BRIAN DENNEHY!
Gjod, if that don't cheer you up, nothing will!
Here's the scene...
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday drive parade-like through every city, town, hamlet, village, and burg, in old-timey (like model-T kinda' old-timey) convertables. They wave as they pass. Some people cheer or clap, but it's not the kind of thing to write home about.
Then, perched like Santa on the top of a massive golden hovercraft, sits Friday. He digs into his massive bag of goodies, and throws huge handfuls of Friday-Gifts to the crowd. They arch into the air, gift-wrapped with bows and ribbons, boxes, envelopes, and various assorted packages - then fall at the perfect speed, to be grabbed by each and every person, whether young or old.
What's in them? Revelry! Joy! Booze! Happiness! Contentment! Peace! Sex! Rock-n-roll!(or Hip-Hop, or Jazz, or Classical - whatever gets you off man, it's Gjoddamn Friday...)
Anyways, I'd ask you what you got, but I hear those old-timey car horns comin' down the street right now. The sun's gone down, and I gotta go grab whatever's comin' my way!
Happy Friday!
(from yer pals at Fjord)
Friday, November 18, 2005
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Since I'm feeling feisty...
And...
well...
'cause the post previous to this one is sooooo kickass...
I want to induce some sort of delayed-grat-i-fi-cation...
I was digging around (again) in our archives, and found THIS!!!
Just another wonderful piece of work you'll find, buried here in the archives of Fjord.
Now...
go...
read...
the next post...
It's done in the spirit of knowing the greatness Fjordlings expect.
well...
'cause the post previous to this one is sooooo kickass...
I want to induce some sort of delayed-grat-i-fi-cation...
I was digging around (again) in our archives, and found THIS!!!
Just another wonderful piece of work you'll find, buried here in the archives of Fjord.
Now...
go...
read...
the next post...
It's done in the spirit of knowing the greatness Fjordlings expect.
Well, there goes the neighborhood...a short, short story
I saw him looking out the window, on the fourth story of a brick apartment building that might have been built in the 40's. He was obviously sort of a man-sized bug, but what kind, I couldn't tell from the street, and what with the reflections off the glass window.
A man came out of the apartment building and I looked at him. It seemed as though he was pretty well human, which gave me at least a little hope that the whole place wasn't a big nest or hive of the huge creatures. Altho, as I looked closer at the man, (who had reached the sidewalk, and was now moving towards me) it appeared that his disguise wasn't as good up-close as it was from far away. a small bump stuck out on his forehead, under the skin. In the exact spot where an antenna would be.
"Not so fast Mr. Bug!" I said, and grabbed his neck by the crook of my elbow. "I don't know what you're doing in my neighborhood, or what your plans for humanity are, but I aim to stop you!" Then I began tugging madly at his hair and back of his mask's neck in order to pull it off him.
"Stop!" He cried.
"Never!" I said, pulling like mad at the scruff of his neck, "Not until you tell me what your species is planning to do to the earth!"
"Stop!" He cried again as I got a better grip on the top of his scalp and pulled like crazy. I could feel it move, but it didn't seem as though it would come off."
"Hey! What are you doing!?" Said a passerby.
"This apartment building is full of man-sized insects," I said, "and this is one of them in disguise. I'm going to unmask him and find out what their plans are!"
"Christ, another whacko." The guy said. Then he ran up to try and pry my arm away from the giant insect's neck. Eventually, and with much struggling, they were able to pry me off, however, as they did, I jumped back and whipped out my gun.
"Allright." I said. "Look Mr. I don't know if you're working for them, or if you're just a confused bystander, but whether this bug's dead or alive, I'm going to have his mask off." Then, I addressed the bug in the mask. "So what's it going to be? You've got three seconds before I fire!" The bug didn't move.
"One." I said quickly. The bystander's eyes moved rapidly between me, my gun, and the masked bug.
"Two!" I didn't wait long to say it, and then cocked the hammer back. The bug reached up and began pulling off his realistic-looking human mask. Underneath, wasn't a man-sized bug, but instead a man-sized duck!
"Holy crap!" The bystander said, jumping away from the duck.
"All-right duck." I said, keeping him covered, "What's this all about?"
