday, and that will consume most of my “happy fun webzine writin’ time.” (as I like to call it) With all of this happening, I’m not even talking about the troubles I’ve had with my closet particle accelerator project, the backyard Zeppelin construction, and my in-depth radio-telescope research into sub-atomic particles on the Event Horizon of supermassive black holes. (yeah – yeah…the last three are just hobbies, I’ll admit)
However, with all that, and keeping the guests at my fine resort happy…I might not be around much in the next few days.
Aloha.
-Tsunami-
Your Minor League Media Demon has a lot on his plate right now.
We’ve just taken on a class at the community college, and for the next four Monday’s, there’ll be light posting, if any. On top of that, I’ve got a draft of a script due on Wednesday, and that will consume most of my “happy fun webzine writin’ time.” (as I like to call it) With all of this happening, I’m not even talking about the troubles I’ve had with my closet particle accelerator project, the backyard Zeppelin construction, and my in-depth radio-telescope research into sub-atomic particles on the Event Horizon of supermassive black holes. (yeah – yeah…the last three are just hobbies, I’ll admit)
However, with all that, and keeping the guests at my fine resort happy…I might not be around much in the next few days.
Aloha.
-Tsunami-
Saturday, March 11, 2006
Friday, March 10, 2006
Circles
"Which way?" Asked Tuesday. He was standing on a landing that looked out at a bewildering array of staircases - going up, down, sideways, backwards...like an Escher creation.
Wednesday climbed the last two stairs, and emerged on another landing thirty-five feet above Tuesday. He was, paradoxically, standing directly above Tuesday, looking down at him (or was he looking up?) but apart from the slight vertigo the scene induced, he felt quite happily nailed to his landing by gravity.
"Not the one to the right!" He put his hand on the banister, and found it was made out of hard plastic. He decided for a minute or two, he'd just hold onto it.
"Don't try the one on the left either." Said Thursday, who, was across on another landing fifty feet away, but facing them like a small wall. Wednesday was happy he had a hold of the banister, the effect of someone standing on a ceiling and wall, was a touch discombobulating. He looked up and off to the right, and watched Monday trudge down a staircase, and then up another. The way the place was constructed, it appeared as though he moved both closer, and farther away as various seconds passed.
"I think you're going the wrong way." Wednesday shouted with a small echo.
"Fuck you." Replied Monday, who kept walking.
"Hang on a second!" Thursday yelled across the space to Wednesday.
"No problem!" Wednesday shouted back, still holding the banister.
Thursday took a few steps back, took off in a sprint, and leapt.
It was a good jump - like an Olympic long jump kinda effort. Thursday rose off the landing five feet - six, nearly seven right across the divide towards Thursday...then gravity pulled him back down in a tumble.
"Ow." He mumbled.
Monday (who was now much closer) spoke from a landing not far off. "So who's bright idea was it, again, to split up?"
"Hey!" Interrupted Tuesday, "I think I see something." He pointed off at a distant landing. Wednesday, the staircase to your left goes to a landing. It looks like this one at my feet goes there too! Thursday - take the one that leads straight down. We should be able to meet up!"
"What about me?!!?" Monday fumed - looking both down and sideways at his co-weekdays.
"Hang on, and we'll figure out where you're at once we're together. Now let's go!"
They all moved down their allotted staircases, heading for the same landing. However, through whatever strange physics or spells that ruled this place, they all merely switched positions! Wednesday was on the wall-side, Tuesday and Thursday looked up and down at each other.
"Fuck!" Shouted Tuesday.
Monday cracked up. "Man, welcome to Mindfucktown! Population you guys! Ha - HA! Heheheee!"
Then the lights went out.
Somebody said, "Fuck." (probly more than one.)
Moments passed in darkness. The sound of leathery wings fluttered past their ears. After a few minutes Monday said.
"Thursday? Wednesday? Tuesday?"
"Yeah." Said Thursday.
"Here." Said Weds.
"Still alive." Finished Tuesday.
"Okay, well, that's good." Monday said, and he sat down in the darkness, on the last step of a staircase.
Minutes and hours or seconds passed. Occasionally, one would say something to reassure himself that his companions were still there. Then, from far off, a small light appeared. They all watched it, since nothing else could be seen. Then it disappeared.
"Did you see that?" Asked Wednesday.
"Of course. We're in darkness, not blind." Huffed Monday.
"What was it?" Said Tuesday.
"A fucking light." Thursday replied testily.
