The King of All Weekends

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

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

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

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

Happy Friday

Have you guys heard this one?

The Power Ranger Murders!?!

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

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

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

So how's Your Fjordian Dream comin' along?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-Tsunami-

Today, I have very little

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

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

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

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

Hope that's enough to get you through.

Continuing Your Robo-Tuesday...

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

C'mon! Just Go There!

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

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

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

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

This makes them mechanically flexible and relatively inexpensive to fabricate.

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

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

Good Evening

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

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

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

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

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

333

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

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

Cool Old Shit!

Speed Eater

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

The physics of love?

check out this DOOR!

Sun worshipers, rejoice!

Newman?

Okay gang, nothing more to see here.

Howdy...

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

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

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

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

The Mob Had Torches...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Friday.

I had a loopy post...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hooray!

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

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

9,985!

Pretty Close!

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

Damn...

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

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

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

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

FJORD'S TURNING 10,000!

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

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

FJORD! KJEEPING YOU UP-TO-DATE

By explaining the past.

If you like history, you should probably read this.

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

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

I HAVE SEEN THE FUTURE

AND IT IS INDESCRIBABLE -

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

ROBOCHRIST INDUSTRIES

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

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

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

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

Friday's Been Too Busy With Other Things To Notice

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

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

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

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

Happy Friday!

I've been doing this a long time

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

ENJOY!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Happy Weekend

A Quick Link...

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

The Real Bomb!

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

I'll Be Your Stud-Muffin, Baby!

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

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

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

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

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

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

DeathBlog 2005!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can't quite go there today.

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

I like to

Tell you about something.


Look, as much as I find myself Linguistically, stylisically, sonically, and culturally...

A FORCE TO BE DEALT WITH!

I try my best not to harp shit. I mean, I don't. You've read (and clicked over) to things that I hope make you more aware of the kind of things that are happening -that make up the world. Some of it's fun,
and some of it's loopy in the "I can't believe you fucked my Granddad!" kind of way.

Honest, If I linked to everything I really wanted to, you woudn't get anything done. And, I have that much time on my hands.

But, since you're still reading, I'm dropping this on you. Lali Puna IS the coolest band you've never heard of. And, you'd feel like you were the cool kid in the class if you knew about them before anyone else.

And you should hear them.

Did you guys catch this?

Considering that's like-umm, ice-age, I sorta wonder what the thought process was during it's creation. Like, the tribe's just back from killing a mastadon, and there's about three weeks worth of meat lying around, and Thog sees Tark whacking away at a rock with another rock.
"Whatcha doin?" Thog asks.
"Carving a rock to look like my cock!" Tark replies.
"Why?"
"To hit Jane over the head with!"
"Oh."

sorry, I thought it was so good it was worth repeating.

Seasons Greetings!

Thursday looks across the dark bar table full of empty bottles and glasses at Wednesday. The hunchback squatted in the booth, a misshapen silhouette.
"Yaknow," Thursday started talking, just for something to do. "When I was younger, rock-stars seemed like, bigger, yaknow."
"Whaddaya mean?" Wednesday asked, confused.
"I don't know...like, if Zepplin were to come up against Linkin Park - "
Wednesday interrupts, "But that's like apples and oranges!"
"Sure, but stature wise..." Thursday is interrupted by the dramatic entrance of Friday - throwing himself into the booth with half a jump-half collapse. He wears a white t-shirt that reads "I don't drink every day."
"Jeeezus!" He says laying on the booth with his legs dangling on the floor, a danger to cocktail waitresses and bar patrons. He is of course, very rock-star.
"Hard time at the office?" Wednesday asks.
"You said it." Friday replies - his head below the level of the table. "Where's Tues and Monday?"
"Getting boxes for their diorama." Says Thursday.
"Damn, really?" Friday's voice rises up. "What are you guys doing?"

Before Wednesday catches Thursday's vigorous headshake, he blurts out, "We were just talking about rock-stars."
"Really?" Friday pulls his face up to the level of the table, and looks back and forth between the two.
"Yeah." Thursday says.
"I was thinking something along those lines too." Friday says. "You know it's Tsunami's birthday tomorrow?"
"NO SHIT!" They both exclaim.
"What are you going to get him?" Thursday inquires.
"I was thinking of giving him this shirt off my back."
"I think he'd like that." Says Wednesday, knocking back a big whiskey sour.

****
(and now a few words from the author)

I would! Alot! There's bound to be some uplifing/gutter-dwelling/stupid/euphoric/and general loopy moments in the next few days, so please excuse any light posting from the West Coast Branch of Fjord.

We are, of course, only 450 hits away from 10,000 - so if you really want to get me something nice, just read this last post, or anything from our vastly amusing archives 3 or 4 hundred times, and I'll be really pleased.

Happy Friday!

Since I'm still on my link-fest...

I'd like you to take a look at Giornale Nuovo which has wormed its way into a site I visit regularly. It's kind of an "art history" page, with tons of great images (all very old) by artists you've never heard of, but completely worth looking at.

