It's nap time...

Now napping is all well and good, unless you have a recurring dream (such as myself) being on the debate team, making a wonderful - and debate winning argument, when a pack of weasels arrives to carry off your shoes.

"Sure," you say, "it doesn't sound that scary."

Of course, in that case, you've never found yourself in a vicious pack of weasels who want your shoes. They have very sharp teeth and claws, and move very very fast. On top of that, they really don't know where your shoes stop, and where your feet begin. This leads to a lot of stomping, kicking, and yelling - both in terror and agony.

Needless to say, this is not the way to win a debate, altho it does instill in the minds of the nerds yer debating (and who are watching said debate) a great deal of fear in your psychosis. The kind of fear that leads them to quickly move away from you when you say,
"Where the fuck did all those weasels come from?! DID YOU SEE THE WEASELS?!? Well fuck - they just ran off with my shoes- I suppose you didn't see that!?!"

Anyways, that's why I don't like talking naps.

When they start talking about money...

then it starts to get serious.

Is the E.U. worried about a "robot gap?"

Hell...back to

Robots I guess.

Sorry gang, It'll be the best I can do for tonight.

Highlander...

When I was a young fresh-faced geek, I loved the movie Highlander. I thought it was sooo cool that guys would walk around in stylin' trench-coats and fight with swords. Of course now I know better...you've got to keep your sword in a cane. However, if you want to see the movie re-enacted in 30 seconds with bunnies, you'd best go here.

Friday Was Not Feeling Content

"Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempesttossedt to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

This was Lady Liberty's line,
this was not what Friday was used to.

Friday doesn't want the tired. Friday doesn't want the poor. Friday doesn't want huddled masses, or cast-off garbage. Friday wants glory-seekers. Friday wants exuberance. Friday wants successful glory-seekers to rise up and embrace the possibilities that he offers. Friday, much like fate, favors the bold. Unfortunately for him, it was the latter that he looked over.

Friday sighs as he looks out over the downtrodden that have shuffled up to fill his mighty throne-room, and looks to the assembled four weekdays, that stand two on either side of the red-carpeted stairs that lead up to his jewel-encrusted chair.
"I can't let you out of my sight for one Gjoddamn minute!" He says to the previous weekdays.
They all lower their heads, not wanting to accept responsibility.
"How long am I going to have to wait before you fuckers let my people through to me without having suffered some trial, some tribulation, some catastrophe that doesn't drain the life out of them?!?"
"It was ordained by..." Begins Tuesday, who is brutally cut off.
"It was ordained THAT I AM THE KING OF ALL WEEKDAYS!" Friday's voice echoes off of the impossibly high ceiling, so loud that the huddled and devastated, and rag-clad masses, cover their ears, and cower to the ground.
The weekdays cringe. Then the phone rings, cutting through the tension like a knife. Friday looks over and picks it up*.
"Hello, this is Friday."
An operator's voice speaks. "Mr. Friday, this is New York calling, I have a person to person call from Lady Liberty."
"Well, put her on the line!"
"Hello? Friday?" A very sexy voice speaks across a great distance.
"Liberty! I haven't heard from you since the 4th of July! How've you been?!"
"Oh, okay I guess. Look, we should talk about the last time we, umm, saw each other, but not now. Right now, I kind of know about your problems."
"Really?" Friday says "How?"
"It's not important. I just want you to know, that I'll take over for you."
"What do you mean?" Friday asks.
"All those beaten down folk that have arrived at your door. Every single one of them, the tired, the poor, the huddled masses yearning to breathe free...yadda-yadda, and all that."
"Okay, but...I don't quite..."
"I know." Says Liberty. "It's like this...can't you just show them a good time at the beginning of the weekend? They've been through a lot, I mean, it'd take a lot to reduce them to this, and still be happy to arrive at your feet. I know it's a lot to ask..."
"There's no more to say." Friday speaks into the phone. "I'll do it. Everyone, especially the cast-off, no-good, beat-up, and completely unsuccessful deserve a good time every now and again. And today, shall be their day!"
"Thank you so much Friday." Liberty's voice catches in kind of a real sexy way. Then she says "Okay, well, call me sometime..." Liberty trails off.
"I will. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a horde of poor souls I have to turn into party-fiends."
"Good! Well, goodbye."
Friday hangs up the phone with a slam.

"Monday!" He commands. "Bring forth ambiance!"
"Tuesday!" He continues, "Assemble festive garb!"
Wednesdayay!" He shouts, "Entertainment so great that the stricken will forget their sorrows, and feel rested in their hearts, muscles, minds and bodies!"
"Thursday!" He finishes, "Food and libations- in quantity to make every soul be content!"