The light reappeared, moving closer...then disappearing for another moment. Then it emerged behind a staircase, and moved up towards Monday. It was about fifteen feet away when Monday spoke out to his colleagues.
"Hey guys, if something happens to me, I've got some awesome steaks in my fridge at home. Hate to see them wasted." Then the light blinded him, he threw his arm up over his face, and was overcome.
After a few seconds, his eyes adjusted, and saw Friday - attired as a spelunker, with a powerful light on his hard-hat. He had already opened a flask, and shoved a bit of libation down his throat. Monday coughed, and backed away.
"Okay, okay! I get it. Geesh!" He said as he backed away. What's the plan?
Friday looked over, flashing his head-light on Monday's face again,
"Round up the rest of you mugs." And with that, moved off. Monday followed close, then tripped on a rope that was dragging from Friday's belt. He fell hard, but Friday didn't slow. He sprang back up, and raced after. By the time he had caught up, they were on Thursday's landing.
"Hi Thursday." Friday said. "Follow along."
Thursday and Monday were close at his heels, and in short order they collected Tuesday, and finally got to Wednesday's landing.
"Hey. what the fuck Friday?" Asked Wednesday, "What's the deal with this place? There's no up or down or left or right. It's confusing as hell!"
"Why is it so dark?" Said Tuesday.
"And what's the deal with the rope?!" Added Monday, still rubbing sore spots from his fall.
"Okay, look." Said Friday, casting his blindingly bright headlamp in each of the weekdays faces. "I'm only going to say this once. Sometimes you guys get going around in circles, and that's all you see. That's why I come along, to end this nonsense. It's dark, because when you're confused, sometimes you just have to shut some stimuli off, otherwise you'll just tire yourself out."
"You turned off the lights!?!" Shouted Tuesday.
"You bet. Otherwise rounding you all up would have been twice as hard. Now, I imagine you've all heard the legend of the labyrinth?"
"Yeah." They all answered sheepishly.
"Well, we follow this rope, and we'll shortly be where I tied the end of it."
"Where's that?" Asked Thursday.
"A bar-b-que I was invited to. Brats, beer, marshmallows...yaknow, good times. So, you wanna...?"
"Yeah, screw this - I'm up for grillin'!" Said Wednesday. The others enthusiastically agreed.
"Then, if there's nothing else...follow me."
Happy Friday.
Wednesday climbed the last two stairs, and emerged on another landing thirty-five feet above Tuesday. He was, paradoxically, standing directly above Tuesday, looking down at him (or was he looking up?) but apart from the slight vertigo the scene induced, he felt quite happily nailed to his landing by gravity.
"Not the one to the right!" He put his hand on the banister, and found it was made out of hard plastic. He decided for a minute or two, he'd just hold onto it.
"Don't try the one on the left either." Said Thursday, who, was across on another landing fifty feet away, but facing them like a small wall. Wednesday was happy he had a hold of the banister, the effect of someone standing on a ceiling and wall, was a touch discombobulating. He looked up and off to the right, and watched Monday trudge down a staircase, and then up another. The way the place was constructed, it appeared as though he moved both closer, and farther away as various seconds passed.
"I think you're going the wrong way." Wednesday shouted with a small echo.
"Fuck you." Replied Monday, who kept walking.
"Hang on a second!" Thursday yelled across the space to Wednesday.
"No problem!" Wednesday shouted back, still holding the banister.
Thursday took a few steps back, took off in a sprint, and leapt.
It was a good jump - like an Olympic long jump kinda effort. Thursday rose off the landing five feet - six, nearly seven right across the divide towards Thursday...then gravity pulled him back down in a tumble.
"Ow." He mumbled.
Monday (who was now much closer) spoke from a landing not far off. "So who's bright idea was it, again, to split up?"
"Hey!" Interrupted Tuesday, "I think I see something." He pointed off at a distant landing. Wednesday, the staircase to your left goes to a landing. It looks like this one at my feet goes there too! Thursday - take the one that leads straight down. We should be able to meet up!"
"What about me?!!?" Monday fumed - looking both down and sideways at his co-weekdays.
"Hang on, and we'll figure out where you're at once we're together. Now let's go!"
They all moved down their allotted staircases, heading for the same landing. However, through whatever strange physics or spells that ruled this place, they all merely switched positions! Wednesday was on the wall-side, Tuesday and Thursday looked up and down at each other.
"Fuck!" Shouted Tuesday.
Monday cracked up. "Man, welcome to Mindfucktown! Population you guys! Ha - HA! Heheheee!"
Then the lights went out.