Continuing our educational series on Prehistoric Dildos

A sculpted and polished phallus found in a German cave is among the earliest representations of male sexuality ever uncovered, researchers say.

It's 28,000 years old, 20 cm long and 3 cm wide.

Considering that's like-umm, ice-age, I sorta wonder what the thought process was during it's creation. Like, the tribe's just back from killing a mastadon, and there's about three weeks worth of meat lying around, and Thog sees Tark whacking away at a rock with another rock.
"Whatcha doin?" Thog asks.
"Carving a rock to look like my cock!" Tark replies.
"Why?"
"To hit Jane over the head with!"
"Oh."

It's been a while since I kept you up-to-date

On my nagging (and hopefully endearing) robot fixation.

Japanese develop 'female' android

and it looks pretty damn real.

Professor Ishiguro believes that it may prove possible to build an android that could pass for a human, if only for a brief period.
"An android could get away with it for a short time, 5-10 seconds. However, if we carefully select the situation, we could extend that, to perhaps 10 minutes," he said.

I Think This Is a New Record!

Yessiree...indeed...this'll make 15 straight posts by yours truly Dario Tsunami! If you've liked anything over the last 14 days, it's thanks to ME! And if you've hated anything over the same span of time, well, it's all MY FJAULT! I accept full responsibility. However, as a reward, I'll treat you to the latest Tsunami short story that emerged in word document form. (cutting and pasting and trying to "formatically edit" doesn't really work in blogger land) I hope you like...


Private Detective Vic Riley’s fist traveled in a short straight line, and slammed into Slim Jimmy’s mouth. It was a tough punch. The knuckle impacted Jimmy’s top incisor and it cracked, but the punch continued it‘s work, and knocked the tooth right out of his skull. Roots were ripped out along with it, and inside his jaw, nerves fired electric lightning bolts into the back of his head. Blood pooled and spilled out of the hole, over his lips and mouth. The crowd in the bar made a variety of sounds, so that all at once they sounded like a collective,
“Ooooh.”
Slim Jimmy shook his head, then felt around in his mouth with his tongue. His tongue fished out the tooth, lodged in the back by his molars, and brought it to the front of his mouth, where he spit it out - and under a barstool. He smiled a big grin with a black and bloody hole in it. Slim Jimmy was sort of a misplaced moniker, since he weighed in at 326. And while he wasn’t ripped, few large men needed to be, to be strong. Anyways, his job as a bouncer at the “Nextdoor Pub,” (which coincidentally happened to be right next door to Mortimers - the bar where the fight was happening) made him all the more ready for the rough stuff. It also made the patrons that much more interested in what was going to be the outcome.
“Get outta’ my way,” Vic said, “Or it’s gonna’ get worse. I don‘t have time to play”
Slim Jimmy continued grinning as blood ran down his chin and made small splotches on his white wrestling shoes, and the floor. Then he rushed forward in a roar, arms outstretched and head down. Vic tried to get an uppercut under his jaw, but it bounced harmlessly off Jimmy’s cheek. Then the mountain hit him.
He was lifted off his feet and carried through the air, caught between Jimmy’s arms and shoulders. He stopped when his back slammed into the jukebox. Things popped and ripped through his back. Things that for good health and posture, shouldn’t be popping and ripping. Vic slumped to the floor as Jimmy backed off, glass from the jukebox fell over his coat. He didn’t have enough awareness to know what sound the crowd was making.
Jimmy stepped back, and noticed next to him a wooden table not yet cleared, and full of empty bottles. He picked them up and fired them rapidly at his opponent. One clocked Vic in the temple, another caught square in his sternum. Two shattered on the jukebox. Vic gave himself a grim smile as he crawled towards Jimmy through the glass. Along the way he picked up the top of a broken beer bottle. He knew Slim was just playing, and the rest wouldn’t be too hard.
He reached his feet, and leapt forward towards Jimmy’s legs. All the while Jimmy was throwing what seemed like a never-ending supply of beer bottles at him. Two struck hard, like clubs on his back, knocking him down on his hands and knees. He reached around the wrestling shoes as a high-ball glass shattered against his head. At least he was out of heavy ammo for the moment. Then he dug the broken bottle deep into the Achilles-tendon of Slim Jimmy’s left leg, and turned it.
Slim Jimmy went down like a zebra with a leopard on his back. Blood covered the white wrestling shoes and Vic’s hands. Jimmy looked up with pure shock, not hate.
“Jeezus Vic, whythafuck didja do that?”
“Jimmy,” Vic disentangled himself from the huge man, “I told you I didn’t have time to play!”

Since I've got more than my fair share

of things to do this happy hunch-back day, I give you this link.

Viva Defamer!

Where we at?

Hmmm...?

No matter what you've faced in the last couple of days - vaccination, vasectomy, vengeance, vermin, vendors, vacation, voodoo, vortexes, vulgarity, voyages, Vermont. (Man, there are a ton of great words that start with "V!" huh?) We can all kick back our heels a little bit and bask in the glory of "The Short Week!"

Let's face it, there's only three more days left to endure, then were back to "Square Party!" And that makes it, a short week.

