Friday, April 28, 2006
Lions, Tigers, Bears...etc.
"I've seen a lot of things." Begins Friday. "I've seen storms that have wiped cities off the map. I've seen armies clash with such force it has scarred the world for a hundred years. I've seen ships sink, and planes crash, and cities burn to the ground."
He leans back on a huge couch, looking about at the gathered weekdays, who are in various states of repose in a lavish room, which appeared to be in some sort of palace. He reached over and grabbed a large stuffed teddy-bear, and ran his hand over the soft fur on it's head.
"I've seen liars lie, cheaters cheat, and men in flying machines spew death upon the lands below. I've seen women so beautiful they befuddle a room. I've seen acrobats, magicians, jugglers and sharp-shooters perform feats of astonishment. I've seen musicians powerful enough to enthrall a nation, and beggars so pitiful as to evoke emotions stronger than any art ever conceived."
Friday picks up the bear, and looks at it's beady button eyes, and he speaks more, looking right at the cute little face, staring back at him.
"I've seen a dog make a human friend at first sight. I've seen a child comfjorted by a stuffed animal. I've seen a hamster cuddle in a hand, and melt a room. I've seen tigers playing with a giant ball like a housecat. I've seen children at the zoo try and pet a lion through a glass partition."
Tuesday looks over, picking up a large goblet, and having a sip.
"Not to interrupt, or anything..." He says, looking at Friday, who is lost in repose, staring at the eyes of the bear. "But what, exactly are you getting at?"
Friday takes one last look at the bear, and sets it down on the floor.
"Every bear is a teddy bear, until it starts to eat you."
Happy Friday
He leans back on a huge couch, looking about at the gathered weekdays, who are in various states of repose in a lavish room, which appeared to be in some sort of palace. He reached over and grabbed a large stuffed teddy-bear, and ran his hand over the soft fur on it's head.
"I've seen liars lie, cheaters cheat, and men in flying machines spew death upon the lands below. I've seen women so beautiful they befuddle a room. I've seen acrobats, magicians, jugglers and sharp-shooters perform feats of astonishment. I've seen musicians powerful enough to enthrall a nation, and beggars so pitiful as to evoke emotions stronger than any art ever conceived."
Friday picks up the bear, and looks at it's beady button eyes, and he speaks more, looking right at the cute little face, staring back at him.
"I've seen a dog make a human friend at first sight. I've seen a child comfjorted by a stuffed animal. I've seen a hamster cuddle in a hand, and melt a room. I've seen tigers playing with a giant ball like a housecat. I've seen children at the zoo try and pet a lion through a glass partition."
Tuesday looks over, picking up a large goblet, and having a sip.
"Not to interrupt, or anything..." He says, looking at Friday, who is lost in repose, staring at the eyes of the bear. "But what, exactly are you getting at?"
Friday takes one last look at the bear, and sets it down on the floor.
"Every bear is a teddy bear, until it starts to eat you."
Happy Friday
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Linguistic Equations
Someone who played guitar at a level that will be impossible for me to ever reach, once told me,
"Words are slippery."
I never thought once, in the lengthening time between the moment when those words were spoken, and now, that he was wrong.
Words are horribly slippery, even when there's nothing of importance to relate. And it's a hell of a lot harder to communicate any words effectively (whether thu voice, paper, or email) when there's something really at stake. Sometimes that's the nicest thing about being a correspondent for Fjord, I can type out a post that reeks of stench, and you, my forgiving (and most attractive of all audiences...man you look good right now! I could just...OOooooh!) readers will chalk it up to a "bad day at the keyboard."
Anyways, outside of Fjord, I've been working on a script (fer...oh, about a year now) that's getting to the almost nearly polished phase. And for the last month or so, I've been devoting a ton more time to it, cause I can feel it getting close. (Which is why my head hasn't been quite so much stuck in the Fjord as of late.)
I don't mean to say that concocting something over here is easy (as those of you with blogs/webzines of your own, know) there's got to be a beginning, and middle, and end...and if you want to be entertaining, a nice twist in there somewhere. Now, apart from that, it's also supposed to make sense. Words have a value, that adds up logically...and unlike numbers (or maybe just like numbers) replacing one (or a string of them) with another, will change a lot of meaning. I guess what I'm trying to get at, is words are slippery.
And at the moment I have a humungus 115 page word equation that I've been working on for a year. It's going to take me another month before it'll be close to being right, (and it'll be good, don't kid yourself) but that doesn't mean that, once done, it'll change the world (like E=MC2), or make me a rich man (like, those guys who wrote the Matrix). Words are slippery. I might actually say something so profound it could change your life for years. And if you don't like what I say, I'm not even a thought you consider after you realize you have to do the dishes.
weird, huh?
"Words are slippery."
I never thought once, in the lengthening time between the moment when those words were spoken, and now, that he was wrong.
Words are horribly slippery, even when there's nothing of importance to relate. And it's a hell of a lot harder to communicate any words effectively (whether thu voice, paper, or email) when there's something really at stake. Sometimes that's the nicest thing about being a correspondent for Fjord, I can type out a post that reeks of stench, and you, my forgiving (and most attractive of all audiences...man you look good right now! I could just...OOooooh!) readers will chalk it up to a "bad day at the keyboard."
Anyways, outside of Fjord, I've been working on a script (fer...oh, about a year now) that's getting to the almost nearly polished phase. And for the last month or so, I've been devoting a ton more time to it, cause I can feel it getting close. (Which is why my head hasn't been quite so much stuck in the Fjord as of late.)
I don't mean to say that concocting something over here is easy (as those of you with blogs/webzines of your own, know) there's got to be a beginning, and middle, and end...and if you want to be entertaining, a nice twist in there somewhere. Now, apart from that, it's also supposed to make sense. Words have a value, that adds up logically...and unlike numbers (or maybe just like numbers) replacing one (or a string of them) with another, will change a lot of meaning. I guess what I'm trying to get at, is words are slippery.
And at the moment I have a humungus 115 page word equation that I've been working on for a year. It's going to take me another month before it'll be close to being right, (and it'll be good, don't kid yourself) but that doesn't mean that, once done, it'll change the world (like E=MC2), or make me a rich man (like, those guys who wrote the Matrix). Words are slippery. I might actually say something so profound it could change your life for years. And if you don't like what I say, I'm not even a thought you consider after you realize you have to do the dishes.
weird, huh?
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Deet...deet deet deet...deet...FJORDNEWS...deet...deet...
PEEKING (hah! Peking!) INTO THE DARK CORNERS OF THE INTERNETS FOR THE NEWS YOU NEED!
Fjord brings you this glorious headline.
Chinese women 'need bigger bras'
I don't know about you, but this makes me feel...well...really, really wonderful.
Actual Story.
It's not that I'm cold or callus (err, well, not in this instance anyhoo) since at the moment, my heart is literally crying out in sympathy for those poor (Chinese) members of the fairer sex who can't get the support they need without chafing, binding, and general uncomfjortableness that comes with a too small-a-bra. I can only hope that, until this issue of supply and demand is met, that they remove said chafing, binding and uncomfjordable garments without shame! (and may I add a hearty "posthaste!")
Of course, (knowing the crack nejws team here at Fjord - there's always more context below the headline) there was a small matter of a trade dispute back in Sept. of twenty-oh-five, that might make it difficult for the global markets to help.
US places curbs on Chinese bras
It seems that Chinese labor practices in the garment industry were destroying jobs in the good 'ole U-S-of-A, and in Europe. The very people it seems, who had the industry and the know-how, to make, and supply larger bras, in a time of Chinese large-bra shortages.
I'm not sure if the right word is "ironic," but it's certainly a conundrum of hilariously epic proportions. If you get my drift.
-Tsunami-
Fjord brings you this glorious headline.
Chinese women 'need bigger bras'
I don't know about you, but this makes me feel...well...really, really wonderful.
Actual Story.
It's not that I'm cold or callus (err, well, not in this instance anyhoo) since at the moment, my heart is literally crying out in sympathy for those poor (Chinese) members of the fairer sex who can't get the support they need without chafing, binding, and general uncomfjortableness that comes with a too small-a-bra. I can only hope that, until this issue of supply and demand is met, that they remove said chafing, binding and uncomfjordable garments without shame! (and may I add a hearty "posthaste!")