"Quack." He said.
"So it's going to be like that huh." I turned to the bystander, "Hey buddy, see what I'm talking about!!??"
"Uh, yeah..." He said, confused.
"Well you'd better go fetch some law. Who knows what else is in that apartment building!"
"Yeah," He finished, and took off up the street.
I turned back to the duck.
"So, what insidious plots are you hatching in that apartment building?"
"Quack, quack." He said.
I shot him in the leg.
Lousy ducks.
A man came out of the apartment building and I looked at him. It seemed as though he was pretty well human, which gave me at least a little hope that the whole place wasn't a big nest or hive of the huge creatures. Altho, as I looked closer at the man, (who had reached the sidewalk, and was now moving towards me) it appeared that his disguise wasn't as good up-close as it was from far away. a small bump stuck out on his forehead, under the skin. In the exact spot where an antenna would be.
"Not so fast Mr. Bug!" I said, and grabbed his neck by the crook of my elbow. "I don't know what you're doing in my neighborhood, or what your plans for humanity are, but I aim to stop you!" Then I began tugging madly at his hair and back of his mask's neck in order to pull it off him.
"Stop!" He cried.
"Never!" I said, pulling like mad at the scruff of his neck, "Not until you tell me what your species is planning to do to the earth!"
"Stop!" He cried again as I got a better grip on the top of his scalp and pulled like crazy. I could feel it move, but it didn't seem as though it would come off."
"Hey! What are you doing!?" Said a passerby.
"This apartment building is full of man-sized insects," I said, "and this is one of them in disguise. I'm going to unmask him and find out what their plans are!"
"Christ, another whacko." The guy said. Then he ran up to try and pry my arm away from the giant insect's neck. Eventually, and with much struggling, they were able to pry me off, however, as they did, I jumped back and whipped out my gun.
"Allright." I said. "Look Mr. I don't know if you're working for them, or if you're just a confused bystander, but whether this bug's dead or alive, I'm going to have his mask off." Then, I addressed the bug in the mask. "So what's it going to be? You've got three seconds before I fire!" The bug didn't move.
"One." I said quickly. The bystander's eyes moved rapidly between me, my gun, and the masked bug.
"Two!" I didn't wait long to say it, and then cocked the hammer back. The bug reached up and began pulling off his realistic-looking human mask. Underneath, wasn't a man-sized bug, but instead a man-sized duck!
"Holy crap!" The bystander said, jumping away from the duck.
"All-right duck." I said, keeping him covered, "What's this all about?"
"Quack." He said.
"So it's going to be like that huh." I turned to the bystander, "Hey buddy, see what I'm talking about!!??"
"Uh, yeah..." He said, confused.
"Well you'd better go fetch some law. Who knows what else is in that apartment building!"
"Yeah," He finished, and took off up the street.
I turned back to the duck.
"So, what insidious plots are you hatching in that apartment building?"
"Quack, quack." He said.
I shot him in the leg.
Lousy ducks.
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
And now, another installment of Mr. Pigglesworth and Mr. Gimpson!
Mr. Pigglesworth looked over the body of a tall man, with a top-hat crushed under his head. He had a dark beard, and a long coat covering expensive clothes.
"I say Gimpson, he's dead!" He said to his companion, who was busy taking a snort out of a hammered pewter hip-flask. After he finished his sip, he placed the cap back on it, and put it into his coat.
"Perhaps he was a spy, and deserved death."
"A spy?!" Pigglesworth said incredulously.
"Yes. A person in the employ of a foreign power, paid to discover and pass along sensitive information."
"Gimpson, I know what a spy is. What makes you say that this man is a spy?"
"Well, look at his shoes..." Gimpson pointed at the shoe-souls with a silver-capped cane. "They're from France. And examine his pocket-watch" He pointed again with his cane at the timepiece, which was flung away from the body, but still attached to the man's vest with a chain. "It's Swiss. Obviously we're dealing with a continental. And since he still has his watch, and it appears as though his pockets have not been searched, then we can assume he wasn't killed by a common mugger. Therefore I speculate, it's a matter of National Security!"