I'm not real familiar with the boardgame called "Life." But if it doesn't have a square devoted to "party" then I don't want to ever become more familiar with it. I know Monopoly don't have a "party" square, you just get to payday, and thank your lucky stars you didn't end up on Baltic Ave, what with it's overpriced hotel (watery drinks...nothin' like my joint over at Boardwalk- you should check it out.) and all. And Chess? Fucking nothing like a party there! Battleship? C'mon! Mastermind? Gimme a Gjoddamn break.

What we have here is a failure to translate the glory of liquor and drug-addled socializing/fun with any sort of representation in a board-game. However, if you were playing "Fjord - the boardgame" you'd nearly be to the square of ultimate reward (or everlasting guilt and shame, depending on exactly how the dice fell. Either way, it'll be fun on your way to getting there.)

Thanks for playing -
AND TJHERE'S JUST THREE MORE SQUARES!

To Start Off The Week

I'll field a random question from the mailbag.

What do you do for daily inspriation for writing your many posts at Fjord?

Great question!

My answer:
Nothing. Sure I watch a lot of teevee, and occasionally I pass the time reading historical books about animal husbandry, bronze age metalurgy, and the evolution of women's hats, but apart from that, nothing!

Hope that helps. Well, I'm off! My ass's got an appointment with the couch, and I'm already late.

Tsunami.

Speaking of hot

Here's a pretty slick looking site

the music's pretty great too. I might just listen to it all day.

I found it on the always slick Cool Hunting which, if isn't on your favorites list, add it.

Since it's so hot...

I'll take the time to post about something cool. (You ladies might especially like this one)

Alberto Tomba is an Italian gent, who made is mark in Olympic skiing. Here's his results for the 1998 and 1992 Winter Games (and some of his other accomplishments)

Now, I'd like to say that after winning the gold medal for the Giant Slalom in the 1992 games, he went out that night on the town. (actually, I think it was '92-that's a long time ago...) and unfortunately after looking through most of the google images I was unable to find a still shot of that evening) But my god, he made a mockery of taste and style. Like, (if you were a guy) even if you were dandied out and made up by a crack team of Hollywood stylists, and then, wearing an $8,000 dollar tux...you would'a felt like a chump standing next to him. He wore black.

A pair of black pants, a dark black sweater, and a long black (and extremely well tailored) wool overcoat. And hanging from around his neck, on it's white and blue ribbon was his Olympic Gold Medal. It stood out like, well, as only an Olympic Gold Medal can stand out on black. He was not only oozing "I'm the best in the world and I have the medal to prove it," The guy was busy ooozing suave.

Anyways, about three or four years later, I was cruising around the BBC website (and honestly I can't find the story, BBC's search engine only goes back to '97, and TIME magazine, who did have the story, was telling me it's premium content, and I'll have to pay fer it...so we'll go with my memory here)

I find out that Tomba is an honorary SHERIFF or Constable or whatever kind of law enforcement they have in small Italian villages that he inhabits. However, I find this out as he's stuck in a horrible traffic jam in the alps, and he pulls out one of those "stick-on sirens" that are so popular in 70's and early 80's cop shows, and just drives past it all in his Maserati! Of course someone notices it's THE MOST FAMOUS ATHLETE FROM ITALY driving past, and he gets busted. Still, even that, you have to admit, is pretty cool.

So wherever you are tonight Mr. Tomba, keep up the good work!

Friday Nite Heat Blogging!

"It's hotter than a witches' teat strapped into a bone corset, under a blouse, under a petticoat, under a cloak as she stirs a boiling hot cauldron hanging above an open flame during a heatwave." Says Friday, dipping a rag into a bucket full of luke-warm water, squeezing it out, and wiping it across his forehead. The water drips down onto his dirty tank-top shirt, making small pools on the webbing of the aluminum folding chair he sits on. "And what the hell's the deal with THAT INFERNAL BUZZING!"

A small man with glasses and hair that may have been blond, but is now pasted down with sweat looks up from his seat on the floor. "That's the fans, m'lord."

Friday leans back and puts the damp cloth over his head. "I haven't got the will to move...once again laid low by a woman." He mumbles.

CUT TO:
INT. UNIVERSITY LECTURE HALL - DAY
PROFESSOR BARNHARM STANDS WITH AN OLD BOOK IN FRONT OF A SMALL CLASS. HIS GLASSES, GREY HAIR AND GOATEE SUGGEST YEARS OF WISDOM.

"So. What do we think this means?" He asks. The class, by this time in the semester, is too smart to go off half-cocked. Nobody suggests anything.

"Well," He begins afresh, what does Friday mean by, "Once again laid low by a woman?"

A chunky woman's-study major rises to the challenge. "Because he's afraid to acknowledge his male power has no effect on the force of nature." She finishes the sentence strongly, but tinged with hope...nearly a question.

Barnharm pauses for a moment, as the spunky woman will need a touch of finesse. "Since we've all, at this point accepted, that there are traits, either masculine of feminine attatched to all natural occurrences...I think it may be pertinent to bring up last month's lecture on Old Man Winter."

The class has a shared and baffled look.