Somebody said, "Fuck." (probly more than one.)
Moments passed in darkness. The sound of leathery wings fluttered past their ears. After a few minutes Monday said.
"Thursday? Wednesday? Tuesday?"
"Yeah." Said Thursday.
"Here." Said Weds.
"Still alive." Finished Tuesday.
"Okay, well, that's good." Monday said, and he sat down in the darkness, on the last step of a staircase.
Minutes and hours or seconds passed. Occasionally, one would say something to reassure himself that his companions were still there. Then, from far off, a small light appeared. They all watched it, since nothing else could be seen. Then it disappeared.
"Did you see that?" Asked Wednesday.
"Of course. We're in darkness, not blind." Huffed Monday.
"What was it?" Said Tuesday.
"A fucking light." Thursday replied testily.
The light reappeared, moving closer...then disappearing for another moment. Then it emerged behind a staircase, and moved up towards Monday. It was about fifteen feet away when Monday spoke out to his colleagues.
"Hey guys, if something happens to me, I've got some awesome steaks in my fridge at home. Hate to see them wasted." Then the light blinded him, he threw his arm up over his face, and was overcome.
After a few seconds, his eyes adjusted, and saw Friday - attired as a spelunker, with a powerful light on his hard-hat. He had already opened a flask, and shoved a bit of libation down his throat. Monday coughed, and backed away.
"Okay, okay! I get it. Geesh!" He said as he backed away. What's the plan?
Friday looked over, flashing his head-light on Monday's face again,
"Round up the rest of you mugs." And with that, moved off. Monday followed close, then tripped on a rope that was dragging from Friday's belt. He fell hard, but Friday didn't slow. He sprang back up, and raced after. By the time he had caught up, they were on Thursday's landing.
"Hi Thursday." Friday said. "Follow along."
Thursday and Monday were close at his heels, and in short order they collected Tuesday, and finally got to Wednesday's landing.
"Hey. what the fuck Friday?" Asked Wednesday, "What's the deal with this place? There's no up or down or left or right. It's confusing as hell!"
"Why is it so dark?" Said Tuesday.
"And what's the deal with the rope?!" Added Monday, still rubbing sore spots from his fall.
"Okay, look." Said Friday, casting his blindingly bright headlamp in each of the weekdays faces. "I'm only going to say this once. Sometimes you guys get going around in circles, and that's all you see. That's why I come along, to end this nonsense. It's dark, because when you're confused, sometimes you just have to shut some stimuli off, otherwise you'll just tire yourself out."
"You turned off the lights!?!" Shouted Tuesday.
"You bet. Otherwise rounding you all up would have been twice as hard. Now, I imagine you've all heard the legend of the labyrinth?"
"Yeah." They all answered sheepishly.
"Well, we follow this rope, and we'll shortly be where I tied the end of it."
"Where's that?" Asked Thursday.
"A bar-b-que I was invited to. Brats, beer, marshmallows...yaknow, good times. So, you wanna...?"
"Yeah, screw this - I'm up for grillin'!" Said Wednesday. The others enthusiastically agreed.
"Then, if there's nothing else...follow me."
Happy Friday.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
when staring into the Webmonster
remember - the webmonster stares back at you.
And it gets really unnerving when it starts I.M.-ing me with little missives like
"What are you really looking for?"
"Why don't you slip into something more comfjordable?"
"Ever thought of making it with a computer?"
"You know all your passwords suck?"
Whatever your take on what the internets are - ("Like an electronic magazine!" "The global database!" "The information super-duper-highway!" "Cyberspace!") The internet isn't a place - any more than a television show is a place...the internet is a signal, and nothing more. But like all signals, it has only one desire - to have a receiver at the other end...and the more receivers, the better. Like any other media, market share of receivers is the ultimate goal.
Why is this important?
No reason at all. Just wanted to give you my take on things.
And to tell the webmonster to stop I.M.-ing me. It's getting creepy.
And it gets really unnerving when it starts I.M.-ing me with little missives like
"What are you really looking for?"
"Why don't you slip into something more comfjordable?"
"Ever thought of making it with a computer?"
"You know all your passwords suck?"
Whatever your take on what the internets are - ("Like an electronic magazine!" "The global database!" "The information super-duper-highway!" "Cyberspace!") The internet isn't a place - any more than a television show is a place...the internet is a signal, and nothing more. But like all signals, it has only one desire - to have a receiver at the other end...and the more receivers, the better. Like any other media, market share of receivers is the ultimate goal.
Why is this important?
No reason at all. Just wanted to give you my take on things.