Mr. Pigglesworth looked concerned. He scratched his chin, and exhaled - his nostrils making two jets of steam below his moustache. "Well, following your logic, he could just have easily been killed in a crime of passion, or perhaps he ran afoul of a demonic cult. I say!" Pigglesworth exclaimed excitedly as he saw buried in the man's side, the handle of a knife...it's hilt was studded with rubies and gemstones."Look at this! It appears more like the work of a Demonic Cult I should say!"
"Or perhaps it's a weapon from India, where there are known to be forces working against Her majesty's government. I'm of the belief that the man was a spy for one of these forces, and either betrayed them, or somehow ran afoul of their bizarre and secret rites - and was then slain by them!"
"That seems a little far-fetched old man, if I do say so myself. Either way, I suppose we should fetch a constable."
"Surely, if you wish to contaminate the scene with the bungling incompetence of provincial detectives."
"Provincial!" Exclaimed Pigglesworth. "We're in London! The largest, and most cosmopolitan city on the planet!"
"Yes, but how well is Scotland Yard acquainted with the ways of international intrigue? Not very, I should hazard to guess."
Pigglesworth put his hands in the pockets of his overcoat, and looked at his friend.
"Gimpson, I can't for the life of me understand why you've taken so strongly to this obviously fanciful theory."
"Because my good Pigglesworth, if it is a matter of national security, the only way we can truly help, is to walk away until the real authorities arrive - which I'm sure they will. If not, we'll be bogged down by police interviews for hours, and thereby missing the curtain for Macbeth. Now Sterling Smythe is in the starring role, and one of the most powerful actors to take the stage of the 19th century. And, as I might add, I also paid a pretty sum to acquire box seats for."
"Oh, I see." Said Pigglesworth, "I'll admit, I was anticipating the performance until we came across the body of..." Pigglesworth paused for a long moment, "This international spy. You are correct Mr. Gimpson in suggesting we leave it up to the Queen's agents, in order to not befoul an already very complicated situation."
Gimpson nodded his head, and began walking down the cobblestone street. Mr. Pigglesworth cast a last look at the corpse, and hurried after. By the time he had caught up, Gimpson had once again taken out his flask and uncapped it.
"To her Majesty's Defender's!" And had a long pull from it. Then he handed it over to Mr. Pigglesworth.
"To her Majesty's Defender's!" He repeated as he had a shot. Then he asked a question. "I say, Gimpson?"
"What?"
"Do you think we're patriots?"
"Of course Pigglesworth, no ordinary citizen would have done what we just did for the crown."
"Quite right." Said Pigglesworth.
"I say Gimpson, he's dead!" He said to his companion, who was busy taking a snort out of a hammered pewter hip-flask. After he finished his sip, he placed the cap back on it, and put it into his coat.
"Perhaps he was a spy, and deserved death."
"A spy?!" Pigglesworth said incredulously.
"Yes. A person in the employ of a foreign power, paid to discover and pass along sensitive information."
"Gimpson, I know what a spy is. What makes you say that this man is a spy?"
"Well, look at his shoes..." Gimpson pointed at the shoe-souls with a silver-capped cane. "They're from France. And examine his pocket-watch" He pointed again with his cane at the timepiece, which was flung away from the body, but still attached to the man's vest with a chain. "It's Swiss. Obviously we're dealing with a continental. And since he still has his watch, and it appears as though his pockets have not been searched, then we can assume he wasn't killed by a common mugger. Therefore I speculate, it's a matter of National Security!"
Mr. Pigglesworth looked concerned. He scratched his chin, and exhaled - his nostrils making two jets of steam below his moustache. "Well, following your logic, he could just have easily been killed in a crime of passion, or perhaps he ran afoul of a demonic cult. I say!" Pigglesworth exclaimed excitedly as he saw buried in the man's side, the handle of a knife...it's hilt was studded with rubies and gemstones."Look at this! It appears more like the work of a Demonic Cult I should say!"
"Or perhaps it's a weapon from India, where there are known to be forces working against Her majesty's government. I'm of the belief that the man was a spy for one of these forces, and either betrayed them, or somehow ran afoul of their bizarre and secret rites - and was then slain by them!"
"That seems a little far-fetched old man, if I do say so myself. Either way, I suppose we should fetch a constable."