"From your look, I take it nobody's read the assignment." numbers heads nodd. Barnharm has been in this spot before. He's not so much angered as disenchanted. He finds his place in the book and begins to read.

Summer stood in the corner. Her bronzed skin highlited by a perfectly white bikini, thru which her nipples peeked out. She stood on stripper-heels, and she ran a hand up, to put back a stray lock of hair that had come loose from her pony-tail. "Why Friday," She spoke in a sultry voice, "don't you like it hot?"

Friday's servant, with the pasted down hair and a sweat-soaked shirt looks over and exclaims, "Gjod she's so...HOT!" and promptly vanishes in a puff of vaporized smoke. Summer walks smoothly on long legs, towards the immobilized Friday. Then begins the beginnings of a lapdance over the folding chair. Friday merely puts the rag back in the bucket, and dampens his head again.

"Woman, didn't anyone tell you there was such a thing as too hot?"

Barnharm looks up from his book. The words written therein have had a strange effect in the climate controlled classroom. Back rows were already without clothes, genitals exposed and being used. And the front (closest to the authority figure, him,) were past making out, and had moved on to heavy groping, soon the floor would be a massed orgy. He's seen the same thing in the exact same lecture too many times to be surprised or astonished anymore.

He gathered up his papers and other books, and began to walk out. There was a thing as too hot, he thought. At the door he looked back, and realized, this wasn't it. Papers and volumes fell to the floor as he laid eyes on the brunette from the second row. Would it really matter, (he thought) infact, what more could a student hope for in a 3000 level class called "The Effect of Summer On Weekend Literature?" than an orgy? As he groped for a breast, he wondered if he would put any of this on the final.

Happy Friday!

Incase you're looking for some quality reading...

I think you should read this. It's pretty *ahem* durn good.

Happy Moon Day!

That's right MOON DAY!

36 Years ago, humanids traveled through space, and made it to the Moon. In order to properly put this in perspective, let's ask the class where they went today?

Little Timmy puts his hand up.
"Yes Timmy, where'd you go today?"
"I went to the store." Timmy says looking proudly. His little bangs are soooo cute.
"Timmy, the moon is 238,856 thousand miles away! You'd have to go to the store A BILLION TIMES to travel that distance YOU LITTLE FUCK!"
"Anybody else want to share with the class?"
Little Jessica begins to cry. Little bastards just got no sense of distance.

In case your interested in what to do for Moon Day, take a look at this boingboing post it's got some great ideas. (of course they told you Moon Day was yesterday, but I'm running with the BBC as "official")

And now...another installment of Mr. Pigglesworth and Mr. Gimpson!

Mr. Pigglesworth stood on the poop deck of the H.M.S. Perth fiddling with a sextant. It was one of those warm nights in the equatorial regions of the Atlantic, and Pigglesworth was trying to fix their position, so he might better know when they would arrive in Bermuda. First Officer Simkins appeared out of the dark.
"You know, your friend Gimpson is in the infirmary." He mentioned casually.
"No, I didn't know. Why?"
"He was complaining of a vomitous sensation, boils, weevils, and general discombobulation."
Pigglesworth took the sextant away from his eye.
"Sounds serious."
Simkins put his hands in his pockets, where the right one toyed with the bag of opium he had purchased before they left Liverpool from a sailor just out of the orient. It was much smaller than it's original size.
"Possibly. But the sea sometimes does strange things to men." He spoke casually, because none of this mattered to him. "Why once I actually saw a man gnaw his own hand till he had finger-bone shards in his..."
Pigglesworth, interrupted, concerned about his friend.
"I'd better go see." And he proceeded belowdecks.

Gimpson was in the cabin of an experienced sawbones, wearing a white gown, open in the back. The doctor was listening in various places around Gimpson's chest, when Pigglesworth barged in.
"Do you MIND!?" The grizzled doctor looked murder at Pigglesworth. Pigglesworth meekly shut the door.
"I was worried about my friend." He said, noticing a few boils, the size of marbles on Gimpson's back.
"MY GOD PIGGLESWORTH" Gimpson began to loose control..."I've got the Bird Flu! It's the Bird Flu, isn't it doctor!?" The old sawbones shook his head and made ticking sounds with his teeth.
Pigglesworth took up a hopeful tone. "I'm sure it isn't the Bird Flu Gimspon." Knowing full well, he'd never heard of the Bird Flu.
Gimpson looked back at the doctor. "Is is Mad Cow?"
The doctor continued listening, then took the stethoscope from his ears, and pressed on various spots around Gimpson's torso.
"OH GOD!" Gimpson began again, "Then WHAT?! EBOLA?! Anthrax!? POX?!! MY GOD MAN! DO I HAVE THE POX!?!"
At this outbreak of dangerous sounding words, even Pigglesworth began to worry. His skin crawled, and he scratched at an itch on his arm nervously. What if these things (which he had no idea of until he heard the word pox.) were contagious?

"A slight case of vertigo." The doctor said, putting away his instruments, "Combined with a nasty onslaught of sea-sickness. You'll be right as rain as soon as we make landfall."