And to tell the webmonster to stop I.M.-ing me. It's getting creepy.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
The internets to the rescue!
As per my previous post - "Non Blog-tastic - and totally uninspired"
(where we were feeling, err...non blog-tastic and totally uninspired)
Comes this gem! - Become 40 percent more clever in JUST SEVEN DAYS!
It's a godsend for this planet and my dull little mind. (author's aside - You'd probly get more takers if you offered a few of these free with your "get clever program")
And here's a super cute tune to make things better.
Better...
much better.
(where we were feeling, err...non blog-tastic and totally uninspired)
Comes this gem! - Become 40 percent more clever in JUST SEVEN DAYS!
It's a godsend for this planet and my dull little mind. (author's aside - You'd probly get more takers if you offered a few of these free with your "get clever program")
And here's a super cute tune to make things better.
Better...
much better.
Non blog-tastic!
Today - and totally uninspired.
Here's some pictures.
Here's some pictures.
Downtown during a rain.
Here's summore from the Casa Aloha
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
March 7th
This is pretty damn fun.
(you won't need to install language packs - it's pretty obvious what's up.)
I've got a ton of things on my list today - and only one itty-bitty one is your Fjord for today.
However, I do want to mention that TODAY is my 6-year anniversary of living in Los Angel-eeze! Hoooray for me! Hooooray for L.A.!!
Of course, I occasionally feel like this town doesn't appreciate me - but I know that's what everyone thinks, about wherever they are...even if it's a one-Ox village in Cambodia. But since I live in the entertainment capital of the universe, whenever I feel that way, I wonder "Where else am I going to go?"
And that question is answered with, "A place where you don't have rent control, where you don't have a job, and you'll most likely need a coat."
Figger I'll stay put for a while longer.
-Tusnami-
(you won't need to install language packs - it's pretty obvious what's up.)
I've got a ton of things on my list today - and only one itty-bitty one is your Fjord for today.
However, I do want to mention that TODAY is my 6-year anniversary of living in Los Angel-eeze! Hoooray for me! Hooooray for L.A.!!
Of course, I occasionally feel like this town doesn't appreciate me - but I know that's what everyone thinks, about wherever they are...even if it's a one-Ox village in Cambodia. But since I live in the entertainment capital of the universe, whenever I feel that way, I wonder "Where else am I going to go?"
And that question is answered with, "A place where you don't have rent control, where you don't have a job, and you'll most likely need a coat."
Figger I'll stay put for a while longer.
-Tusnami-
Monday, March 06, 2006
Start this thing up one more time.
Monday afternoon mummy news.
(I know I've been promising an in-depth mummy piece for a while now -- just a while more...I'm still gathering data, and trying to figure out how it all fits.)
For now, I'm not sure what to think of this kind of robot - but download the video and have a gander. It's kinda cool.
(another good one from Boing Boing.)
(I know I've been promising an in-depth mummy piece for a while now -- just a while more...I'm still gathering data, and trying to figure out how it all fits.)
For now, I'm not sure what to think of this kind of robot - but download the video and have a gander. It's kinda cool.
(another good one from Boing Boing.)
Friday, March 03, 2006
Friday's in the background
and its a stream of images and channels. Like the landscape seen in between the gaps in a passing train.
Channel 1:
It was black. Very very dark. Like being buried in a cave a hundred miles inside the earth dark. A sound, a pebble kicked, a stumbling footfall crunching earth and sand...and a man striking a rock wall with his face.
"ow. damn."
A strong voice calls out. (We know by now it's the voice of Wednesday)
"Who are you!?"
"Umm, I'm Mathew Storfield."
"Who do you serve?"
a long pause.
"Well, I serve the economic interests of the shareholders of the United
Alliance of Insurance Brokers."
Then frenzied scuffling.
"Hey, you can't do...damn! What is the meaning of - wait why am I...do I smell horses?"
Then hooves pounded away in the darkness - followed by strange popping noises, and the unmistakable sound of rending human flesh. After that there's a loud, meaty thunk. Probably best that this was shot in total darkness.
"Click"
Channel 2:
He was well put together - black suit - Italian, and expensive. A long black coat, and a pair of
nice black shoes. He had a white shirt with a black tie, and he carried a thin black briefcase with
chrome fittings. He also had the face of Tuesday, and approximately the same height and weight. The best thing about it was, he walked up to the circle of people, and just pushed his way in.