Tuesday begins to speak. "But Friday, I can't assemble that much..." Tuesday is struck by a gigantic lightning bold that reduces him to ashes!
"Monday!" Friday commands, "Bring forth ambiance and festive garb!"
"Awww," Monday speaks, "Now I've got to do two?!"
"Yeah, but remember, you're the one who started all this." Friday smacks the edges of his throne. "We don't have much time here, get cracking! There's a huge crowd that needs us!"

Somewhere Lady Liberty was happy.

Happy Friday


*this part of the post was inspired by a very intrepid and witty NY-Times telemarketer that should, judging from our conversation, be doing other things. She also cheered me up. Happy Friday Fjordlings. -Tsunami-

Hello...

Gjoddamn I'm tired.

I'm not up for full-bore blogging at the moment, and there's about 8-billion things I've got to do. Seems the casa fell apart a LOT more than I thought it would in the passing of five days. And while I'm actually doing 3 of those things at the moment, I'll have to up my multi-tasking to about a billion things an hour if I want to get them all done tonight.

Needless to say, I had a mind-blowingly great trip, and will certainly give up my impressions.

Just not now.

Oh, and I did discover where Q-Dog's been lurking...
It's not exactly like Brando in Apocalypse Now...but kinda'.

I was right

Things are getting crazy. I'm about to run off, host a show, come home, sleep and head out to NYC. It's a hard road, I know, but somebody's got to do it.

But I did have to post a link to this, cause, cause it's too frikkin AWESOME.

SPACE MONKEY PANTS!

And with that pleasant thought. I bid you a fond farewell.

Be back next week sometime...

Allright My Sweet Fjordling Minions...

Here's the skinny...

1) Don't go the BBC video of the Giant Squid...it's lame.
2)I've only got one more day before I'm off on an East Cost Speaking tour...sort of a Conference/Symposium/Get the hell outta' dodge kind of thing. So I'm not sure how much you'll be getting out of me for a few days. I'm thinking maybe one or two more posts, but incase things get crazy tomorrow (which, I'm pretty sure they will) don't go nuts.
3) A the very worst, I'll be back a week from now, ready to throw down whatever you're used to reading here.
4) And yes, I will find out what happened to Q-Dog. All my P.I.'s have mysteriously vanished, and I'm going to have to look into things personally.

-Tsunami-

We continue our current train of inquiry

delving into the DEEEEEEEEP.

DEET-DEET...DEET...DEET-DEET-DEET...DEET...DEET...FJORDNEWS!...DEET...DEET

Fresh off the heels of the anti-terrrrorist-killer-dolphin escape to THIS!!!!!

For the first time EVER a giant squid has been caught on camera, alive, and in the wild! Some marine-wildlife studying dudes have done what nobody's ever done. Captured the beastie on film - live! (Here's another place with a still photo series and if you look on the right hand side of the first link (at the bbc) there's a link to video - which I'm going to check out as soon as I get done writing this.

However, the details: The squid was about 8 meters long (umm, near 24' long) and after being hooked 500 meters down (real real deep) the hook ripped off a chunk of the squid's tentacle which was about 15 feet long.

Rad. This thing would eat you and your family without even trying, and they've been trying to catch one on film for about ooooh, 20 years or so. I think this is a good sign fair readers, I really do. Things are starting to look up from here!

I don't like it...

Because writing is hard.

And I've been working on a bunch of other stuff, that doesn't lend it's energy to the Wonderful World of Fjord. However, since I've got another space that's been sitting, gathering digital spiderwebs, I figgered I'd throw a small chunk of it over there. If you're into *ahem* more literary works, check out Rat Bastard's Burlesque It's got a piece from sort-of the beginning of what I've been working on.

-Tsunami-

I saw this a couple days ago...

but didn't realize how great is was until it got pointed out to me again!

KILLER DOLPHINS UNLEASHED BY KATRINA!

Egads! Mehopes they don't strike during Spring Break!

Either

Australians are really tough.
-or-
This was the biggest wimp of a great white shark ever
-or-
something is slightly off with this story.

MAN FIGHTS OFF FIVE METER SHARK

Sometimes

I mess around on myspace

I'm trying to do a little cross-pollination...

GROW! GROW DAMN YOU! GROW!!!!

err...something

Okay...this is going to be the last one for real!

But after seeing this in the local rag - I had to check it out. It's not for the kiddies - so send them off to bed. A more fitting "last pirate post for a while," I couldn't hope for.

Piratesxxx!

And now I go to meet my destiny.