Of course, (knowing the crack nejws team here at Fjord - there's always more context below the headline) there was a small matter of a trade dispute back in Sept. of twenty-oh-five, that might make it difficult for the global markets to help.
US places curbs on Chinese bras
It seems that Chinese labor practices in the garment industry were destroying jobs in the good 'ole U-S-of-A, and in Europe. The very people it seems, who had the industry and the know-how, to make, and supply larger bras, in a time of Chinese large-bra shortages.
I'm not sure if the right word is "ironic," but it's certainly a conundrum of hilariously epic proportions. If you get my drift.
-Tsunami-
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
600
With some calculations, it's...err, X + B...divided by pie...subtract the number of years in the 100 years war, umm...carry the one...multiply by the weight of ants in my bathroom, (of course, subtracting the mass of fruit-flies hovering around my trash can/head) and Voila!
After the short span of 460 days, Fjord now boasts 600 frikken posts.
(Might I get a Hell Yeah? ... Thanks!)
*****
Anyways, the real reason I was back again tonite was just to give you all some info on where-else I can be found on the internets.
Myspace
Apartment Rock
And you can send me a note at ruggs03@yahoo.com
Methinks there'll be another big internet project happening in the next few months. I'll keep ya posted, right here.
-Tsunami-
After the short span of 460 days, Fjord now boasts 600 frikken posts.
(Might I get a Hell Yeah? ... Thanks!)
*****
Anyways, the real reason I was back again tonite was just to give you all some info on where-else I can be found on the internets.
Myspace
Apartment Rock
And you can send me a note at ruggs03@yahoo.com
Methinks there'll be another big internet project happening in the next few months. I'll keep ya posted, right here.
-Tsunami-
You already know...
how this will end.
In my case, I'm almost positive it'll end in a nap. Not too rock-star, I'll agree, but sometimes a guy's just tired.
Now, we all know there are various degrees of tired. Most depend on the amount of sleep from the day/night before, diet, fitness, mental and physical stress recently endured, and a host of other issues best taken up with a sleep therapist.
As for me, I can't remember a night in the last three weeks where I didn't wake up screaming, grabbing for my flame-thrower, feeling the dead, dry hands of a mummy around my neck. I'm concerned that they might be using my dreams against me, in order to get me off my game before they strike.
Of course, (more proof, if you need it) I'll bring your attention to this little nicety.
Mmmm...anyone else wondering if a mummy just "somehow" got in amongst your possessions?
Well, if you're like me: love of robots/hate mummies, before you go cleaning the attic, closet or cellar...might I recommend one of these?
Haven't been tested against mummies in combat, but I think they'd do an excellent job.
"TALON robots can be configured with M240 or M249 machine guns or Barrett 50-caliber rifles for armed reconnaissance missions...Alternative weapons, including 40 mm grenade launchers and anti-tank rocket launchers, continue to be evaluated by the U.S. Army."
Might be a bit hard on the attic or cellar, but come on...is a mummy really going to go easy on you?
In my case, I'm almost positive it'll end in a nap. Not too rock-star, I'll agree, but sometimes a guy's just tired.
Now, we all know there are various degrees of tired. Most depend on the amount of sleep from the day/night before, diet, fitness, mental and physical stress recently endured, and a host of other issues best taken up with a sleep therapist.
As for me, I can't remember a night in the last three weeks where I didn't wake up screaming, grabbing for my flame-thrower, feeling the dead, dry hands of a mummy around my neck. I'm concerned that they might be using my dreams against me, in order to get me off my game before they strike.
Of course, (more proof, if you need it) I'll bring your attention to this little nicety.
Mmmm...anyone else wondering if a mummy just "somehow" got in amongst your possessions?
Well, if you're like me: love of robots/hate mummies, before you go cleaning the attic, closet or cellar...might I recommend one of these?
Haven't been tested against mummies in combat, but I think they'd do an excellent job.
"TALON robots can be configured with M240 or M249 machine guns or Barrett 50-caliber rifles for armed reconnaissance missions...Alternative weapons, including 40 mm grenade launchers and anti-tank rocket launchers, continue to be evaluated by the U.S. Army."
Might be a bit hard on the attic or cellar, but come on...is a mummy really going to go easy on you?
Monday, April 24, 2006
So there was this thing...see...
actually, it was a string of 'em. Some people call it a 'power outage,' but I sure like the word "Blackout" a whole lot better. The big one was timed perfectly, in order to interrupt the second half of a playoff basketball game.
Anyways, I was pretty much un-aware of how much I liked electricity, until it went away. No teevee, no coffee-maker, no internet, no light, no electric guitar, no caller I.D. (tho the phone still worked) luckily I had a couple of extra flashlights.
Anyhoo - I left the Casa Aloha (as it was a small, and localized um, utility-outage) went to see Inside Man, which was a nice afternoon caper movie. I thought the story was kinda' dull, and the dialogue had flashes, but wasn't amazing. But the cast did quite a lot with what they had to work with, and it turned out to be kind of fun.
Upon coming back, I realized that all the fire-doors in the building are held open with electro-magnets. This means that if anything happens to the power supply, all the fire doors close automatically. Not a bad safety feature, I figgered. However, I did some speculating, and came up with the idea that if there are electro-magnets holding open the doors on all the floors, I might just be able to turn the whole building into a particle-accelerator.
And that...just might be my new summer project.
Anyways, I was pretty much un-aware of how much I liked electricity, until it went away. No teevee, no coffee-maker, no internet, no light, no electric guitar, no caller I.D. (tho the phone still worked) luckily I had a couple of extra flashlights.
Anyhoo - I left the Casa Aloha (as it was a small, and localized um, utility-outage) went to see Inside Man, which was a nice afternoon caper movie. I thought the story was kinda' dull, and the dialogue had flashes, but wasn't amazing. But the cast did quite a lot with what they had to work with, and it turned out to be kind of fun.
Upon coming back, I realized that all the fire-doors in the building are held open with electro-magnets. This means that if anything happens to the power supply, all the fire doors close automatically. Not a bad safety feature, I figgered. However, I did some speculating, and came up with the idea that if there are electro-magnets holding open the doors on all the floors, I might just be able to turn the whole building into a particle-accelerator.
And that...just might be my new summer project.
Friday, April 21, 2006
My new favorite single.
Most of you are already all over this, but if you haven't heard the Melismatics, go here, and listen to Waves of Sound.
I only wish radio sounded this good.
-Tsunami-
I only wish radio sounded this good.
-Tsunami-
Are we really there?
Static.
Over the snow on the screen, a line of text appears in red. It reads:
STEREO <- ON AIR
SAP <- ON AIR
HD <- ON AIR
White numbers appear in the corner. Someone must be using a remote.
97
63
38
33
12
8
5
CHANNEL FJORD
A massive three masted yacht races through deep blue waters. It's sails gleam blinding white, unfurled in the late South Pacific sun. The weekdays have gathered around Friday, who rests one arm on a huge wooden steering wheel, near the stern.
"I've heard," begins Friday, "Advances in medical technology are going to prolong the human life by a shocking degree."
The other weekdays nod in agreement - they read the webmonster too.
"But, why exactly? To what end?" He's interrupted by a crewman dressed in the most typecast of sailing-boat crewman uniform - a white cap, striped white and blue crew-neck long-sleeve shirt. and white pants. He holds a tray of fruity looking drinks. Huge chunks of pineapple and oranges are skewered by tiny umbrellas. He places them in eager hands.
"Friday," Monday speaks after a sip, and smacking his lips. "They're afraid. You can't blame 'em for wanting to avoid it."
"Right!" Exclaims Friday. "But, who's to say that by living longer, they'll have more fun?"
"Where there's life, there's hope." Says Wednesday hopefully.
"On a scale of super fun times," Friday pauses for a drink, and moves the wheel a few pegs to the right. (moving the boat to the left) "You can remember what, five? Eight? Ten?"
The weekdays adopt introspective looks as they try and recall the best of the best times. Around the bow of the yacht, a number of dolphins break the surface, and race the boat.
"You might be right." Says Monday.
"Yeah...maybe nine." Thursday adds.
"Well, consider this..." Friday continues, "You're immortal! If you cut a normal human's life down to its most exciting and fun, 98 percent would be gone! Do you think adding an extra ten-or twenty years is really going to give them an extra scene of really super good times?"