They were gathered around a square of cardboard, and a hip-hop kid, no more than 14, was dancing with standard moves to one of your common drumbeats. When he finished, he looked over to the rube in the suit and called him out. The being, looking like Tuesday walked out - took a moment to take off his jackets, and breathed deeply a few times - bringing the music inside him. Then he began a remarkable display of breakdancing on the dirty cardboard.
He did handstands, and headspins, and an array of kicks, punches, and glides - intercut with head, shoulder, arm, leg and torso swivels which, vaguely resembled robotics - however, the real
word would be "butter." Around him the circle - some thirty or forty people clapped and cheered like crazy - laughing at the unbelievable things this guy was pulling off. Then in a finale - he performed a one-handed handstand, and with the other slapped the insoles of both of his feet, then lowered himself to his head - spun about in a crazy fast headspin, and came to
a rest, laying on the cardboard looking casual with his legs crossed, and hands interlaced behind his head. The mob cheered like crazy.
Monday walked out of the crowd with a sawed off double-barreled shotgun, pointed it at the man, and pulled both triggers. The blast pretty much took away his head and his hands right behind it. From inside the hole of his head-stump, a massive wave of beetles and roaches rushed out. The crowd recoiled in fear. Either jumping away, or crushing the bugs with their shoes and boots.
"We don't take kindly to clones around here." Monday said in a slow drawl to the crowd - eying them over as if there might be more in the group, "No matter how good they can dance."
As the scene fades, we hear someone ask quietly, "How do we know that wasn't really Tuesday?"
"Click"
Channel 3:
"Reminds me of the time I slipped Queen Isabella a pastry laden with aphrodisiac." Began Thursday. He was reclining on a daybed, attired like a Roman, and drinking wine from a huge bronze cup. A lovely nymph plucked grapes from a vine, and dropped them into his mouth. He spoke while chewing, both his body language and chewing grew more animated as he talked.
"It was 1491, mind you, and love potion was not cheap to come by in those parts. However, I still had a few contacts in the Moorish areas - but unfortunately, while I was there, I had more than a few delicious lamb kabobs. Well - soon as the Queen had taken my offering, and set it to her dainty lips - I was seized by the most urgent need to, ah, um, well...relieve myself."
Thursday takes a moment to look around at his audience to see if they're still with him. (they are) He laughs loudly at himself, and gets fed a couple more grapes.
"Well -" He continues, "I slipped away for but a few moments, however, when I returned, Columbus was there explaining his whole trip to the West, and the Queen sat there completely enchanted. There was nothing I could do but chalk it up to bad lamb.
"Click"
Channel Fjord:
Friday can feel it. It seeps from his pores like magic. Hell, it is magic. He can see it in the eyes of people he crosses. They know. In the window of the Acme Machine Company he catches his reflection. Dark jacket, dirty ripped hoodie, even a green workshirt won't be contained, and peaks out in places. All the right places. He might as well have been made up by a stylist - but he wasn't, and that's why he's feeling it. He looks like rock-n-roll, he smells like successful night on the town, and his feet make the sound of owning the piece of ground they fall upon.
Why couldn't his enemies decide to pick on him on a day like today? He wonders...
CUT TO:
Friday stands upon a sand dune. To the right - a German panzer division attacks! Shells fall about - whistling razors of hot metal shear through the air. Small arms fire blasts the hill he stands upon. With infinite time, he raises his hand, and moves it slowly across them. Wherever it passes, bullets, shells, mortars, tanks, rifles, machine-guns, howitzers, half-tracks, all rust instantaneously and fall to dust. Buckles on the stormtroopers belts fall away. Buttons and zippers on trousers explode in small puffs of rust-dust. Helmets and insignia of rank follow. The entire division falls into disarray, and slink off - holding their clothes up.
A nice fantasy, he agrees with himself. But of course, his enemies would never pick a day like today. They'd know - and give him a wide berth. Their spies would pick a day when he had less lethal mojo. He moves on until he reaches the nice looking pad he was seeking. He walks up the driveway past nicely polished old cars, and notices a few too many men in nice suits and sunglasses admiring the landscaping, or polishing off non-existent spots on the nicely polished cars. Two of the men open the front doors, and he enters.
Inside, music seeps into the scene. Someone is knocking the hell out of the ivories, and there is laughter along with it. Friday moves down a staircase, and opens a door - to full blast of "Come Fly With Me" Sammy's rockin' the piano, and Dean and Frank are working harmony off each other - belting out the ending "PACK UP - LET'S FLY AWWWWWWWWWWAY!" Then they crack each other up, and have huge gulps of scotch from huge low-ball glasses.