Gimpson stood up, his gown flapping crazily with the wild flailings of his arms. "WHAT ABOUT THE BOILS MAN! THE BOILS!"

The doctor leaned against his desk. "From exposure to too much salt. I'll give you an elixir that will clear it all up." He reached into a drawer, and produced a olive-oil sized bottle filled with sea-green liquid. Gimpson grabbed it, and began to drink heartily.
"That's enough for now." The doctor said, "Only a few mouthfulls at a time. It's got to last for a few days yet."
Gimpson took the bottle away, and wiped the oozing liquid from around his mouth with an edge of the gown.

They were all much happier.

P.S.- the Author promises this will be the last elixir reference for at least one week.

Well Kiddo...

9k-hits and counting!
*******************
kickass.
*******

So today, I was going thru some old files, and stumbled upon a company called ELIXIR. I didn't really understand what they did, I think they made paint. But anyways, what's important is I started saying the name a few times (in that way that I do...) and stumbled upon something like this.

A random acquaintance rushes up to you. For purposes of this narrative, we'll call him JimmyJoeBobJeff, and he happens to be one of those co-workers that we all have, the kind that you really barely know, but have maybe had a couple of conversations with on the elevator or while waiting for the copy machine. The kind of guy that would show up in one of your whacky dreams and you'd wake up going, "Why was JimmyJoeBobJeff in my dream?"

JimmyJoeBobJeff looks agitated, excited, all agog, if you will. And he proceeds to pull a bottle about the size of an olive-oil container from his overcoat (it's been raining off and on all day) full of sea-greenish liquid, and says,
"HERE! DRINK THIS ELIXIR!"

I think we all know that Elixirs are powerful, possibly magical stuff, and not to be taken lightly. As far as I'm concerned there are probably three, maybe four people on the planet that I'd agree to accept an elixir from, and then drink it.
(probably 12 more I'd accept an elixir from but it would be doubtful if I'd ever drink it. Leading to the awkward moment when they were in my home and rooting thru my stuff while I was in the can, and have them all mad when I got out, "Why didn't you drink the elixir I gave you?!?!!" They'd shout in an accusing tone.)

Anyways, the idea I've been knocking around is pretty simple. Everyone knows what an elixir is, but it's a word that has gone out of style since (making quotes with fingers) "Modern Medicine" became the vogue. We pretty much call everything drugs now, but with modern usage, the word "drug" is completely impotent as a word. "Elixir" still has, as a word, some strange power.

It's not often I ask something of you (totally HOT and ASTUTE) readers of Fjord...but for the rest of the week try and slip "elixir" into conversation whenever you can. If something interesting happens, let us know.

HOLY JEEBUS!!!

After careful calculation, and proofreading numerical prowess...I've realized somethijng. If we even have a remarkably average day tomorrow (*ahem* from 11:33 pm PST) we'll cross the 9-thousand hit mark!

Granted we'll most likely never again live through the heady months of May, where keywords such as "wookie sex" and "huge cock" will pull such humungus traffic in our direction. But still, we're now about 2-grand worth of hits...over the months we've been operating (umm, if you took the months we've been working this, then multiply by 1000 (pretty simple mathematices really))...and we never could have done it without you! The most physically attractive of all...I mean allllll blog readers! OF ALL TIME! (God you're hot!) (I learned this from a very exclusive on-line poll! An exclusive ON-LINE-POLE!!! the results of which are only available to fellows like Q-Dog and Me...you hot motha' fuckas' you...!)

Thanks for all your help.
Your pals at the West Coast Branch of Fjord.

Tsunami 1,764. Ants, 0

It seems as though the enemies of Fjord have devised another attempt at undermining our fair and balanced publication. This time, they sent a legion of HUGE KILLER ANTS to swarm into my beloved Casa Aloha.

I had seen a few of their scouts leaking into my bathroom a few days earlier, through an open window, but with the use of Dow Scrubbing Bubbles, (a cleaning product heartily endorsed by D. Tsunami - and also (I might add) an effective ant killer) and Resolve carpet cleaner...and some toilet paper, I was able to dispatch them without too much trouble.

However, Friday night was The Toast of the Town's Birthday cele-brashin, and to start off the night, we dined on Wendy's cheesburgers. Saturday, I stayed inside avoiding the unusually harsh and totally unnecessarily bright sun, and did some reading. While engaged in said activity, I helped myself to more than a couple apples. Not wanting to get up from the easy-chair, I noticed the handy Wendy's bag-just begging to become a trash receptacle. I have a hard time saying no to begging. Well, as I was placing another juicy apple-core into the bag, I noticed it was completely swarmed with ants!

I picked up the bag...and ran back and forth through the house like an idiot screaming and wondering what I should do with it. A calm voice spoke to me thru my brain.
"Take it outside to the dumpster."
I thought about what the voice said, and it sounded pretty good. I ran out, opened the dumpster and threw the bag in. As I did, I saw literally a river of ants pouring in and out of the dumpster. "My Gjod," I thought, "they've taken the dumpster too!" They were too numberous to deal with with my bare hands, and who knows what diseases lurk within that dumpster's bacterium. Besides, they were in my home! I ran back inside.