"Sad to say, but I'd have to say, nope." Said Thursday.
"Probably not." Monday growled.
Friday's face looked satisfied, as if he'd proven his point. He stared off at the horizon, over leaping dolphins and the slowly setting sun. The sound of gently pounding waves on the hull, was broken by Tuesday.
"I remember this one time. I'd been having a bad run of luck, and apart from you guys..." He holds his drink up in acknowledgement, "There was nothing but hell, along with one fucked up situation after another. I could see the few good people who did stick around, couldn't help, even if they wanted to."
"What are you getting at?" Says Wednesday, "I think we know what you're talking about." He points a thumb to his huge humped-back in a "you think you've got it bad?" gesture.
Tuesday looks at his gathered colleagues. "After an eternity of waiting, I bumped into someone who made all the difference. Someone who changed everything from something to endure, to something to live for. It wasn't just what I wanted, it was more than that. It was better than perfect."
Tuesday's words drifted away in the wind. The other weekdays went back into their minds, finding something similar in their own experiences. Each re-lived, for a moment, times that had long been forgotten. Sly and inside grins began to form on their faces, as they lost themselves in memory.
"That's all I'm saying." Tuesday began, "Sometimes you just have to hold out a bit longer, before something so good shows up, that it changes everything."
"Hell yeah!" Thursday exclaims.
"Yep, right on that one." Monday speaks, then takes a sip of his drink.
"So," Tuesday begins, addressing his words at Friday, "I think that's why they want to keep going, and adding years to their lives. There still might be someone or something that will change everything. A year, maybe two or ten. Extra time, is extra time for it to finally come together, and make everything right."
Friday looked over.
"You're right. I'm wrong. I never thought to see it from that angle." He turned the wheel in his hands, and yelled to the crew.
"Ship sails!"
Various striped-shirted crewmen ran around rolling cranks, and pulling lines. The yacht slowed, gliding into a coral bay of a beautiful tropical island. From the shore huge canoes were launched, shirtless men rhythmically dug paddles into the water, propelling them into the bay. The sun was now a huge orange ball on the right of the horizon. Behind the beach, bonfires were lit, illuminating bamboo huts, and women swaying like waves in grass skirts.
"It's true," Said Friday, "You need patience, to wait for the right moment to arrive."
Huge canoes bumped against the hull of the yacht. Islanders gestured for the weekdays to disembark into empty seats in the canoes.
"But you also have to know when the moment is upon you, and act on it."
He finished the rest of his drink in a huge swallow, then threw it into the ocean.
Friday watched it sink under the gentle waves, and spoke two words.
"We're here."
Happy Friday!
Over the snow on the screen, a line of text appears in red. It reads:
STEREO <- ON AIR
SAP <- ON AIR
HD <- ON AIR
White numbers appear in the corner. Someone must be using a remote.
97
63
38
33
12
8
5
CHANNEL FJORD
A massive three masted yacht races through deep blue waters. It's sails gleam blinding white, unfurled in the late South Pacific sun. The weekdays have gathered around Friday, who rests one arm on a huge wooden steering wheel, near the stern.
"I've heard," begins Friday, "Advances in medical technology are going to prolong the human life by a shocking degree."
The other weekdays nod in agreement - they read the webmonster too.
"But, why exactly? To what end?" He's interrupted by a crewman dressed in the most typecast of sailing-boat crewman uniform - a white cap, striped white and blue crew-neck long-sleeve shirt. and white pants. He holds a tray of fruity looking drinks. Huge chunks of pineapple and oranges are skewered by tiny umbrellas. He places them in eager hands.
"Friday," Monday speaks after a sip, and smacking his lips. "They're afraid. You can't blame 'em for wanting to avoid it."
"Right!" Exclaims Friday. "But, who's to say that by living longer, they'll have more fun?"
"Where there's life, there's hope." Says Wednesday hopefully.
"On a scale of super fun times," Friday pauses for a drink, and moves the wheel a few pegs to the right. (moving the boat to the left) "You can remember what, five? Eight? Ten?"
The weekdays adopt introspective looks as they try and recall the best of the best times. Around the bow of the yacht, a number of dolphins break the surface, and race the boat.
"You might be right." Says Monday.
"Yeah...maybe nine." Thursday adds.
"Well, consider this..." Friday continues, "You're immortal! If you cut a normal human's life down to its most exciting and fun, 98 percent would be gone! Do you think adding an extra ten-or twenty years is really going to give them an extra scene of really super good times?"
"Sad to say, but I'd have to say, nope." Said Thursday.
"Probably not." Monday growled.
Friday's face looked satisfied, as if he'd proven his point. He stared off at the horizon, over leaping dolphins and the slowly setting sun. The sound of gently pounding waves on the hull, was broken by Tuesday.
"I remember this one time. I'd been having a bad run of luck, and apart from you guys..." He holds his drink up in acknowledgement, "There was nothing but hell, along with one fucked up situation after another. I could see the few good people who did stick around, couldn't help, even if they wanted to."
"What are you getting at?" Says Wednesday, "I think we know what you're talking about." He points a thumb to his huge humped-back in a "you think you've got it bad?" gesture.
Tuesday looks at his gathered colleagues. "After an eternity of waiting, I bumped into someone who made all the difference. Someone who changed everything from something to endure, to something to live for. It wasn't just what I wanted, it was more than that. It was better than perfect."
Tuesday's words drifted away in the wind. The other weekdays went back into their minds, finding something similar in their own experiences. Each re-lived, for a moment, times that had long been forgotten. Sly and inside grins began to form on their faces, as they lost themselves in memory.
"That's all I'm saying." Tuesday began, "Sometimes you just have to hold out a bit longer, before something so good shows up, that it changes everything."
"Hell yeah!" Thursday exclaims.
"Yep, right on that one." Monday speaks, then takes a sip of his drink.
"So," Tuesday begins, addressing his words at Friday, "I think that's why they want to keep going, and adding years to their lives. There still might be someone or something that will change everything. A year, maybe two or ten. Extra time, is extra time for it to finally come together, and make everything right."
Friday looked over.
"You're right. I'm wrong. I never thought to see it from that angle." He turned the wheel in his hands, and yelled to the crew.
"Ship sails!"
Various striped-shirted crewmen ran around rolling cranks, and pulling lines. The yacht slowed, gliding into a coral bay of a beautiful tropical island. From the shore huge canoes were launched, shirtless men rhythmically dug paddles into the water, propelling them into the bay. The sun was now a huge orange ball on the right of the horizon. Behind the beach, bonfires were lit, illuminating bamboo huts, and women swaying like waves in grass skirts.
"It's true," Said Friday, "You need patience, to wait for the right moment to arrive."
Huge canoes bumped against the hull of the yacht. Islanders gestured for the weekdays to disembark into empty seats in the canoes.
"But you also have to know when the moment is upon you, and act on it."
He finished the rest of his drink in a huge swallow, then threw it into the ocean.
Friday watched it sink under the gentle waves, and spoke two words.
"We're here."
Happy Friday!
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Sorry, we can't be everywhere...
I hate to say we've failed you, but this was 26 years ago, and apart from the fact I was 10, I didn't have a passport.
A Chinese expedition last winter found a mummy on the edge of the Lop Nur salt basin, at a spot where a well-known scientist went mysteriously missing nearly 26 years ago.
Bastard mummy got hisself a scientist.
I sure hope those guys in the "Chinese Expedition" are careful...sounds like a bad, bad mummy.
A Chinese expedition last winter found a mummy on the edge of the Lop Nur salt basin, at a spot where a well-known scientist went mysteriously missing nearly 26 years ago.
Bastard mummy got hisself a scientist.
I sure hope those guys in the "Chinese Expedition" are careful...sounds like a bad, bad mummy.
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Fjord: Mummy watch twenty-oh-six...
We're watching them
so you don't have to.
I got some great pics from my friend who saw more...
Now, aren't you glad we're keeping an eye on these evil bastards?!
Fjord - keeping you safe from mummies since 2006.
-Tsunami-
Friday, April 14, 2006
Okay...whoever's reading...
We're closing in on 10,000 unique visitors to our backwater webzine, and your Friendly Minor League Media Demon has a request.