"Surely, if you wish to contaminate the scene with the bungling incompetence of provincial detectives."
"Provincial!" Exclaimed Pigglesworth. "We're in London! The largest, and most cosmopolitan city on the planet!"
"Yes, but how well is Scotland Yard acquainted with the ways of international intrigue? Not very, I should hazard to guess."
Pigglesworth put his hands in the pockets of his overcoat, and looked at his friend.
"Gimpson, I can't for the life of me understand why you've taken so strongly to this obviously fanciful theory."
"Because my good Pigglesworth, if it is a matter of national security, the only way we can truly help, is to walk away until the real authorities arrive - which I'm sure they will. If not, we'll be bogged down by police interviews for hours, and thereby missing the curtain for Macbeth. Now Sterling Smythe is in the starring role, and one of the most powerful actors to take the stage of the 19th century. And, as I might add, I also paid a pretty sum to acquire box seats for."
"Oh, I see." Said Pigglesworth, "I'll admit, I was anticipating the performance until we came across the body of..." Pigglesworth paused for a long moment, "This international spy. You are correct Mr. Gimpson in suggesting we leave it up to the Queen's agents, in order to not befoul an already very complicated situation."
Gimpson nodded his head, and began walking down the cobblestone street. Mr. Pigglesworth cast a last look at the corpse, and hurried after. By the time he had caught up, Gimpson had once again taken out his flask and uncapped it.
"To her Majesty's Defender's!" And had a long pull from it. Then he handed it over to Mr. Pigglesworth.
"To her Majesty's Defender's!" He repeated as he had a shot. Then he asked a question. "I say, Gimpson?"
"What?"
"Do you think we're patriots?"
"Of course Pigglesworth, no ordinary citizen would have done what we just did for the crown."
"Quite right." Said Pigglesworth.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
I was just
Digging in the archives a moment ago and thought I'd re-post this one.
Apart from the fact, that it's got just about everything you love about Fjord, only, from like 5 months ago...It's also got our patented-trademarked expression listed for the first time, Holy Google Search for "seething rage at everything."
Apart from the fact, that it's got just about everything you love about Fjord, only, from like 5 months ago...It's also got our patented-trademarked expression listed for the first time, Holy Google Search for "seething rage at everything."
I've taken it upon myself to try and use this phrase at least once a month (yeah, I know, it seems like I'm pushing it...but "Holy Google Search" has a LOT going for it...
And for yjou Q-Dog fans, he's got more than a few brilliant concoctions that month...might be worth a re-run.
Since nobody wanted to share with the class...
I'll forgo any real brain-work here and transcribe something I found in a notebook.
it starts something like this...
I stood at the crosswalk waiting for the Green Man. The sound of air-breaks ripped loudly in the quiet afternoon. I'll admit, with my nerves what they were, I both jumped and jerked my head to the left.
That's when I saw her. She came out of the rear doors of a Metro Bus - which were placed in the middle of a billboard that showed the tits, legs and lip-sticked mouth of that month's tart - hawking a theatrical release.
She looked at me, and the run down hamburger stand I stood next to with amused indifference, and took a slug from a Jack Daniels bottle. She hitched one strap of a red backpack that hung from her right shoulder, over a white t-shirt, and asked,
"Which way to Beauford Street?"
"I have no idea." I said.
"Okay." And she took off up the sidewalk.
Since I didn't have anything else to look at, I watched her go. After a few feet, she stopped, turned, and asked,
"So, what are you doing?"
I held up three golf clubs and said,
"Driving range."
"Sounds like something you could blow off for a bit. Howabout helping a girl find Beauford Street?"
She seemed like the kind of girl that could find Beauford Street on her own, but the Green Man was already twenty-five minutes late. I hefted the three clubs over my shoulder and said,
"Sure, I could do that."
"Which way."
"Uh, I guess it really doesn't matter..."
it starts something like this...
I stood at the crosswalk waiting for the Green Man. The sound of air-breaks ripped loudly in the quiet afternoon. I'll admit, with my nerves what they were, I both jumped and jerked my head to the left.
That's when I saw her. She came out of the rear doors of a Metro Bus - which were placed in the middle of a billboard that showed the tits, legs and lip-sticked mouth of that month's tart - hawking a theatrical release.