Don't Think Twice

"We're on a time line here!" Shouted Friday.
"But I really, really have to go!" Said Tuesday.
Friday drove a very, very fast car through a long dark tunnel. It's headlights lit up the broken yellow stripes of the lane marker, which ripped into the rear-view mirror about as soon as they were illuminated.
"I don't have to remind you do I?" Friday shifted his fast car into overdrive. "Of the last time each of you wanted to stop?" The dash-lights revealed the faces of the weekdays looking like they'd rather be asked to eat a plate of slugs.

"Monday wanted some Slim-Jims, so we stopped. What did we get? War! Wednesday, you wanted to take a picture of the waterfall, what'd we get? Attacked by locusts, who had already eaten the "rolling fields of grain." Thursday wanted to stop at the Dinosaur Theme Park, what'd we find? A whole raving epidemic of the flesh-eating virus! We're only one horse away from the apocalypse! You know what that fucking horse carries? Do you? You stupid bastards!"

Friday shuts up as he looks down the road. Tuesday clamps his legs together and says, "Umm, the Antichrist?"

"Yer damn right the Antichrist!" Friday clicks on the C.D. player, which shuffles randomly through 8 C.D.'s in the trunk. It lands on "Highway to Hell."

"No Stop Signs, Speed Limits, No Body's Gonna Slow Me Down!"

Friday reaches under his seat, and fishes around through the various junk that had accumulated from their long road-trip. He grabs onto an empty plastic Gatoraid bottle, and hands it back. "Here, use this." He says without taking his eyes off the road. "I'm sure." He continues, "After the kind of week we've had, that the last thing we need to do is STOP FOR ANOTHER FUCKING WEEKDAY!"

Tuesday sighs, and unscrews the cap of the bottle. The sound of a zipper being dropped is heard, as he shields his actions from the rest with his back. The smell of piss fills the car, and power windows are activated. Wind shoots in and blows their clothes and hair.

"Hey, what's that?" Asks Thursday.

In the distance, the black of the tunnel is broken by a glowing arch. They speed towards it. From the back seat Tuesday lets out a satisfied, "Aaaahhhhhaaa!"
"Fuck," Wednesday says, "Put the fucking cap back on that." Tuesday does.

The car rips out of the tunnel, and spread out in front of them in a great lit-up panorama, is the City of Promise. Friday looks at his gauges, the gas is okay, temp is okay, oil is okay. "If we make it there without a hitch by Saturday, it should be all right." Tuesday throws the Gatoraid bottle out the window. "Fuck man," Friday shouts, "Didn't your mom tell you not to litter?!!"

Keep America (and the world) Beautiful!

Happy Friday

Sorry, This One's Heavy.

I'm going to take a minute of blogging silence for my homeless friend who lived at the edge of the parking lot on Hollywood and Vermont. He disappeared a few days after he told me he'd had a heart attack, and I was fearing the worst. Today I walked by his spot and saw a few souls had stopped by to place candles there. There's only one thing that can mean.

We had a cordial relationship, where as I scooted past to hustle and bustle in my world, he'd give me a friendly wave and an, "All right then." Occasionally I'd slip him a smoke or a few beers. Only when it was really weatherish outside, I'd give him a few bills to ease him through the night. But, he never ever asked. In our snippets of conversation he told me he'd sparred with Sonny Listen (sp?) before he'd gone on to fight Ali. And another time he said he'd played chess against Bobby Fischer. I chose to believe those stories, cause even if they were lies, they were GOOD lies.

After I had seen him sit there for a few years, I remember once thinking that he was like a part of the landscape, part of nature, a big fat brown Buddha, wise enough to the world where he could live, exist (somehow) and commune with nature, smack-dab in the middle of a concrete and asphalt desert that is the part of East Hollywood he decided to call home.

I got a cheap candle as I was coming home tonight, lit it, and set it up next to the sparse few others that were there, and said a few words. Like usual in that situation, they seemed kind of hollow, but what can you expect. The world is now just a little more lonely, and only memories which are hard to share, will weigh down the world with the gravity that once was a man I knew.

So Yeah

To follow up on the Wednesday idea thread, lemme just say, I've been under the weather for quite a while now, which as you well know, leads to a whole general breakdown in lots of stuff. I've been noticing this in my world, where work has suddenly gotten a lot harder and busier, the home has fallen apart, (not to mention the 2nd bug invasion this year...this time with the insideous roach-beast, which, to my knowledge, I'm still winning (by a lot like 157-0) however, they are sneaky bastards, and I have lots of nooks and crannies yet to be investigated at the Casa.) and somehow, money's not as plentiful as I'd gathered it would be at this stage of the month.

This is nothing compared to the real hardship I've been facing, which is a hideous cold-sore scab under my lower lip about the size of a dime, in the shape of a scabby-red soul-patch.