Take your tjime figgering this one out.
ONE)
What's your Fjavorite line written in the last year and 4 months?
TWO)
What's your fjavorite post in said time?
We'll make it a HUGE occasion - provided we get enough feedback to make it FEEL like a HUGE OCCASION. (drop it in the comments...we'll see.)
You've got some time to explore our outstanding archives, I'm thinking 3-4 weeks...but it might be sooner. Find out how much power you hjave - it might be more than you kjnow!
Take your tjime figgering this one out.
ONE)
What's your Fjavorite line written in the last year and 4 months?
TWO)
What's your fjavorite post in said time?
We'll make it a HUGE occasion - provided we get enough feedback to make it FEEL like a HUGE OCCASION. (drop it in the comments...we'll see.)
You've got some time to explore our outstanding archives, I'm thinking 3-4 weeks...but it might be sooner. Find out how much power you hjave - it might be more than you kjnow!
It's In The Game
"What exactly is it?" Asked Tuesday. He balanced on the broken remains of a Doric column, then jumped to the broken tiles of an ancient floor. It seemed like the ruins of a Greek building.
"I'm not sure...but it's distracting." Wednesday mumbled, looking through a small leather-bound diary. He flipped through a few pages. "I think," He continued, "it started last week."
"Yeah." Monday said, as looked around. He spied a large wooden cabinet, and moved towards it. "It's like I have purpose, I know what I have, and need to do...but..." He opened the doors, and found a large assortment of wine bottles. He shut the doors closed, and stood there like he'd forgotten why he went there in the first place.
"But you just can't keep your head in the game." Finished Thursday.
"That's it!" Shouted Tuesday and Wednesday together.
"Total lack of focus." Tuesday spoke.
"Befuddled concentration." Added Wednesday
"And you say this started last week?" Monday asked Wednesday.
"What?" Wednesday replied helpfully, but totally out of context.
"This, um...thing..." Monday spied a shiny thing on the tile. He went over to it. It was an old coin. He picked it up and put it in his pocket. This made him happy.
A small beeping came out of Tuesday's jacket. He reached in and produced a P.D.A. He looked at it for a moment.
"Awww, shit!" He said.
"What?" The other's asked.
"Today's Good Friday! What'd we get Friday?"
"Umm..."
"Err..."
"Well...what'd you get him?"
"I forgot." Finished Tuesday.
"I have a coupon for a free haircut." Spoke Wednesday, holding out the coupon.
"I don't think that will do." Said Thursday. "It's hard to believe we forgot."
Just then a chunk of rock, kicked from a foot, skidded across the tiles. Friday walked up talking on a cell. He was laughing and enjoying his talk. When he reached the middle of the ruins, he spoke to the phone the closing line.
"Well, I'm here. So I'll see you later tonight? Great...until then!" He put it away, and looked at his four colleagues. They had rather glum expressions on their faces.
"What?" He asked.
There was a long pause. Birds were singing in the background.
"I got you a free haircut!" Said Wednesday with hopeful enthusiasm, holding out the coupon.
"Friday," Began Thursday, "We forgot this was Good Friday."
"Yeah," Said Monday, "Things have been happening...confusing things."
"I have to agree." Tuesday finished. "We're sorry, but it's just unexplainable. Something's been happening since last week, and we don't know what."
"Ah!" Said Friday. "It's cool. I know. I'm happy you've even noticed."
"What?" Asked Monday.
"I've got a date with Persephone later tonight."
"The wife of the King of the Underworld?!" Exclaimed Wednesday.
"Well," Friday shrugged his shoulders, "It's not exactly a happy marriage. She was abducted and then tricked into the whole thing."
"Friday," Spoke Thursday, "I'm not one to give you advice, but, this seems a little...rash."
"Look..." Friday paused, and walked over to the wine cabinet. He opened it and took out a bottle. He pulled a corkscrew out of his pocket, and un-corked the bottle. Then took a long pull. He took the bottle away from his lips, and looked confused. He pointed to the bottle he held and asked.
"Why didn't you guys start on this?"
Monday looked over at the cabinet. "See, that's what we're talking about. Lately it's been hard to know what's going on."
Friday took another drink. "It's like this." He said, "Persephone's been in the underworld for the last six months, and she popped back up last week sometime. So her mom, yaknow, Demeter - the Goddess - unleashes her powers, and everything starts growing again...starts living again...starts getting confused...because she kinda' has powers over...umm...biological urges. It's the kind of thing that makes you loose focus."
"Wait..." Said Thursday, "You're about to have a date - and if I know you - which I do...you might have amorous relations with the WIFE OF HADES! Friday, that does not sound like a good plan. When that guy gets pissed, I mean, he gets PISSED!"
The others nod in agreement. Friday looks at them for a moment, then walks around handing each a bottle. When completes this task, he draws them in with the "come here" crooked-finger gesture. The weekdays gather round.
"This lady's important." He begins in a whisper. "So important that the earth stops making life when she's gone. But contractually Hades has to let her go for six months - elsewise everything would die, 'cause her mom control's the force of life - dig?"
The four weekdays gathered in a tight circle around Friday (each with a wine bottle) nod their heads in understanding.
"So," Friday whispers, drawing them closer, "after six months in the Land of the Dead - which is not a fun place, I don't have to tell you guys. Do you think the first thing she wants to do is..." His voice rises up, "HANG OUT WITH HER MOM!?"
Friday moves quick - like Moe in the Three Stooges, and in a sweeping smack around the circle strikes them all across the foreheads. There are four solid "whacks" that ring out. All react stupidly - hands up to their heads, with dumb expressions of pain. All except Tuesday, who reflexively smacks the wine bottle across his skull. It shatters, and he falls to the ground drenched in wine, and falling glass shards.
"Persephone wants a good time, and we're going to make sure she gets it! So get your head in the game, and let's go!"
Happy Friday.
"I'm not sure...but it's distracting." Wednesday mumbled, looking through a small leather-bound diary. He flipped through a few pages. "I think," He continued, "it started last week."
"Yeah." Monday said, as looked around. He spied a large wooden cabinet, and moved towards it. "It's like I have purpose, I know what I have, and need to do...but..." He opened the doors, and found a large assortment of wine bottles. He shut the doors closed, and stood there like he'd forgotten why he went there in the first place.
"But you just can't keep your head in the game." Finished Thursday.
"That's it!" Shouted Tuesday and Wednesday together.
"Total lack of focus." Tuesday spoke.
"Befuddled concentration." Added Wednesday
"And you say this started last week?" Monday asked Wednesday.
"What?" Wednesday replied helpfully, but totally out of context.
"This, um...thing..." Monday spied a shiny thing on the tile. He went over to it. It was an old coin. He picked it up and put it in his pocket. This made him happy.
A small beeping came out of Tuesday's jacket. He reached in and produced a P.D.A. He looked at it for a moment.
"Awww, shit!" He said.
"What?" The other's asked.
"Today's Good Friday! What'd we get Friday?"
"Umm..."
"Err..."
"Well...what'd you get him?"
"I forgot." Finished Tuesday.
"I have a coupon for a free haircut." Spoke Wednesday, holding out the coupon.
"I don't think that will do." Said Thursday. "It's hard to believe we forgot."
Just then a chunk of rock, kicked from a foot, skidded across the tiles. Friday walked up talking on a cell. He was laughing and enjoying his talk. When he reached the middle of the ruins, he spoke to the phone the closing line.
"Well, I'm here. So I'll see you later tonight? Great...until then!" He put it away, and looked at his four colleagues. They had rather glum expressions on their faces.
"What?" He asked.
There was a long pause. Birds were singing in the background.
"I got you a free haircut!" Said Wednesday with hopeful enthusiasm, holding out the coupon.
"Friday," Began Thursday, "We forgot this was Good Friday."
"Yeah," Said Monday, "Things have been happening...confusing things."
"I have to agree." Tuesday finished. "We're sorry, but it's just unexplainable. Something's been happening since last week, and we don't know what."
"Ah!" Said Friday. "It's cool. I know. I'm happy you've even noticed."
"What?" Asked Monday.
"I've got a date with Persephone later tonight."
"The wife of the King of the Underworld?!" Exclaimed Wednesday.
"Well," Friday shrugged his shoulders, "It's not exactly a happy marriage. She was abducted and then tricked into the whole thing."