Knowing I first saw them in the bathroom, I dashed there, and sure enough, a huge trail of ants were leaking in and out of a crack onto my white bathroom floor. I proceeded to massacre them. The bubbles dried up, I threw the can away. I grabbed the Resolve. "Not for use on tile or glass" The warning read. I didn't have time for warnings! I mopped up the rest with paper towels. I stood over the carnage and felt triumphant. For the first time in weeks.

Happy Birthday Toast!

Three Scientists Look Over Their Huge Contraption

Lab coats glimmer in hi-beam lights that illuminate the machine. It's the size of a boxcar, and much taller. Huge disks of strange alloy radiate out from mechanisms which vaguely resemble the rings of Saturn. A large clock is mounted at the base, and it ticks seconds away into history.

"Of course," The head scientist speaks, bald spot glowing like a bowling ball under the lights. "We can only use our time-extender device for evil."

"But why?" Asks his colleague, eyes totally invisible behind hornrim-glasses that reflect nothing but white. "If we used it during the weekend..."

"NO!" The head scientist cuts him off. "The people and corporations funding this project are not about to use the time extender to give workers more time off! Now, activate the machine!"

The third scientist moves over to a terminal and punches a few keys. There is a roaring, then hydraulic pistons sound. The huge disks begin to move, sparks fly from the contraption, as if nature itself desires to counteract the effects of the devilish invention! Yet, it powers on. An invisible wave projects forth.

"IT'S WORKING!" Cries the head scientist over the racket. "What's the range?!"
The scientist at the terminal looks at graphs and numbers on the screen. "Eight thousand miles and growing!"

The second scientist looks at his watch, whose second-hand moves at exactly the pace of the clock at the base of the machine. He calls out, "TIME REMAINS CONSTANT!" The huge rings of the machine sweep around like buzz-saws.

The head scientist shouts to the man at the terminal. "What is the ratio of time-delay?!" The man retorts, "In reality, every minute that passes is now equal to 5 minutes!"
"Make the ratio one minute for every hour!"

The second scientist takes his watch away from his face. "We can't in good conscience,"

The head scientist pulls a Mauser automatic from his lab coat, and shoots his colleague three times. He collapses in a pool of blood and brains, his body producing strange gurgles and farts. The man at the terminal complies. Then the door to the room explodes inwards! Friday and a crack team of commandos burst in, dressed in black, like ninjas. The head scientist opens fire, bullets make sparks off the walls and catwalk posts.

Friday and his commandos return fire, their bullets staining the white lab-coats with huge patches of red. Then at a wave, grenades fall around the machine, and explode. A huge sheared off chunk of disk carems off through a wall and into a bathroom, removing the arm of a man on the can, reading a Newsweek magazine. He screams in horror, watching the blood shoot as if from garden hose, out of his shoulder. The machine stops. The man at the terminal bleeds through his mouth over the keyboard which holds his head on the table.

Friday and his men secure the scene. The head scientist still hanging onto life, pulls himself up to rest on a good arm. "But, why? Why would you? You would have been bigger, stronger, more powerful."

Friday crouches down, "Because, only when the workday is done," He reaches out his hand, and sticks a strong index finger into the exit wound of one of the head scientist's many holes. The evil genius cries out in agony, "do people really like me."

Happy Friday

It Seems Like Years and Years Don't It?

It's only beeeeeen 3 days since I put something up fjord you to read, and soooooo much has happened!

It's like, fuck it, it's like dog years on the internet...which according to the calculator (you'd find if you just got your lazy fingers to click the link-jeebus) is nearing the equivalent of 10-full-years of human life we've been knocking stuff out for your reading pleasures here at Fjord!

However, just because there's been a lack of content on this here web-zine, don't mean that behind the scene there isn't a flurry (and literally a flurry...like as in a LOT, don't confuse that with a FURRY-a sexual sub-group that enjoys dressing up in animal and teddy-bear costumes)
Anyhoo, since Q-Dog's done a lot of work on his posts below, I'm not about to bury it with a whole lotta other crap. However, I was doing a little research for a short-story about an elevator/escalator repairman, who happened to be an assassin who killed people with very convincing accidents around his chosen vocations conveyances. In the course of said research, I stumbled upon the elevator & escalator expert.

It's got quite a bit of minutiae about the things that help you get around every day.

Stuff I Dislike (Part 2 of a 2-Parted Posting)

STUFF I DISLIKE:

You -
No, not you. The guy right behind you. No, no. Behind you and to the right a little bit. Yeah, him! In the yellow shirt. Hey, guy, fuck you!

Things that are pre-packaged -
I don't like the implication of that. It makes me feel like the packagers don't think I can handle the packaging myself. Hey, I'm not helpless over here!! Hopeless, sure. But helpless?!?! Get fucked, packagers!

The way the word "morsel" is always trying to be more than a nibble but less than a bite -
You know what, morsel? Get out. We're done.