"Friday baby, glad you could make it kiddo." Says Sammy, (in only the way Sammy can say things like that and have it come out sincere-and cool) stepping up from the piano to give Friday a hug.
Dino looks over and smiles a loopy grin.
"Ring-a-ding-ding." He purrs. "It's the cat who put the fat back in Friday. Let me get you some gas, man." And he moved over to the bar - and began pouring a huge lowball to the rim.
"Yeah." Frank said, walking over to drop a hug, "If you ain't the original jet-setter, I don't know what one is. Pull up a stool, we're dropping some tunes to pass the time."
"Don't mind if I do." Says Friday, pulling up next to the piano as Dean hands him the drink, full to the point of overflowing. He takes a sip, and looks up at three smiling legendary faces. "So what's next?" He asks.
"Well, you see baby, " Starts Sammy, "We kinda thought, see, you'd hit us with one-a-yours."
Friday looked up and with no false modesty said, "I think it would be better if..."
"No way baby!" Said Dino moving in closer, "We know you're dizzy with the songs...so lay one on us!"
"But really I..." Friday got cut off by Frank.
"This party is nowhere 'til we hear a song." Says Frank with authority.
Friday managed a little grimace. He starts thinking, and comes up with very little. He takes a slow long sip of excellent scotch, and realizes, he might just have something.
He clears his throat with a loud, "Ahem."
And then sings out in a soft - but perfectly toned voice.
"I was workin' part time at the five-and-dime,
My boss was Mr. McGee."
Dean sauntered to the piano, and picked up the melody in a couple of bars. Friday kept it up.
"He told me many times that he didn't like my kind
'Cause I was a bit too leisurely.
It seemed I was busy doin' something next to nothin'
But different from the day before.
And that's when I saw her - oooh that's when I saw her
She walked in thru the out door - out door."
And if in a movie - the Rat Pack and Friday hit the chorus with abandon.
"She wore a raspberry beret, the kind you find in a second hand store!
A raspberry beret - I think I love her..."
Fade out
(End Transmission)
Happy Friday
Channel 1:
It was black. Very very dark. Like being buried in a cave a hundred miles inside the earth dark. A sound, a pebble kicked, a stumbling footfall crunching earth and sand...and a man striking a rock wall with his face.
"ow. damn."
A strong voice calls out. (We know by now it's the voice of Wednesday)
"Who are you!?"
"Umm, I'm Mathew Storfield."
"Who do you serve?"
a long pause.
"Well, I serve the economic interests of the shareholders of the United
Alliance of Insurance Brokers."
Then frenzied scuffling.
"Hey, you can't do...damn! What is the meaning of - wait why am I...do I smell horses?"
Then hooves pounded away in the darkness - followed by strange popping noises, and the unmistakable sound of rending human flesh. After that there's a loud, meaty thunk. Probably best that this was shot in total darkness.
"Click"
Channel 2:
He was well put together - black suit - Italian, and expensive. A long black coat, and a pair of
nice black shoes. He had a white shirt with a black tie, and he carried a thin black briefcase with
chrome fittings. He also had the face of Tuesday, and approximately the same height and weight. The best thing about it was, he walked up to the circle of people, and just pushed his way in.
They were gathered around a square of cardboard, and a hip-hop kid, no more than 14, was dancing with standard moves to one of your common drumbeats. When he finished, he looked over to the rube in the suit and called him out. The being, looking like Tuesday walked out - took a moment to take off his jackets, and breathed deeply a few times - bringing the music inside him. Then he began a remarkable display of breakdancing on the dirty cardboard.
He did handstands, and headspins, and an array of kicks, punches, and glides - intercut with head, shoulder, arm, leg and torso swivels which, vaguely resembled robotics - however, the real
word would be "butter." Around him the circle - some thirty or forty people clapped and cheered like crazy - laughing at the unbelievable things this guy was pulling off. Then in a finale - he performed a one-handed handstand, and with the other slapped the insoles of both of his feet, then lowered himself to his head - spun about in a crazy fast headspin, and came to
a rest, laying on the cardboard looking casual with his legs crossed, and hands interlaced behind his head. The mob cheered like crazy.
Monday walked out of the crowd with a sawed off double-barreled shotgun, pointed it at the man, and pulled both triggers. The blast pretty much took away his head and his hands right behind it. From inside the hole of his head-stump, a massive wave of beetles and roaches rushed out. The crowd recoiled in fear. Either jumping away, or crushing the bugs with their shoes and boots.