"Friday," Spoke Thursday, "I'm not one to give you advice, but, this seems a little...rash."
"Look..." Friday paused, and walked over to the wine cabinet. He opened it and took out a bottle. He pulled a corkscrew out of his pocket, and un-corked the bottle. Then took a long pull. He took the bottle away from his lips, and looked confused. He pointed to the bottle he held and asked.
"Why didn't you guys start on this?"
Monday looked over at the cabinet. "See, that's what we're talking about. Lately it's been hard to know what's going on."
Friday took another drink. "It's like this." He said, "Persephone's been in the underworld for the last six months, and she popped back up last week sometime. So her mom, yaknow, Demeter - the Goddess - unleashes her powers, and everything starts growing again...starts living again...starts getting confused...because she kinda' has powers over...umm...biological urges. It's the kind of thing that makes you loose focus."
"Wait..." Said Thursday, "You're about to have a date - and if I know you - which I do...you might have amorous relations with the WIFE OF HADES! Friday, that does not sound like a good plan. When that guy gets pissed, I mean, he gets PISSED!"
The others nod in agreement. Friday looks at them for a moment, then walks around handing each a bottle. When completes this task, he draws them in with the "come here" crooked-finger gesture. The weekdays gather round.
"This lady's important." He begins in a whisper. "So important that the earth stops making life when she's gone. But contractually Hades has to let her go for six months - elsewise everything would die, 'cause her mom control's the force of life - dig?"
The four weekdays gathered in a tight circle around Friday (each with a wine bottle) nod their heads in understanding.
"So," Friday whispers, drawing them closer, "after six months in the Land of the Dead - which is not a fun place, I don't have to tell you guys. Do you think the first thing she wants to do is..." His voice rises up, "HANG OUT WITH HER MOM!?"
Friday moves quick - like Moe in the Three Stooges, and in a sweeping smack around the circle strikes them all across the foreheads. There are four solid "whacks" that ring out. All react stupidly - hands up to their heads, with dumb expressions of pain. All except Tuesday, who reflexively smacks the wine bottle across his skull. It shatters, and he falls to the ground drenched in wine, and falling glass shards.
"Persephone wants a good time, and we're going to make sure she gets it! So get your head in the game, and let's go!"
Happy Friday.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
I was working on an opus
about owning things, and communication, and mummies...but I got side-tracked when my barber came by and started (without my permission) attacking my scalp with his clippers. I was able to chase him out of the Casa with a broom-stick and a can of scrubbing bubbles, but the whole affair has thrown me off my game. I'm going to save my opus for another day, and simply wish you all happy monsterizing until tomorrow.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Wednesday - According to Blogger.
Tho, I've still got an hour in the P.S.T. Zone.
So I figured I'd re-post something from a past Wednesday...cause I'll be busy.
Enjoy.
In the process of ripping my mind
apart from it's old pathways, (partly for research, partly thru personal circumstance (btw an excellent porn name that, "Sir Cum-Stance," but I digress on my original thought)) this post will be a bit more jumbled with non-sequitors and lacking in transitions.
1) Is a computer more powerful than a mountain climbing crampon?
Well, I guess it all depends on the situation. A computer, thru the proper linkage to the Webmonster, is both a super-quick (so quick as to be nearly instantaneous) and effective communications tool, and with access to the global database, provides near (tho by no means infallible - much like human intelligence) omniscience. A mountain climbing crampon is pretty much just good for providing a good foothold on rock, glacier or ice-wall. So, in the normal context of your home, a crampon is useless. It is impotent. It is a very pointy (dangerous) paperweight at best. However, if you are suddenly struck by an urge to destroy your computer, a set of crampons might be just the thing. Triple-forged carbon-alloy foor spikes are more than a match for a plastic/glass Compaq 14" monitor. The idea of those spikes crushing down, piercing plastic, shattering glass...it's almost sexual. And for the tower? You think a 100-gig hard-drive could stand up to the weight of a normal humanid, compressed to the point of two foor-spikes? Um, nah.
All-in-all, crampon wins. Like I said earlier, however, circumstance.
If all you want to do is get off sexually, well, unless yer into some really kinky stuff, the compooter is probably a better bet. ("Wait," Susan Insatiable says, "No...tie me to the bedposts, and put on your robe and crampons! It's the only thing that works for me anymore...")
Considering all the ways you could physically destroy a computer, perhaps the best way would be to use an actual discarded kitchen sink. It would be metaphorically harmonious. Since the only thing a well-endowed computer is inhibited by, is it's own user's imagination, and rhetorically speaking, "the kitchen sink" is a catch-all phrase for "everything else," the physical object embodying that would be the perfect death-tool.
I'm no engineer, therefore I'm going to have to guess the ratio of sink/computer ratio...if say, a large Norse-like (hey-we are Fjord after all) giant was responsible for crushing every discarded computer with a sink. Sooner or later the sink (if made of porcelain-would crack and break, or if made of some kind of metal-would deform to a completely flat, or at least useless for the purpose of crushing computers, shape) would come up against it's last computer. In which case, the giant would take a break, have a sandwich and a smoke, and call for another sink. I'm suspecting, averaging both metal and porcelain sinks together, would be on a ratio of 1 sink to every 14 computer's destroyed.
Yes, all that's well and good, but if we're in the process of pitting object-Vs-object, would you rather have a sink, a crampon, or a computer? I mean, who's really going to do the study on the odds in Vegas, of who's going to win the ultimate battle, Crampon-Vs-Sink? Now THERE'S A FIGHT!
(The aluminum sink--pierced twelve or fourteen times, (some are true gashes across the length of it's bowl) a small hunk of pipe, hangs - about to fall, from around it's drain-section, moving in a counter-clockwise direction, looking for an opening. Across from it, a left-footed crampon. Black nylon attatchment-straps dragging sadly, three of it's spikes are at odd angles, and the frame is so bent now that it would never again fit another foor. It senses Sink about to jump, and strikes first!)
Well mighty Fjordlings...just speaking for myself, I'd prefer to destroy my computer with metal-alloy feer-spikes, I just think it would be a tad more visceral, than say a 2x4" - but that's just me.
(Tho a sink wouldn't be turned down at the right moment...just sayin')
And now a brief commercial interlude:
5 Seconds of Postal-Service-esque electro-pop...
The announcer speaks over the continuing music.
"This metaphorical adventure has been brought to you by Wednesday, the often overlooked and deformed hunchback of a weekday...underwritten in part by Blogger, Google's own on-line journal of dominion, and Miller Lite - "Tastes Great, Less Filling, Miller-Lite."
Cut to:
D.Tsunami, climbing up a practically sheer wall, it is black, but made up of 0's and 1's. Occasionally binary digital outcroppings jut out. He approaches one (er, it's not made of 1's, it's "one" as in outcropping, singular.)
He jabs in his ice-axe, and moves up a crampon. A mist of scattered 1's and 0's fall past and bounce off the lens of the camera below him. He pulls himself up to the ledge, and drops his ass onto it, crampons dangling over the side. The camera rises to his level.
Tsunami - You're probably wondering what all this has to do with Fjord.
(The camera shakes as if it's agreeing with the question)
Tsunami - Well, I'm as much in the dark about it as you are.
(The cameraman breaks the third wall...or silence...or whatever)
Cameraman - Dude, you can't say that, that's stupid. It doesn't advance the narrative at all.
Tsunami - If I don't fall off this precipice, then we'll know.
Cameraman - That's better, but it doesn't help much.
Tsunami - I digit, (that's pronounced "dig-it" spoken quickly, not "digit" like-binary) There's a lot of wall left to climb, and things have a way of happening when you're climbing.
The camera pans upwards, at the sheer digital wall. Then an object falls from above, it grows larger, and at the exact moment it's strikjing the cameraman we make out, it's a white porcelain sink. The camera goes to snow, then fuzz then clear as we watch it fall past the digital wall. For some reason it picks up the sound of Tsunami musing. (must be a really long lavalear cord)
Tsunami - Huh, porcelain. I woulda' thought aluminum.
Then the transmission ends.