Now, as a reasonably vain young man, (and for those of you not familiar with this horrid affliction)it puts a damper on your day when you have to shave and stare into the mirror at this...but it's nothing compared to when the goddamn thing begins exploding out of your face with goo and puss oozing zit-like volcanoes! So anyways, for the last four days I've been doing what any human with social sense would do, cover it up with a band-aid.

Now, having a band-aid directly under your lower lip---when you normally don't wear a band-aid under your lower lip, generally leads to a lot of questions. (which, as well, it should. Hell, I'd be curious...) So, after experience, I've come up with a few answers to the inquiry of "WHAT HAPPENED!" (mind you I try to not lie, and after said questions, and my disarming answers, I always stated the truth - "I have a hideous cold-sore and wanted to cover it up") That perhaps, might be one day, useful to you Fjord readers. (altho- hopefully not ever)

1) the first, and still my favorite.
"I'm not allowed to talk about fight club. Damnit! I talked about fight club!" (note, this doesn't work on the more "mature" question asker. Know your demographics!)
2) "I got myself in a fight, and (making fist) the guy had a sharp ring."
3) "I'm just a huge Nelly fan!"
4) I just started using this one, but then again, my face just stopped oozing crap.
"Oh, you know, skateboarding..." Trailing off, it works pretty good. This one is demographic neutral, btw.

Sooo, to get back to the top of the post's gyst, I've got more than a few things to get busy on. And nobody here at Fjord (hello? Anyone?) is saying this is a big deal. It seems as tho in the real world we're dealing with gas prices poised to climb to 5 bucks a gallon, a category 5 hurricane bearing down on the already beat-up southern coast, and most likely the housing market about to crumble. I guess lots of people are going thru bad times.

Gjod help us! Every one.

Okay, this'll be the last one

for a while. This Pirate Thing is just about played too.

Let's Just Accept

That I've taken my licks over the last 9 days like a man...but tonight, I can't (and after 4 attempts) make this one work. I hope you little Fjordlings can get along without me for a night.

Happy Wedesday!

I believe "square party" is only 2 moves away...

P.S.

Not to be a "Comment Whore" or anything, but did anyone like my "I'm Not Going to Start Pointing Fingers" Happy Friday post?

I mean, I thought it had a lot going for it, interesting situations, good plot, and quite a nice ending. I could be wrong...but I'll never know unless you tell me.

You should also go here!

Link provided by the stupendous gang at BoingBoing

For your consideration...

I'm probably in comparison with most people, about 15-25% more talkative than your average guy. I also generate about 75-90% more words in text than most people. (let's say taking an average week as our "sample" for percentages.) Now, sooner or later, you just get lucky. Like, as I mentioned before...getting back up to a post-a-day speed, I went off on the robot tangent, which (hopefully providing you at least a minor amusement in your day) I grew tired of, and said something along the lines of this.

"I really hope there's a pirate story or two coming down the pike, cause this robot thing (while nobody's saying isn't useful or interesting) is getting a little stale."

And four days later, it was "Talk Like a Pirate Day." So, as I was pointing out with all those percentages of how I use words a little more than the average person, sometimes, with odds in your favor, you write something, and then - KAPOW! - it just shows up. However, in the last couple days, I've also been talking about things that have TOTALLY COME TRUE!
EXAMPLES:
1) Raccoons came up in a conversation two weeks ago. "But of course," you say, "I would not only expect raccoons to come up in a conversation with you Mr. Tsunami, I would be disappointed if they didn't!" However, the very next day, that conversationalist came back to tell me "I was driving and saw 4 raccoons in the early morning sitting around a storm-drain."
2) Yesterday, I was in a conversation where I began talking about the various lovely qualities of rain (yeah, yeah, I know most of you think it sucks, but livin' in L.A. rain is a touch different than in places with, umm, say, "weather.") Anyhoo, today, it rained in L.A.! Like, nearly all night, and most of today. Fantastic!
3) About two weeks ago, I mentioned to a few key and trusted people, that I wanted to be the host of a talk show. A week ago, I mentioned it again. Last night, I was offered a "host/M.C." position on a brand new teevee show. (BTW that...was the big important "meeting" I attended.)
It's not quite what I had in mind, but pretty damn close.

So - as the man says, "I'm on a roll." About now. If there's anything you would like me to talk about, whydon'tcha lemme know. If it would be advantageous to the both of us - or to readers of Fjord, I'll try and speak/write it into existence!

(P.S. - I may actually now have become Gjod...altho in fairness, the implications are so complex that I'm trying with all my might to remember I have lived most of my life as a puny mortal.)

Big important Meeting Now...

Bloggy goop later...

It's Talk Like A Pirate Day!

Yarrg! I'm glad I was complaining about robots getting old...cause everything's comin' up Pirate now!