The way certain guys in yellow shirts just won't listen -
Yeah, that's right, bastard! I still see you lurking back there. Deep in the shadows, long in the night. Didn't I just tell you to fuck off?!?!?!

Consuming only one-fifth of stuff -
Because one-fifth is 20%. And "20" rhymes with "plenty." That just makes sound sense, no? Like, if you are a one-quarter consumer you must be a fat fuck. A one-third consumer?!?!?!? Well, you must not know that gluttony is one of the seven deadlies. The next thing you need to wrap your mouth around is a prayer, Hoss, cuz Gjod WILL fucking kill you! I know, cuz he killed my cousin.....

People who don't comment -
Come on, you guys! Blogging is hard. Comments make blogging easier. Doesn't "easier" sound like more fun?

Well, there you have it fjolks. Another bullshit window into my empty soul. Go ahead and click that "comment" link below and tell me some bullshit about what you don't like. I promise, I'm a tremendous cyber-listener......

Stuff I Like (A 2-Part Fjord Post. Keep Scrolling)

STUFF I LIKE:

Pepperidge Farm -
I remember. They do, too. It's a very symbiotic relationship between pastry and man. I like that.

Looking at stuff -
I don't like stuff looking at me, however. Like this one time, right? I stared at the book of my choice for a SOOPA long while. The fucking thing wouldn't stop looking back so I stared it down, man. Like really stared it down, you know? I'll spare you the deets, but let's just say that by the time it was all said and done the final score was Q-Dog-1, Book O' My Choice- 0. Take that, non-human!

Miraculous occurances -
From the '69 Mets to the fact that after all this time thermoses STILL know to keep cold stuff cold and hot stuff hot (how do they know the difference fjolks?!?! They're fucking thermoses!), life is full of pretty mind-blowing shit. Another miracle instance: Closed captioning......and pre-sliced breads......I mean, WHAT A PLANET, HUH?!?!?!?

Sleeves -
Not the ones on shirts, or the ones that cover albums, but the plastic ones that go over posters. Also, I really like the word "sleeves." Say it with me, Fjordlings......Sleeeeeeeeves.......Heh-heh.....sleeves.....

My favorite color is fudge -
Self explanatory.

30% of rules & 78% of laws -
I like laws more than rules because rules seem so maverick to me. It's as if you can make them up as you go along, you know? Laws need to be reviewed to get passed. That comforts me. Especially when you consider who's doing the reviewing of said laws. That's right, politicians. If you can't trust them, who can you trust, right? (Btw, does anyone know a guarenteed working method to treat thyroid cancer in an 80-year old man?!?!?! Cuz if G-Dubs gets to appoint 2 Supreme Court Justices, I'm officially moving to my own private Fjord where I will be labeled both Unquestioned Lord and Master and the WBC Welterweight Champion of the World....sigh.....fuck it y'all...I might just go ahead and do that anyway.)

And, finally, the last thing I like (well for the purposes of this list anyway)

COMMENTS!!!! -
I KNOW y'all are out there! Lemme hear ya! This shit's getting booooooooooring.........

These are a few of my favorite things. Which reminds me. I also like clothes made from drapes. Now, click on the comments and tell me what you like, you bastards!

Perhaps You've Noticed this Trend

It can be best summarized by this phrase.

"The less you do, the more you want to be appreciated for it."

I suppose the logical action to find out if the above trend is true, would be to do more stuff. Now, I'm not suggesting I believe in the above trend, but perhaps it's worth a look. Of course, being as lazy as I am, I have no intention of applying the science to determine the outcome.

However, I would like it if you were to acknowledge that I brought this fascinating trend to your attention.

deet...deet...deet-deet-deet...FJORDNEWS...deet-deet...

This quick news-like update, is just in!

Turkish shepherds watched in horror as hundreds of their sheep followed each other over a cliff

Ooooh! The little lemmings! Say what you will about the benefits of a herd-based society, but I'll take individual action over...wait a minute, there's more coming in!

More than 400 sheep died in the 15-metre fall - their bodies cushioning the fall of 1,100 others who followed.

So, 11-hundred sheep feel off a roughly 50-foot cliff, and 700 survived! Note to self, cushion 50-foot falls with a few hundred sheep. (in hindsight, the answer seems so obvious)
Well, have a great Sunday.

UPDATE!

I should mention that the lovely Mamma Tsunami is visiting the Casa Aloha tonight...so things might be a little slow from the West Coast Branch for a few days.

I'm not going to mention terror in this 7/7/05 post.

With the sound of 10,000 roaring boars.
With the smell of burnt flesh and 10,000 armpits masked with varying degrees of success.
With the sight of 10,000 ravenous office secretary cows chewing their cud.
It happened again today.
"OH! The humanity! The humanity!"

You all know what I'm talking about - the destruction, the inhumanity, the terror (Gjod, sorry, I said I wasn't going to mention terror in today's post) of, THE LOCAL FOOD COURT!