She looked at me, and the run down hamburger stand I stood next to with amused indifference, and took a slug from a Jack Daniels bottle. She hitched one strap of a red backpack that hung from her right shoulder, over a white t-shirt, and asked,
"Which way to Beauford Street?"
"I have no idea." I said.
"Okay." And she took off up the sidewalk.
Since I didn't have anything else to look at, I watched her go. After a few feet, she stopped, turned, and asked,
"So, what are you doing?"
I held up three golf clubs and said,
"Driving range."
"Sounds like something you could blow off for a bit. Howabout helping a girl find Beauford Street?"
She seemed like the kind of girl that could find Beauford Street on her own, but the Green Man was already twenty-five minutes late. I hefted the three clubs over my shoulder and said,
"Sure, I could do that."
"Which way."
"Uh, I guess it really doesn't matter..."
Monday, November 14, 2005
It could go either way...
This weekend, Papa Tsunami was in town, and while he was here, I gots some, "culture." Of course, living in a megalopolis like L.A., there's tons of stuff happnin', but I rarely do anything about it. As it turns out, I went to the outstanding Getty Center, where I got lucky, and caught an exhibit of a kickass photographer named Weege. Over here's a sample of his work. Anyways, we also took in a symphonic performance at Disney Hall, which was also pretty damn impressive.
But I think tonight, I'd like to inquire if anyone else but me thinks mermaids are sexy?
They're pretty, elusive, got magical powers, are rarely shy about covering their breasts, and I've wondered over the span of some 20-odd years, how exactly are you supposed to act out your manly (er...humanid) desires on, umm...the lower erogenous zones when there ain't exactly an obvious erogenous zone. My thinking on the issue is that, it would become obvious what to do, if you were locked in a passionate act with a mermaid (or mermen - fer you Fairest of Fjordian readers...which is pretty damn fair, since, as I've mentioned before Fjord readers have been statistically proven to be uber-hot.)
Since I'm not quite myself tonight, I'd like to finish up this post by musing on the word erogenous. Does it surprise anyone that the word is derived from the spawn of Venus, Eros?
Of course not.
Well, if anyone has any insight into this kind of thing, it'd be you, handsome/gorgeous Fjordlings. Perhaps you'd like to share with the class?
But I think tonight, I'd like to inquire if anyone else but me thinks mermaids are sexy?
They're pretty, elusive, got magical powers, are rarely shy about covering their breasts, and I've wondered over the span of some 20-odd years, how exactly are you supposed to act out your manly (er...humanid) desires on, umm...the lower erogenous zones when there ain't exactly an obvious erogenous zone. My thinking on the issue is that, it would become obvious what to do, if you were locked in a passionate act with a mermaid (or mermen - fer you Fairest of Fjordian readers...which is pretty damn fair, since, as I've mentioned before Fjord readers have been statistically proven to be uber-hot.)
Since I'm not quite myself tonight, I'd like to finish up this post by musing on the word erogenous. Does it surprise anyone that the word is derived from the spawn of Venus, Eros?
Of course not.
Well, if anyone has any insight into this kind of thing, it'd be you, handsome/gorgeous Fjordlings. Perhaps you'd like to share with the class?
Friday, November 11, 2005
Deet...Deet...Deet-Deet-Deet...Fjordnews...Deet..Deet
Keeping you in the know about all the latest in PIRATE NEWS...
the attempt by Somali pirates was thwarted using a military-grade SONIC WEAPON!
(altho the fact that it's reported on the BBC makes me wonder why we didn't hear about it in the good 'ole US-of-A...we used sonic weapons on our own citizens in New Orleans? The King of the Swamp People will have something to say about that, I'm sure...)
There's also a kickass map of the world and the location of reported pirate attacks this year! It's all right here.
the attempt by Somali pirates was thwarted using a military-grade SONIC WEAPON!
(altho the fact that it's reported on the BBC makes me wonder why we didn't hear about it in the good 'ole US-of-A...we used sonic weapons on our own citizens in New Orleans? The King of the Swamp People will have something to say about that, I'm sure...)
There's also a kickass map of the world and the location of reported pirate attacks this year! It's all right here.