Wait a second...

our 5,000th visitor was from Malaysia! Malaysia borders the Malacca Strait. The Malacca Straight is a hotbed of Pirate activity. (infact, I just pulled this quote from the story I linked to on Thursday...Four South East Asian nations have launched joint air patrols of the Malacca Strait, in a bid to deter pirate attacks. Planes from Malaysia, Singapore, Indonesia and Thailand will be allowed to cross into each other's air space under the scheme. Here's a google map of the geographical area.)

Could it be...??? Could our 5,000th visitor be a Pirate!?!?
Gjod I hope so...

Saturday Breakfast Link!

heeeheheheee

I was sorta hoping it'd be someone I recognized...

However...fortune favors the bold...or those less sleepy. Anyhoo, here's what I know about visitor 5,000.

Domain Name (Unknown)
IP Address 60.50.159.# (Telekom Malaysia Berhad)
ISP Telekom Malaysia Berhad
Location Continent : Asia
Country : Malaysia (Facts)
State/Region : Wilayah Persekutuan
City : Kuala Lumpur
Lat/Long : 3.1667, 101.7 (Map)

Language English (United States)
en-us
Operating System Microsoft WinXP
Browser Internet Explorer 6.0
Mozilla/4.0 (compatible; MSIE 6.0; Windows NT 5.1; SV1)
Javascript version 1.3
Monitor Resolution : 1024 x 768
Color Depth : 32 bits

Time of Visit Sep 17 2005 1:12:35 am
Last Page View Sep 17 2005 1:12:35 am
Visit Length 0 seconds
Page Views 1
Referring URL http://setmefreefx.blogspot.com/
Visit Entry Page http://fjordsurfing.blogspot.com/
Visit Exit Page http://fjordsurfing.blogspot.com/
Time Zone UTC+7:00
WAST - West Australian Standard Time
Visitor's Time Sep 17 2005 1:12:35 pm
Visit Number 5,000

(BTW- for those of you who want to know, this is what I can find out about you without even really trying) (didn't I already apologize for the ellipses? I'm sure I did...)

Kuala Lumpur is one of the great city names of all times, and as I understand it, home of one of the tallest buildings of all time! Unfortunately, I cannot recommend the referring page shown here as it's pretty dull. (altho if it did give us a plug, I'd heartily take it back...I really didn't read to much into it. It was dull...

Anyways Mr/Ms/Mrs - whoever you are reading from Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia - may your offspring grow strong, and your homes be always filled with the most modern appliances, and well tended Jacuzzis!

And now I bid you a fond Tsunami-esque "Good Evening! Or, "Good Morning" wherever, and whenever, you are.

Holy Jeebus!!!!!!!!!!

As I pull myself away from my cockroach killing game (which rarely happens at the Casa...since I'm a lethal roach-killer, but methinks the nextdoor neighbors are evicted, and their nest/problem is leaking into my home) which sofar has netted me 23 confirmed kills and one "possible" (not counting last nights harvest)

however, I wanted to post about another numbers game...the FJORD NUMBERS!

As I write this, we are only two unique visitors away from 5,000!
Let me explain in layman's terms.
When you visit our site, you are registered as a "visitor," however, this also counts as a "hit"
which = 1/1
However, if you read more than one page of our fine mag, you are credited with 1 extra hit per page. So if you read three pages of our "Fjordian Goop"(tm) you would be listed as 1/3 (visits/hits) Also if you click on a link, that also (as I understand it...also...sorry for all the ellipses) counts as an extra "hit." So as we speak there have been...OOOP..somebody joined in...4,999 unique visitors to FJORD, who have generated (as of right now 10:04 PST 9-16-05) 11,792 hits. Which means that usually when someone jumps to Fjord, they read at least one page, or follows a link to somewhere else. Anyways, I wanted to say that I've consulted with Chinese and European Astrologers, as well as Gypsy "taro card" readers, and numerous Fjord-dwellers (of...to be honest, dubious powers beyond cutting down Fjord grass and possessing great fishing skills...I've already apologized for the ellipses haven't I?) and they all agree...if you're the 5,000th visitor to Fjord you will be blessed with many children and unbelievable financial fortune.

Well, from the bottom of my tiny black heart, I really, really hope it's you!

-Tsunami-

I'm not going to start pointing fingers

at who did what, or what did to whom, or whom didn't arrive where, where they weren't when they needed to be. Because, as you all know, I'm not that kind of guy. However, Friday arrived two days too late, or, perhaps three. Needless to say, I'm not exactly a happy camper. Anyways, enough about me.