Yes, the local heard-fattening eat-a-torium with which every American is familiar with. Infact, it might be the best place to observe the American population in general. It's disgusting! If you want an ad for eating something more healthy, just walk to your local food court and watch a well-overweight human strain the legs off a defenseless chair, and then consume a large hamburger, fries and soft-drink. Nrrrrgg! *shudders*

I'm quite likely to indulge myself in a deep-fried treat as anyone...but I'm active, and I have the metabolism to handle an occasional dip into the 850x the normal-recommended daily allowance of fat. However, I still do so in reasonable moderation. It seems as though some folks don't have the good sense to look in the mirror and exclaim "I'm fat as a cow! I should eat better!"

Being such an image-conscious society (as I'm being constantly reminded) don't you think people would catch on? Or are people too busy living their lives through the tabloid "pretty-people" to actually do anything about their own physical well-being? I guess I'm not in the position to say, but I think I'll stop blogging so I can have a smoke in peace.

Greetings Blogsphereionite Fjord Readers!

I have to admit, I'm a little wishy-washy on the whole "summer" thing that's upon us. It's not that I don't love summer - it's great! It's just every summer I get that sinking feeling, that once again, I do not get the summer that I dream of, the summer of my childhood, well...you know what I'm talking about...the summer off.

I'm sure there are various financial wheelings-and dealings I could fandangle, which would enable me to have enough to carry me through a whole summer of doing nothing but my favoritest summertime activities. But sooner or later I'd actually have to go looking for another job. And looking for a job is my least favorite activity. (followed by a close second -looking for a place to live.) Ironic too, if I were not to work, I'd rapidly run out of money to pay for all the fun summertime activities I couldn't do if I had a job in the first place.

Still, in the back of my brain, there is an idea that it could all still work out. Sure the odds might be as slim as winning the Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes, but deep down I believe that the summer holds all the keys to making dreams come true. Even if that dream is taking summer off. At least, I want to believe.

Keeping you up to date...

On all the latest scientific crap...

Vampire Graveyards!

and then there's this...
Russian sues Nasa for comet upset

Something Fun

This is strangely addictive...

sort of like a lava lamp. if she gets stuck, just use your curser to help her along.

WELCOME TO JULY

Happy Orgiastic Dionysian Bacchanalia of Patriotism and Nationality Weekend!

Friday's ripped thru town in his convertible packed with girls which might nicely be described as "pin-up worthy." We all knew he was on his way, but somehow seeing him in the flesh shoots electricity into the proceedings. He's wearing shorts and a white T-shirt that has "Commander and Chef" stenciled on it, and before he's made the grill, he's donned an apron that says, "BEER IS THE SHIT!"

People move out of his way, as he takes over the grilling. But off to the side, Lady Liberty catches his eye, and gives him a wink. She, like usual, looks like a goddess. She reclines on a divan in the gazebo, and gives him a couple more flutters from her luxurious eyelashes. Then she pulls the samite away from her legs, and gives him a glimpse. Friday hands the spatula to a bystander and rushes to the nubile Lady Liberty. He throws aside his apron, revealing his, *ahem* hot-dog, which he quickly thrusts into her. Her moans attract the attention of those bar-b-que-ers who haven't already noticed the spectacle. Somehow a beer is now in his hands, and he drinks it sloppily, spilling it over his face, over his chest, and over Lady Liberty - who is too busy being ravaged to mind.

"Goodness," says a woman too properly attired for a bar-b-que, takes a hit off a big blunt, and passes it to a nearby surfer, "An unholy union between Friday and Lady Liberty? What will the inhuman offspring look like?"
The surfer (wearing a ratty shirt that reads, I survived Beach Party '98) says, "Fuckin' Sweet, that's what." And proceeds to bogart the joint.

Happy Friday

Today is Canada Day!!!

At least, according my office calendar, which as we learned, is a lying piece of shit. That said, Happy Canada Day, Fjordlings (unless it's not really Canada Day)!! Get out there and celebrate our peaceful, quiet, dreadfully boring neighbor to the north (unless it's not yet time this calendar year to do so)! I'm not really sure what you do to commemorate something like Canada (lest the time not yet be nigh), but my guess would be to leave the doors of your house unlocked, don't shoot anyBODY (you can shoot anyTHING all you want, just not people) and just sit around sighing, reveling in your government-sponsored health care system, whilst thinking about your Queen. All of this, of course, is under the condition that my "how could you look me in the fucking face and just coldly lie to me like that" calendar is coming correct with me today. Just to double check, was yesterday National Moist Towelette Day?

In other news, if you're an EXTREME patriot like me (Q-Dog), you may or may not be aware that this Monday is July 4th. "Well, Q," you're probably saying, "I'm an EXTREME patriot and I don't see why I should give one half of a shit about July 4th. Enlighten me!" Well, my Patriot to the EXTREME Power friends, July 4th is the American Independance Day. It is the day EXTREME patriots like ourselves have set aside to celebrate the fact that a bunch of white, aristocratic, slave owning males didn't wanna pay their taxes......

Have a guilt-free Monday, fuckers!

(BTW, what do I gotta do to to get out of paying MY taxes?!?!? Revolt? Cuz, frankly, I'm too tired to start a TOTAL revolution. I could start a half assed one, but a half assed revolution just sounds sad to me....)