Hoooo Boy! How's this show gonna end? Well, tune in next time for the thrilling conclusion of "Fjord!" What will happen to D.Tsunami? What's at the top of the mysterious digital wall, and why is he climbing it!!? Who would really win in a mano-y-mano object battle to the death, Crampon? Sink? Or does Computer have an Ace of Snakes up it's sleeve? And do the writers even have an inkling of an idea of where this is going?
I dunno...I just found out Fjord is worth (calculated, I have no idea how...)
Your blog, fjordsurfing.blogspot.com, is worth $564.54
Doesn't that seem a bit low to you? Anyways, if the writers appear to not have an inkling, (good word, no?) you can understand that they're way undervalued, and probably underappreciated.
Anyways, In the comments of the original post (here) is one by maxmillian, that's super ultra funny.
Happy Hunchbacking.
-Tsunami-
So I figured I'd re-post something from a past Wednesday...cause I'll be busy.
Enjoy.
In the process of ripping my mind
apart from it's old pathways, (partly for research, partly thru personal circumstance (btw an excellent porn name that, "Sir Cum-Stance," but I digress on my original thought)) this post will be a bit more jumbled with non-sequitors and lacking in transitions.
1) Is a computer more powerful than a mountain climbing crampon?
Well, I guess it all depends on the situation. A computer, thru the proper linkage to the Webmonster, is both a super-quick (so quick as to be nearly instantaneous) and effective communications tool, and with access to the global database, provides near (tho by no means infallible - much like human intelligence) omniscience. A mountain climbing crampon is pretty much just good for providing a good foothold on rock, glacier or ice-wall. So, in the normal context of your home, a crampon is useless. It is impotent. It is a very pointy (dangerous) paperweight at best. However, if you are suddenly struck by an urge to destroy your computer, a set of crampons might be just the thing. Triple-forged carbon-alloy foor spikes are more than a match for a plastic/glass Compaq 14" monitor. The idea of those spikes crushing down, piercing plastic, shattering glass...it's almost sexual. And for the tower? You think a 100-gig hard-drive could stand up to the weight of a normal humanid, compressed to the point of two foor-spikes? Um, nah.
All-in-all, crampon wins. Like I said earlier, however, circumstance.
If all you want to do is get off sexually, well, unless yer into some really kinky stuff, the compooter is probably a better bet. ("Wait," Susan Insatiable says, "No...tie me to the bedposts, and put on your robe and crampons! It's the only thing that works for me anymore...")
Considering all the ways you could physically destroy a computer, perhaps the best way would be to use an actual discarded kitchen sink. It would be metaphorically harmonious. Since the only thing a well-endowed computer is inhibited by, is it's own user's imagination, and rhetorically speaking, "the kitchen sink" is a catch-all phrase for "everything else," the physical object embodying that would be the perfect death-tool.
I'm no engineer, therefore I'm going to have to guess the ratio of sink/computer ratio...if say, a large Norse-like (hey-we are Fjord after all) giant was responsible for crushing every discarded computer with a sink. Sooner or later the sink (if made of porcelain-would crack and break, or if made of some kind of metal-would deform to a completely flat, or at least useless for the purpose of crushing computers, shape) would come up against it's last computer. In which case, the giant would take a break, have a sandwich and a smoke, and call for another sink. I'm suspecting, averaging both metal and porcelain sinks together, would be on a ratio of 1 sink to every 14 computer's destroyed.
Yes, all that's well and good, but if we're in the process of pitting object-Vs-object, would you rather have a sink, a crampon, or a computer? I mean, who's really going to do the study on the odds in Vegas, of who's going to win the ultimate battle, Crampon-Vs-Sink? Now THERE'S A FIGHT!
(The aluminum sink--pierced twelve or fourteen times, (some are true gashes across the length of it's bowl) a small hunk of pipe, hangs - about to fall, from around it's drain-section, moving in a counter-clockwise direction, looking for an opening. Across from it, a left-footed crampon. Black nylon attatchment-straps dragging sadly, three of it's spikes are at odd angles, and the frame is so bent now that it would never again fit another foor. It senses Sink about to jump, and strikes first!)
Well mighty Fjordlings...just speaking for myself, I'd prefer to destroy my computer with metal-alloy feer-spikes, I just think it would be a tad more visceral, than say a 2x4" - but that's just me.
(Tho a sink wouldn't be turned down at the right moment...just sayin')
And now a brief commercial interlude:
5 Seconds of Postal-Service-esque electro-pop...
The announcer speaks over the continuing music.
"This metaphorical adventure has been brought to you by Wednesday, the often overlooked and deformed hunchback of a weekday...underwritten in part by Blogger, Google's own on-line journal of dominion, and Miller Lite - "Tastes Great, Less Filling, Miller-Lite."
Cut to:
D.Tsunami, climbing up a practically sheer wall, it is black, but made up of 0's and 1's. Occasionally binary digital outcroppings jut out. He approaches one (er, it's not made of 1's, it's "one" as in outcropping, singular.)
He jabs in his ice-axe, and moves up a crampon. A mist of scattered 1's and 0's fall past and bounce off the lens of the camera below him. He pulls himself up to the ledge, and drops his ass onto it, crampons dangling over the side. The camera rises to his level.
Tsunami - You're probably wondering what all this has to do with Fjord.
(The camera shakes as if it's agreeing with the question)
Tsunami - Well, I'm as much in the dark about it as you are.
(The cameraman breaks the third wall...or silence...or whatever)
Cameraman - Dude, you can't say that, that's stupid. It doesn't advance the narrative at all.
Tsunami - If I don't fall off this precipice, then we'll know.
Cameraman - That's better, but it doesn't help much.
Tsunami - I digit, (that's pronounced "dig-it" spoken quickly, not "digit" like-binary) There's a lot of wall left to climb, and things have a way of happening when you're climbing.
The camera pans upwards, at the sheer digital wall. Then an object falls from above, it grows larger, and at the exact moment it's strikjing the cameraman we make out, it's a white porcelain sink. The camera goes to snow, then fuzz then clear as we watch it fall past the digital wall. For some reason it picks up the sound of Tsunami musing. (must be a really long lavalear cord)
Tsunami - Huh, porcelain. I woulda' thought aluminum.
Then the transmission ends.
Hoooo Boy! How's this show gonna end? Well, tune in next time for the thrilling conclusion of "Fjord!" What will happen to D.Tsunami? What's at the top of the mysterious digital wall, and why is he climbing it!!? Who would really win in a mano-y-mano object battle to the death, Crampon? Sink? Or does Computer have an Ace of Snakes up it's sleeve? And do the writers even have an inkling of an idea of where this is going?
I dunno...I just found out Fjord is worth (calculated, I have no idea how...)
Your blog, fjordsurfing.blogspot.com, is worth $564.54
Doesn't that seem a bit low to you? Anyways, if the writers appear to not have an inkling, (good word, no?) you can understand that they're way undervalued, and probably underappreciated.
Anyways, In the comments of the original post (here) is one by maxmillian, that's super ultra funny.
Happy Hunchbacking.
-Tsunami-
Shaken, not stirred.
The guy in the back shouts. "Yeah man, stirring sucks!"
So I think it's a Spring thing...in fact, I'm positive it's a Spring 2006 thing. Like being a little bubble in an orange soda 2-liter being shaken, alot. I'm not just smelling change, I'm watching the world get ripped apart around me, and I'm standing like a confused bystander on a reasonably firm piece of ground. A simple step off, and I'd be swimming the doggie paddle in a chaos vortex too - which may, or may not be a bad thing.
Like, you're on the train, there's a crazy nutjob on it, who's rambling on and on about some minor detail of life that you'd be more than happy to overlook (maybe oooh, lets say, cat shit) - except he keeps shouting about it. So at the next stop, you duck out of the car, and jump on the next one. Will it be the orgy-car, leaving you wondering (before the first grope of soft, hot flesh) "what took me so long to leave the car with the crazy nutjob?" Or will it be a car full of axe wielding maniacs that leaves you wondering (before a metal wedge to the forehead stops your wondering once in for all) "Why did I leave the last car? All it had was an annoying crazy nutjob talking about cat shit!"
There are two schools of thought on this quandary.
1) When in doubt - do nothing.
2) When in doubt - do something.
Life's probably too complex to sum up in either of these schools of thought, but I'd sure pay someone to make that orgy-car thing work out for me.