Friday pushed his way through the panicky passengers, from the first-class cabin to the back of the 727. They were panicky most likey because the Captain had said over the intercom, "REMAIN CALM, DO NOT PANIC!" Or perhaps they were panicky because Friday was wearing the parachute, helmet, goggles and assorted gear of a skydiver. Or perhaps it was because he carried a large assault rifle, and had previously hijacked the plane, and had taken it thousands of miles off course. (btw - not an easy task in the post 9-11 world, he'd had to gun down 15 passengers who desperately tried to stop him...which may also have been the reason for why the passengers were panicking...anyways)

In a total D.B. Cooper ripoff, Friday hit the emergency release for the rear exit. The stairs descended on powerful hydraulics - oblivious to the dangerous decompression and 400+ mph speed of the plane. Friday was sucked out into the sky, and began to free fall.

CLOSE ON: FRIDAY'S WRIST ALTIMETER
the dial rotates swifty from 25,000 feet to 20,000 then 15,000 then 10. It spirals to 9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-

FRIDAY reaches up and pulls the cord of his parachute. Nothing happens.
"Damn!" we hear him say over the whistling wind.

CUT TO: F-16 COCKPIT -- UNDER THE CANOPY WE SEE THE NAME OF THE PILOT LT. JACK JAGER

JACK flies his fighter at 950 miles per hour and in a blatant violation of regulations, buzzes 90 feet over the town where his ex-girlfriend lives. Sonic booms shatter windows. He zooms past and out over the prairie.
JACK SAYS: That'll learn the slut to dump me!

CUT TO: FRIDAY IN FREE-FALL
He sails rapidly downwards, then in a blur from out of nowhere JACK JAGER'S F-16 swoops underneath him. He strikes the left wing, which has two different results. 1) Friday's terminal velocity is arrested, and he begins to free-fall again from about 75 feet. 2) Jack's F-16 is thrown into an out-of-control roll, where it zooms downwards over the next hill and explodes in a massive fireball.

CUT TO: STREAM NEAR SMALL GROVE OF TREES.
Friday lands in a belly-flop in the stream. Water shoots over GENERAL CUSTER and two of his remaining men. Around them are thousands of Native Americans in war-paint.

CLOSE ON: CUSTER
He wipes water off his face, and looks at Friday who rolls his face out of the water groggily.
CUSTER SAYS: Oh, now you decide to show up! I could have used you two days ago - maybe three!

Then Custer raises one of his pistols, points it at a feathered head-dress, and pulls the trigger, resulting in an anticlimactic "click."
CUSTER SAYS: Damn!
Then he and his remaining two men are promptly filled with arrows.

FRIDAY pulls himself out of the water, and takes off his skydiving helmet. CRAZY HORSE appears on a fiery stallion. He holds a spear and a Winchester rifle looking extremely bad-assed.

CRAZY HORSE SAYS: Friday! Heap good timing! Come! Crazy Horse host heap'm big pow-wow for victory celebration!

Friday, used to strange occurrences, quickly agrees.

Happy Friday

I don't really know what to make of this

Since I just found it early this morning. But Monstercake is strangely appealing.

Go see what I mean.

Oh...one more thing

I wanted to put this link up, cause when I found it, I read through it for about an hour. Funny stuff kiddo...

Armies of 'em.

I'm going to have to do sommore thinking about this robot action plan.

I know you know I know they're coming.

But will they be human-sized killing machines - or will they be so insidiously small - as to be impossible to detect? Or just blundering car-bots?

Either way, I'll be on the lookout for handy robot-killing tips and items to add to your go-bag or manpurse. Meanwhile, I wasn't able to find much on ther internets that will be of much help - however, the Rogue Retrieval website might give you some comfjort.

I really hope there's a pirate story or two coming down the pike, cause this robot thing (while nobody's saying isn't useful or interesting) is getting a little stale. Oh wait! Here's one...it's kinda' dry though.
Hang on a sec...joint air patrols...two patrols a week...strait is one of the world's busiest sea lanes, carrying half its oil and a quarter of its commerce...becoming increasingly notorious for pirates, and 27 pirate attacks were reported last year.

And they're just now patrolling it by air? Fer crap's sake, am I going to have to come up with a Pirate Action Plan for maritime shipping now too? HELLO INTERNATIONAL COMMUNITY! I HAVE A FUCKING DAY JOB!

mumble grumble elected mumble representatives grumble...pull their heads out of their asses for one frikken grumble...

Pawtuckett "The Crayfish" Rathbone

It seems as though, one of my greatest arch-enemies, Pawtuckett "The Crayfish" Rathbone must have escaped the ill effects of Katrina in his New Orleans stronghold, for as of late, I've feel his powerful mojo woking against me in all I do.

Now, for those of you who don't know the story of how we got to be "arch enemies" it's something like this.