"We don't take kindly to clones around here." Monday said in a slow drawl to the crowd - eying them over as if there might be more in the group, "No matter how good they can dance."
As the scene fades, we hear someone ask quietly, "How do we know that wasn't really Tuesday?"
"Click"
Channel 3:
"Reminds me of the time I slipped Queen Isabella a pastry laden with aphrodisiac." Began Thursday. He was reclining on a daybed, attired like a Roman, and drinking wine from a huge bronze cup. A lovely nymph plucked grapes from a vine, and dropped them into his mouth. He spoke while chewing, both his body language and chewing grew more animated as he talked.
"It was 1491, mind you, and love potion was not cheap to come by in those parts. However, I still had a few contacts in the Moorish areas - but unfortunately, while I was there, I had more than a few delicious lamb kabobs. Well - soon as the Queen had taken my offering, and set it to her dainty lips - I was seized by the most urgent need to, ah, um, well...relieve myself."
Thursday takes a moment to look around at his audience to see if they're still with him. (they are) He laughs loudly at himself, and gets fed a couple more grapes.
"Well -" He continues, "I slipped away for but a few moments, however, when I returned, Columbus was there explaining his whole trip to the West, and the Queen sat there completely enchanted. There was nothing I could do but chalk it up to bad lamb.
"Click"
Channel Fjord:
Friday can feel it. It seeps from his pores like magic. Hell, it is magic. He can see it in the eyes of people he crosses. They know. In the window of the Acme Machine Company he catches his reflection. Dark jacket, dirty ripped hoodie, even a green workshirt won't be contained, and peaks out in places. All the right places. He might as well have been made up by a stylist - but he wasn't, and that's why he's feeling it. He looks like rock-n-roll, he smells like successful night on the town, and his feet make the sound of owning the piece of ground they fall upon.
Why couldn't his enemies decide to pick on him on a day like today? He wonders...
CUT TO:
Friday stands upon a sand dune. To the right - a German panzer division attacks! Shells fall about - whistling razors of hot metal shear through the air. Small arms fire blasts the hill he stands upon. With infinite time, he raises his hand, and moves it slowly across them. Wherever it passes, bullets, shells, mortars, tanks, rifles, machine-guns, howitzers, half-tracks, all rust instantaneously and fall to dust. Buckles on the stormtroopers belts fall away. Buttons and zippers on trousers explode in small puffs of rust-dust. Helmets and insignia of rank follow. The entire division falls into disarray, and slink off - holding their clothes up.
A nice fantasy, he agrees with himself. But of course, his enemies would never pick a day like today. They'd know - and give him a wide berth. Their spies would pick a day when he had less lethal mojo. He moves on until he reaches the nice looking pad he was seeking. He walks up the driveway past nicely polished old cars, and notices a few too many men in nice suits and sunglasses admiring the landscaping, or polishing off non-existent spots on the nicely polished cars. Two of the men open the front doors, and he enters.
Inside, music seeps into the scene. Someone is knocking the hell out of the ivories, and there is laughter along with it. Friday moves down a staircase, and opens a door - to full blast of "Come Fly With Me" Sammy's rockin' the piano, and Dean and Frank are working harmony off each other - belting out the ending "PACK UP - LET'S FLY AWWWWWWWWWWAY!" Then they crack each other up, and have huge gulps of scotch from huge low-ball glasses.
"Friday baby, glad you could make it kiddo." Says Sammy, (in only the way Sammy can say things like that and have it come out sincere-and cool) stepping up from the piano to give Friday a hug.
Dino looks over and smiles a loopy grin.
"Ring-a-ding-ding." He purrs. "It's the cat who put the fat back in Friday. Let me get you some gas, man." And he moved over to the bar - and began pouring a huge lowball to the rim.
"Yeah." Frank said, walking over to drop a hug, "If you ain't the original jet-setter, I don't know what one is. Pull up a stool, we're dropping some tunes to pass the time."
"Don't mind if I do." Says Friday, pulling up next to the piano as Dean hands him the drink, full to the point of overflowing. He takes a sip, and looks up at three smiling legendary faces. "So what's next?" He asks.
"Well, you see baby, " Starts Sammy, "We kinda thought, see, you'd hit us with one-a-yours."
Friday looked up and with no false modesty said, "I think it would be better if..."
"No way baby!" Said Dino moving in closer, "We know you're dizzy with the songs...so lay one on us!"
"But really I..." Friday got cut off by Frank.
"This party is nowhere 'til we hear a song." Says Frank with authority.