-Tsunami-
So I think it's a Spring thing...in fact, I'm positive it's a Spring 2006 thing. Like being a little bubble in an orange soda 2-liter being shaken, alot. I'm not just smelling change, I'm watching the world get ripped apart around me, and I'm standing like a confused bystander on a reasonably firm piece of ground. A simple step off, and I'd be swimming the doggie paddle in a chaos vortex too - which may, or may not be a bad thing.
Like, you're on the train, there's a crazy nutjob on it, who's rambling on and on about some minor detail of life that you'd be more than happy to overlook (maybe oooh, lets say, cat shit) - except he keeps shouting about it. So at the next stop, you duck out of the car, and jump on the next one. Will it be the orgy-car, leaving you wondering (before the first grope of soft, hot flesh) "what took me so long to leave the car with the crazy nutjob?" Or will it be a car full of axe wielding maniacs that leaves you wondering (before a metal wedge to the forehead stops your wondering once in for all) "Why did I leave the last car? All it had was an annoying crazy nutjob talking about cat shit!"
There are two schools of thought on this quandary.
1) When in doubt - do nothing.
2) When in doubt - do something.
Life's probably too complex to sum up in either of these schools of thought, but I'd sure pay someone to make that orgy-car thing work out for me.
-Tsunami-
Monday, April 10, 2006
Webmonster Problems
Are making it tough tonight.
Also taxing day is nigh, and I'm working the numbers to get it all together by then.
Hope things are better on your end.
Also taxing day is nigh, and I'm working the numbers to get it all together by then.
Hope things are better on your end.
Saturday, April 08, 2006
Friday, April 07, 2006
The Cyclone Kid
was heading for Dry Gultch. It wasn't a secret, and the Cyclone Kid made sure he had his agents out in front of him broadcasting the news.
-The one-armed Prospector leans against the telegraph pole speaking with a farmer. Above him is a yellowing poster with the picture of a whirlwind. It reads "Wanted: The Cyclone Kid $10,000"
"The Kid came into Butte last year, damn near tore the place down!" The Prospector says, kicking at a grasshopper on the wooden sidewalk. "Killed thirty-five men, and when he was gone, 'twernt no general store, no hotel, no saloon, no houses, and no stables!" The Farmer runs off to tell his friends and loved ones. -
$10,000 dollars is a lot of money, even split five ways. But the Cyclone Kid knows, it's all about pace.
It's about pace.
Spread the word before you, and wait.
Before long, all the hotheads that would have tied him up with small, viscous and (for them) short skirmishes hear the stories, and begin to bury their heads. Afterwards, only the most ruthless of shootists would remain.
(A less ruthless shootist...
"I just got wind of a juicy gold caravan crossing the Rio Grande! 15 mules in all, and only four guards. 'Sides, I heard the Kid ain't that fast...and...and my Ma' out in Santa Fe just got the typhus. I'll need to be heading that way before long.")
That's when he'd make his move. When everyone who'd expected him, would be dulled after days or weeks or months of waiting.
The sun was heading towards afternoon, and it was hot. Stormclouds gathered on the horizon, and a hot wind whistled through Dry Gultch. Shutters banged against houses, shop keepers (who could afford them) took down their awnings. Tethered horses cried out in terrified screams to be taken somewhere safer. Down the main street, a woman wearing a bonnet grabbed her child off the street and ran indoors.
A Coachman stood on the wooden sidewalk, talking with a Saloon Keeper.
"Crossed his path about three miles back. He was meandering about, smashing up the trailer park out by the krick. Otherwise, he would have had my stage and horses."
"So he's at the "Windy Pines?" The Saloon Keeper asks.
"T'ain't no pines out there, friend. 'Less you call sawdust a tree."
In fact, this was accurate. A mile away, the Cyclone Kid had finished with the trailer park, and was moving across the open fields towards Dry Gultch proper. He spotted a farmhouse, and whirled closer. In whirlwind form, he was quite powerful. As he drew closer, the shingles on the roof began to rip off, and fly into the air. Closer, the windows disappeared in showers of ragged shards. Closer, and the boards pulled themselves off of the frame, and whipped away. Finally, the frame itself shook loose, and flew up into the sky, falling to the earth like shattering piledrivers. One landed in the main street sending huge splinters everywhere.
The Saloon Keeper looked at the Coachman, a three foot spear of house-frame vibrating in the Saloon wall between them.
"Not sure what good it'd do," said the Coachman in a cool voice, "but maybe we should get inside."
The Saloon Keeper nodded, and they went back in through the swinging doors.
Inside, the Saloon Keeper tried to keep his voice calm.
"If anyone wants to do anything about it, the Cyclone Kid's on the way, and it looks like he's gonna' shake Dry Gultch down to the foundations."
The Town Drunk chirps up.
"What's in it for us!?"
"Well," The Saloon Keeper begins, "Free drinks for tonight?"
"Not Enough!" The Drunk shouts back.
From the shadows, a chair scrapes itself back from a table. The sound of spurs, and footfalls as a tall man appears - his face covered in shadow.
"I'll deal with him for free drinks."
"We'd be mightly obliged, stranger." Says the Saloon Keeper.
The other doesn't reply as he walks out towards the street with hearty clangs of his spurs. When he reaches the street, the Saloon Keeper, the Coachman, and all the rest of the patrons in the place rush to find somewhere to watch.
The stranger wears a black hat, and keeps it low - it's brim covering his face. Below a black shirt, criss-crossed with two bandoleers of gleaming bullets. A black leather belt holds a black leather holster, holding a silver Colt .45. Below that are weathered pants tucked into weathered European riding boots. The stranger stands like a statue, as the sound of the Kid's arrival grows to a gale-forced howl.
From the stranger's view, the Cyclone Kid's arrival is impressive. A small, squat twister traveling over the plain, until it reaches the city. The winds rip apart the blacksmith's, the laundry place, and the telegraph office, leaving only piles of heavy rubble. The lighter stuff - clothes, paper, chairs - sails off, joining the dirty and dangerous air. Then the Kid stops spinning. He stands in perfect balance, with his hands out as if he's just performed a triple axle, and came to a complete stop.
The first thing you notice is the moustache. It was huge, black, and hung down far past his jaw. Then the eyes. It looks as if they're spinning - and not in a good way. The rest of him is beaten and dirty, until you see the guns. Two gleaming revolvers in holsters, under a cartrage belt. He lowers his hands down over them.
"Never seen you before, stranger." He says. It seems that winds whip around his words as they carry across the empty street. Four heavy shingles fall from the sky, land around the stranger's feet.
"You should have." The stranger replies, in a vaguely familiar voice. "I've seen you lots of times."
The Kid eyes his opponent. Not too much to be worried about here, just another cool customer, out of his league.
"Well, you should have just kept on watching. Crossing my path is a sure way to get you scattered to the four winds."
"Well," The hat raises, revealing the face of Friday, who eyes the Cyclone Kid. A thrill of fear shoots through the Kid as he hears Friday's last words. "I aim to prove you wrong. Warm you iron!"
The Cyclone Kid draws his guns as fast as a wind-enhanced magical being can (which, as we all know, is pretty damn fast) and fires.
It's about pace.
Two bullets race from his two weapons. His ears detect no reply. The Cyclone Kid's eyes catch up to the scene, and where he shot to hit, (which he did) is nothing but empty air. He shoots a glance to his left. Then hears a sound made by a mouth, the kind of sound a cowboy would make to get his horse moving. Just a simple "click." He looks to the right, and sees Friday lying prone on the ground.
Friday pulls the trigger, and a bullet speeds from the chamber of his silver Colt into the Cyclone Kid's forehead. He falls to the dry street with a thud, his gleaming guns thrown backwards in slow-motion spirals.
The Saloon erupts in cheers, and patrons spill onto the street, followed by the rest of Dry Gultch who were cowering about. They pick Friday up and carry him on their shoulders. Everyone is all smiles and exuberance. Friday notices the Saloon Keeper in the crowd and yells down.
"I believe there was something about free drinks?!"
Happy Friday
-The one-armed Prospector leans against the telegraph pole speaking with a farmer. Above him is a yellowing poster with the picture of a whirlwind. It reads "Wanted: The Cyclone Kid $10,000"
"The Kid came into Butte last year, damn near tore the place down!" The Prospector says, kicking at a grasshopper on the wooden sidewalk. "Killed thirty-five men, and when he was gone, 'twernt no general store, no hotel, no saloon, no houses, and no stables!" The Farmer runs off to tell his friends and loved ones. -
$10,000 dollars is a lot of money, even split five ways. But the Cyclone Kid knows, it's all about pace.