In 1948 an uninspiring Double-A ballplayer with the name Joe Smith came up to bat for the Cleveland Buckskins, against their rivals, the Columbus Roosters. In front of about three hundred fans, Smith took a fastball outside, swung at a looping curve for a strike, and then made a powerful swing at a slider, and cracked it super hard.

It would have been a homer, according to eye-witnesses, only somewhere between the first and second bases, at an elevation of near one hundred and thirty feet the ball hit, what star-trek geeks would refer to as a "trans-dimentional vortex" and simply dissappeared into thin air. To conclude Smith's part in this story, the umpires were completely flummoxed as to what the "call" should be, so they ruled what is commonly referred to on the playground as a "do-over." Where Smith promptly struck out.

Anyways, as fate would have it, I was driving my 1982 Honda Accord sedan down the highway on a road trip, somewhere south of St. Louis, and north of Oklahoma, when Smith's ball...some 1000 miles, and 45 years in the future, reappeared, and descended at raipd velocity into my windshield! It blew through it like a bullet, shattering glass over my friend and passenger, as well as your very shocked D. Tsunami. I swerved out of my lane, and sideswiped an oncoming Caddy, and somehow came to a stop in a rodaside ditch.

There, I gathered my thoughts, and found myself unhurt, so I opened the door. Whereupon I found myself confronted by a large man in a black suit, holding the ripped off rear-view mirror of his Caddy. Before I could explain myself he began shouting in various accusing mannors my driving ability, my heritage, and my crappy car. That's when I got tough.

"Somebody put a baseball through my windshield." I said, "There wasn't much else I could do!" He threw the mirror down at my feet, and shouted, "You've just made a powerful enemy! Nobody sideswipes Pawtuckett "The Crayfish Rathbone! Nobody!"

And that bastard's never forgotten a moment to try and do me harm...

Thanks Mr. Hash!

This really cheered me up.

I can see why you might have been a tad disappointed in my "hunter" post take. This would have been a much more positive way to go.

I'd also like to say...

Thanks a fuckton for blogger throwing all my well-crafted prose down the fucking well, in order to inconvenience all us Fjordlings! This is just another example of how our foes are working every day to make life a hassle!

(I'd also like to say, one day we will have our revenge!)

In other news, this is post 366...which, for those of you counting at home, has beaten the days in the year...um, like by near 4 months. That's a lotta posts!

Well Howdy!

It's been a couple of days...err, something...right?

Anyways, to get back into the flow of things...here's my obligatory link to robots! And not just any robots...Robot Butlers!

And for those of you who can't afford a robot butler, or a good-quality sherpa...here's a great piece about what you can stuff in your bag-on the cheap-to get you through many situations.

And speaking of situations, we just had a big 'ole classic blackout yesterday, which was a lot of fun, since we (Angelinos) were (on 9-11 no less) threatened by the terrorists. Of course, it turned out to be nothing more than an American electrician making the wrong connection that shorted out the grid for about 2 million people. I was at lunch at the time, and had to deal with emergency powered elevators, and non-functioning scramble-pad locks. Let me just say, it was no Enron.

Hooo-kay. Whatchoo guys been doing?

Hunter...

Since it came up in conversation last night, and I've sort of been doing an ongoing Thompson series, I decided I'd post this. It's bittersweet, but, it's also the last written words of a man who's spent a good chunk of his life writing.

It's called "Football Season is Over"

"No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun -- for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax --This won't hurt."

As for us...well,

the seasons just getting started.

It Might Not Be THE GOOD FRIDAY...

But it's still a Good Friday. The kind of Friday where I could kick back and spin you a yarn where Friday lays under a cloth umbrella on a comfjordable lounge chair, a metal bucket of ice, with more than a few mexican beers sit chilling...and you'd once again feel like you were along for the ride in the continuing adventures of The King of All Weekdays. Cause it's just that kind of Friday.

However, adding to this kind of Friday, it's also the Birthday of Island Breeze Kitty, the lovely creature you'll see on my arm all around this sun-loving metropolis. So, instead of dedicating my early eve to the previously mentioned type of Friday, I'm going to wrap up a few gifts, and shoot off to the celebration. So with all that in mind, I hope you all have a great a night as I'm about to.

Happy Birthday Kitty!

P.S.
Happy Friday!

I really really really have to

clean my mouse. That's not a typo...even though I really really have to clean my house too. I hope some of you can relate.