Friday managed a little grimace. He starts thinking, and comes up with very little. He takes a slow long sip of excellent scotch, and realizes, he might just have something.
He clears his throat with a loud, "Ahem."
And then sings out in a soft - but perfectly toned voice.
"I was workin' part time at the five-and-dime,
My boss was Mr. McGee."
Dean sauntered to the piano, and picked up the melody in a couple of bars. Friday kept it up.
"He told me many times that he didn't like my kind
'Cause I was a bit too leisurely.
It seemed I was busy doin' something next to nothin'
But different from the day before.
And that's when I saw her - oooh that's when I saw her
She walked in thru the out door - out door."
And if in a movie - the Rat Pack and Friday hit the chorus with abandon.
"She wore a raspberry beret, the kind you find in a second hand store!
A raspberry beret - I think I love her..."
Fade out
(End Transmission)
Happy Friday
Thursday, March 02, 2006
I seem to be writing full-circle this month...
Why, it was only last week I was writing about a cat brain-parasite that changed its hoast animal's brain chemistry - and I was worried, because it was (through a long and tangled explanation) was getting into sharks...and I was pretty concerned about what the parasite intended to do with their zombie shark vehicles.
I don't think its been said enough here at Fjord (actually, I don't think its ever been said once...but anyways) Thank God For the U.S. Defence Department!
They've obviously known about our impending threat, and are taking counter-measures.
"They want to remotely control the sharks by implanting electrodes in their brains, The New Scientist says."
I say - bravo! What better way to fight a zombie shark - than with a robo-shark!
Well, I guess this just about wraps this one up in a neat little package.
If only this mummy business would wrap up so nicely.
Kinda doubt it tho.
I don't think its been said enough here at Fjord (actually, I don't think its ever been said once...but anyways) Thank God For the U.S. Defence Department!
They've obviously known about our impending threat, and are taking counter-measures.
"They want to remotely control the sharks by implanting electrodes in their brains, The New Scientist says."
I say - bravo! What better way to fight a zombie shark - than with a robo-shark!
Well, I guess this just about wraps this one up in a neat little package.
If only this mummy business would wrap up so nicely.
Kinda doubt it tho.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Happy Hunchbacking!
(Your friendly minor league media demon's mood today is: Nearly Happy/Almost Energetic)
I figured out why I was in such a nasty mood last night -
it was Fat Tuesday
and I didn't have any plans.
Which luckily, got resolved before Fat Tuesday was over.
So by default - today's Ash Wednesday. Which, according to traditions handed down from generations of blacksmiths, er...maybe chimneysweeps, (but anyways...) people are required to have a smudge of ash wiped on their forehead. Earlier, I sent an email to a pal, titled, "Smudge Weds." This brought forth the question - "What's Smudge Weds?" Whereupon I replied like this...
Subject: RE: smudge weds.
it's ash Wednesday...where you get a smudge on your forehead of
ash. I don't know why.
I wrote a song title for "expansive pad" (Apt. Rock's double
album) called
"I wrote your phone number on my hand, and later that night I
met someone way hotter than you
and my hands started sweating, and now all I have is a smudge."
It was shortened later to: "all I have is a smudge."
smudge is a great word.
(End Transmission)
So perhaps in a few years, with a bit of pop-culture invasive, society changing efforts from your pals at Fjord, we might just get this whole "ash" thing off the books...and henceforth it will be called "Smudging Day."
Smudge
I figured out why I was in such a nasty mood last night -
it was Fat Tuesday
and I didn't have any plans.
Which luckily, got resolved before Fat Tuesday was over.
So by default - today's Ash Wednesday. Which, according to traditions handed down from generations of blacksmiths, er...maybe chimneysweeps, (but anyways...) people are required to have a smudge of ash wiped on their forehead. Earlier, I sent an email to a pal, titled, "Smudge Weds." This brought forth the question - "What's Smudge Weds?" Whereupon I replied like this...
Subject: RE: smudge weds.
it's ash Wednesday...where you get a smudge on your forehead of
ash. I don't know why.
I wrote a song title for "expansive pad" (Apt. Rock's double
album) called
"I wrote your phone number on my hand, and later that night I
met someone way hotter than you
and my hands started sweating, and now all I have is a smudge."
It was shortened later to: "all I have is a smudge."
smudge is a great word.
(End Transmission)
So perhaps in a few years, with a bit of pop-culture invasive, society changing efforts from your pals at Fjord, we might just get this whole "ash" thing off the books...and henceforth it will be called "Smudging Day."
Smudge
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