It's about pace.
Spread the word before you, and wait.
Before long, all the hotheads that would have tied him up with small, viscous and (for them) short skirmishes hear the stories, and begin to bury their heads. Afterwards, only the most ruthless of shootists would remain.
(A less ruthless shootist...
"I just got wind of a juicy gold caravan crossing the Rio Grande! 15 mules in all, and only four guards. 'Sides, I heard the Kid ain't that fast...and...and my Ma' out in Santa Fe just got the typhus. I'll need to be heading that way before long.")
That's when he'd make his move. When everyone who'd expected him, would be dulled after days or weeks or months of waiting.
The sun was heading towards afternoon, and it was hot. Stormclouds gathered on the horizon, and a hot wind whistled through Dry Gultch. Shutters banged against houses, shop keepers (who could afford them) took down their awnings. Tethered horses cried out in terrified screams to be taken somewhere safer. Down the main street, a woman wearing a bonnet grabbed her child off the street and ran indoors.
A Coachman stood on the wooden sidewalk, talking with a Saloon Keeper.
"Crossed his path about three miles back. He was meandering about, smashing up the trailer park out by the krick. Otherwise, he would have had my stage and horses."
"So he's at the "Windy Pines?" The Saloon Keeper asks.
"T'ain't no pines out there, friend. 'Less you call sawdust a tree."
In fact, this was accurate. A mile away, the Cyclone Kid had finished with the trailer park, and was moving across the open fields towards Dry Gultch proper. He spotted a farmhouse, and whirled closer. In whirlwind form, he was quite powerful. As he drew closer, the shingles on the roof began to rip off, and fly into the air. Closer, the windows disappeared in showers of ragged shards. Closer, and the boards pulled themselves off of the frame, and whipped away. Finally, the frame itself shook loose, and flew up into the sky, falling to the earth like shattering piledrivers. One landed in the main street sending huge splinters everywhere.
The Saloon Keeper looked at the Coachman, a three foot spear of house-frame vibrating in the Saloon wall between them.
"Not sure what good it'd do," said the Coachman in a cool voice, "but maybe we should get inside."
The Saloon Keeper nodded, and they went back in through the swinging doors.
Inside, the Saloon Keeper tried to keep his voice calm.
"If anyone wants to do anything about it, the Cyclone Kid's on the way, and it looks like he's gonna' shake Dry Gultch down to the foundations."
The Town Drunk chirps up.
"What's in it for us!?"
"Well," The Saloon Keeper begins, "Free drinks for tonight?"
"Not Enough!" The Drunk shouts back.
From the shadows, a chair scrapes itself back from a table. The sound of spurs, and footfalls as a tall man appears - his face covered in shadow.
"I'll deal with him for free drinks."
"We'd be mightly obliged, stranger." Says the Saloon Keeper.
The other doesn't reply as he walks out towards the street with hearty clangs of his spurs. When he reaches the street, the Saloon Keeper, the Coachman, and all the rest of the patrons in the place rush to find somewhere to watch.
The stranger wears a black hat, and keeps it low - it's brim covering his face. Below a black shirt, criss-crossed with two bandoleers of gleaming bullets. A black leather belt holds a black leather holster, holding a silver Colt .45. Below that are weathered pants tucked into weathered European riding boots. The stranger stands like a statue, as the sound of the Kid's arrival grows to a gale-forced howl.
From the stranger's view, the Cyclone Kid's arrival is impressive. A small, squat twister traveling over the plain, until it reaches the city. The winds rip apart the blacksmith's, the laundry place, and the telegraph office, leaving only piles of heavy rubble. The lighter stuff - clothes, paper, chairs - sails off, joining the dirty and dangerous air. Then the Kid stops spinning. He stands in perfect balance, with his hands out as if he's just performed a triple axle, and came to a complete stop.
The first thing you notice is the moustache. It was huge, black, and hung down far past his jaw. Then the eyes. It looks as if they're spinning - and not in a good way. The rest of him is beaten and dirty, until you see the guns. Two gleaming revolvers in holsters, under a cartrage belt. He lowers his hands down over them.
"Never seen you before, stranger." He says. It seems that winds whip around his words as they carry across the empty street. Four heavy shingles fall from the sky, land around the stranger's feet.
"You should have." The stranger replies, in a vaguely familiar voice. "I've seen you lots of times."
The Kid eyes his opponent. Not too much to be worried about here, just another cool customer, out of his league.
"Well, you should have just kept on watching. Crossing my path is a sure way to get you scattered to the four winds."
"Well," The hat raises, revealing the face of Friday, who eyes the Cyclone Kid. A thrill of fear shoots through the Kid as he hears Friday's last words. "I aim to prove you wrong. Warm you iron!"
The Cyclone Kid draws his guns as fast as a wind-enhanced magical being can (which, as we all know, is pretty damn fast) and fires.
It's about pace.
Two bullets race from his two weapons. His ears detect no reply. The Cyclone Kid's eyes catch up to the scene, and where he shot to hit, (which he did) is nothing but empty air. He shoots a glance to his left. Then hears a sound made by a mouth, the kind of sound a cowboy would make to get his horse moving. Just a simple "click." He looks to the right, and sees Friday lying prone on the ground.
Friday pulls the trigger, and a bullet speeds from the chamber of his silver Colt into the Cyclone Kid's forehead. He falls to the dry street with a thud, his gleaming guns thrown backwards in slow-motion spirals.
The Saloon erupts in cheers, and patrons spill onto the street, followed by the rest of Dry Gultch who were cowering about. They pick Friday up and carry him on their shoulders. Everyone is all smiles and exuberance. Friday notices the Saloon Keeper in the crowd and yells down.
"I believe there was something about free drinks?!"
Happy Friday
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Perhaps You've Noticed
That we're going through a slow period over here at the W.C.B.
Let me just assure you, it's just taking us longer than normal to get up-to-speed with this whole "spring-time" thing. And we hope it's taken you a lot longer than it has us.
Let me just assure you, it's just taking us longer than normal to get up-to-speed with this whole "spring-time" thing. And we hope it's taken you a lot longer than it has us.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Sunday, April 02, 2006
This is cooler
I didn't know how good this was until I watched this.
And it's a puzzle.
Figger it out and make yourself happy.
And it's a puzzle.
Figger it out and make yourself happy.
um this is cool...
Fjord Borg has a vested intrest in this band....
And for some reason I do too.
However, when I saw what they were up to, I stopped being a fan, and just felt proud that they were up to something as cool as this.
I'd also like to let Mike and Dan know I appreciate the link.
Now I'm off to listen to these guys.
And for some reason I do too.
However, when I saw what they were up to, I stopped being a fan, and just felt proud that they were up to something as cool as this.
I'd also like to let Mike and Dan know I appreciate the link.
Now I'm off to listen to these guys.
Just cause
I thought this was deserving of a better response...
GO HERE!
My most handsome, beautiful, lovely and adorable readership. You know how glamourous you are don't you?
OF COURSE YOU DO!
(This was really what I was talking about)
(you of course know that the word glamor is Scottish, and means to bespell or enchant. I think by now you all know I'm totally into spells and enchantment...which is why I find your eyeballs sooooo appealing. I'm practically ensorcled by the fact that you keep coming back. (And if you're really bored on a late Sunday night (it's daylight savings time after all...) then you could jump over here -and learn more about glamor.)
GO HERE!
My most handsome, beautiful, lovely and adorable readership. You know how glamourous you are don't you?
OF COURSE YOU DO!
(This was really what I was talking about)
(you of course know that the word glamor is Scottish, and means to bespell or enchant. I think by now you all know I'm totally into spells and enchantment...which is why I find your eyeballs sooooo appealing. I'm practically ensorcled by the fact that you keep coming back. (And if you're really bored on a late Sunday night (it's daylight savings time after all...) then you could jump over here -and learn more about glamor.)
I was gonna
Give you a link to something I found on a site, then I realized, it'd be easier to tell you to get over to reverse cowgirl.
Good stuff.
Good stuff.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
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