Anyways, before I get too far out writing something that has nothing to do with my state of mind, state of mouse, state of house...etc...

let me say.
Summer is no more.
It's sad, but out of it's ashes, well, comes the N.F.L. And I'm excited. The first game of the season is on in about 10 minutes, and therefor, I don't have a lot of time. I just want to say, I don't have exceptionally high hopes for the MN Vikings, I do have high hopes that my favorite Viking will actually play this year. Jim Kleinsasser. He's one of the most underrated of players, in an underrated position - the fullback.

Well, it's 6...I gotta scram.

deet...deet...deet-deet...deet...Fjordnews...deet...deet...

I know we Fjordlings are a hard-living kind of bunch, but please, please...don't end up like this.

It's just, unbecoming...

(thanks to J. Nitro for the link!)

Watch Your Pineapple

I, like most people, have often wondered what my spirit animal would be. After my short jaunt up to the Pacific Northwest, I saw many totems and wildlife, but none of them spoke to me. They didn't suggest a new career track, or wisdom from the animal world...they just did what animals normally do, which was eat stuff that they found lying around.

Back in Los Angeles, I rested a moment at a marble table in the plaza. I watched people move about, and saw a fly zip past, and it landed on my shoulder. I didn't even notice, until it spoke to me.
"Dario, I'm your spirit animal." It said into my ear. I looked around...
"Who?" I said, as confused as a modern humanid can be when confronted by a clear disembodied voice.
"Me, the fly on your shoulder." I looked over.
"My spirit animal is a fucking fly?" I said. "Why does this not surprise me. Not even an animal, an insect."
"Hey, you take what you can get." The fly said.
"My elementary-skool mascot was a jaguar, and my Jr. hi-skool was a thunderbird! I get a fly."
"Sorry, the others were already taken."
"Well, all-fucking right." I felt a little crestfallen. Not the proud lion, not the long necked giraffe...not even a mammal. "What's your little fly-spirit-wisdom?"
"Hold on a sec." The fly said.

Then a woman walked up to me, and asked in a heavily Germanic accent, "Could you tell me where I could find a supermarket, where I might find some fruit?" She was part of a husband-wife combo, with backpacks and boots...tourists. I tried to be helpful, and explain downtown Los Angeles is not the place to find umm, much of anything. However, I steered her towards a place that might hold something beyond candybars. She called her man, and they walked off. Then the fly said,
"Dude, she was totally trying to mammal your pineapple."
I flicked him off my shoulder with a well aimed index finger.
Fucking flies.

nothing? nada? ziltch?

Howdy, I'm back and getting up to post-vacation speed. More to come...

Sorry Guys...

No Happy Friday post this week.

However, feel free to leave your own in the comments...I'm sure someone would appreciate it!

My New Plan

I'm off...to New Orleans to declare myself King of the Swamp People. I will begin my reign of terror by displaying the heads of those who disobey me on pikes, surrounding the roof of the Superdome!

(P.S. I've already got the Swamp Mistress, the Swamp Court Jester, and My Right-Hand Swamp Man jobs filled...)

+++

In all seriousness...the news out of the bayou is horrific, and I don't want to leave you with that sour taste on my last entry for a few days. So here's a few fellows that I like to check in with day-to-day.

1)
2)
3)
4)
5)
6)

That should keep you all amused till I get back. May the Gjod of your choice bless you.

-Tsunami-

You know, it's been too long...

Since we've remembered...
the drunken elephants.

Drunken elephants? You ask...
Drunk elephants are a myth. You say...
Am I seeing a trend? You begin to understand...
And finally you accept that drunk elephants are just a part of life.

Remember, every once in a while, you've just got to get out of a drunk elephant's way.

well well well...look what we have

HERE !!!

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

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

I found something looking over

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

Study: Ozone layer has stopped shrinking

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

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

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

- the headline
Major ozone loss over Antarctic

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

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

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

YES!

Pssst...hey buddy! Wanna Robot?

It's Been a Weird Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's Too Darn Hot!

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

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

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

So...Wanna see something cool?

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

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

SAME THING WE DO EVERY NIGHT PINKY...


TRY AND TAKE OVER THE WORLD!


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

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

Exit Sandman!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Friday.

Another Installment of Mr. Pigglesworth and Mr. Gimpson!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Smythe sat back next to Pigglesworth, and sighed.

They were all much happier.

Enter Sandman!

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

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

Sweet Dreams My Little Fjordlings...

Greetin's from the Casa Aloha

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

And then the squawking started.

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

Nope. It's a fucking bird.

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

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

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

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

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

If you'll excuse me,

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

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

I hope that will do.

One more thing before I go...

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

Go. Read.

And think about how you want to go out.

It's Been a Slow Lazy Day at Casa Aloha

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

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

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

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

This is pretty cool

Mini-Homes!

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

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

February 2nd...2005!

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

Doom...Dooom...DOOOOOOOOM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your damn right it would.

Happy Friday