Fjord Jumping
Trumpets are sounding! Lots of trumpets, like, fifty! The dawn cracks and Friday is in the middle of a dream. He's standing at the beginning of the world. Next to him is Thor (yeah, the God) and Friday hawks up a big gob of spit, and shoots it flying 850 yards. Thor takes off - up into the air (he's got wings on his helmet...or something) and smites the spot where the spit lands.
An earth shattering thunderclap echoes across the sky. And there, a massive Fjord opens up, cracking it's way to the sea. It's waters are pure deep blue, and on its steep hills grass and goats appear.
"Do it again!" Thor shouts excitedly.
Friday picks up a nearby rock, and throws it over a neighboring hill. Thor rises up and follows, disappearing for a moment, then another thunderclap. Laughter from the mighty thunder-god echoes off rocks and trees and earth. "I could do this all day!" He shouts, followed by more laughter. "Friday - Do It Again!" Friday looks around for something else to throw. He spies a piece of driftwood, and walks over to pick it up. "Friday - do it again."
"All right-all right, I am..." he mumbles.
"Friday."
"Friday."
"Friday."
"Whaaaat!" He says, waking up. Thursday's kicking Friday in the side.
"Get up! I'm done, turning in for the day...er...week, man, I'm so tired I can't remember what the hell's going on anymore. Anyways, it's your shift." Thursday's got bags under his eyes, a rip in his pants, and carrying a backpack full of cats and weasels. Occasionally one sticks its head out, or gives a strange pained hi-pitched Merrrrowww!
"What the...?" Friday mutters.
"Don't even ask. Just get up." Thursday trudges off.
Friday looks at his clock...it's 8-billion years later than his dream. All around the world, people are about to get up, turn on their televisions and computers and fax machines and latte makers. How long would it take any of them to notice that Friday wasn't there? Even if they did, wouldn't they just go along with their days? Might they just assume that something was odd - with Themselves?!?
Friday's emperor-sized bed was warm and comfjordable. A few more hours wouldn't throw the whole universe off. And besides, he thought, he'd make it up to everybody later on. Didn't he always?
He slipped back through the dark of sleep, past the clouds and back to the earth primeval. Thor stood looking over a scenic fjord.
"Hey, where'dja go?" He spoke excitedly not concerned with an answer. "What do you think of this one!!?"
"That's, that's beautiful." Friday answered.
"Yer djamn right its beautiful, I made it. I'm a Gjoddamn Gjod! Everything I do is beautiful. Even the most horrible actions I make are filled with a horrible, terrible beauty."
Thats what Friday liked about hanging around with Thor - he was always so full of himself...a refreshing confidence of an entity that knows - I can do nothing wrong.
"Do it again!" Thor bellowed.
Friday picked up the driftwood, and threw it over the horizon.
Thor chased after it like a happy dog. Minutes later there was another thunderclap, and another Fjord.
Happy Friday
An earth shattering thunderclap echoes across the sky. And there, a massive Fjord opens up, cracking it's way to the sea. It's waters are pure deep blue, and on its steep hills grass and goats appear.
"Do it again!" Thor shouts excitedly.
Friday picks up a nearby rock, and throws it over a neighboring hill. Thor rises up and follows, disappearing for a moment, then another thunderclap. Laughter from the mighty thunder-god echoes off rocks and trees and earth. "I could do this all day!" He shouts, followed by more laughter. "Friday - Do It Again!" Friday looks around for something else to throw. He spies a piece of driftwood, and walks over to pick it up. "Friday - do it again."
"All right-all right, I am..." he mumbles.
"Friday."
"Friday."
"Friday."
"Whaaaat!" He says, waking up. Thursday's kicking Friday in the side.
"Get up! I'm done, turning in for the day...er...week, man, I'm so tired I can't remember what the hell's going on anymore. Anyways, it's your shift." Thursday's got bags under his eyes, a rip in his pants, and carrying a backpack full of cats and weasels. Occasionally one sticks its head out, or gives a strange pained hi-pitched Merrrrowww!
"What the...?" Friday mutters.
"Don't even ask. Just get up." Thursday trudges off.
Friday looks at his clock...it's 8-billion years later than his dream. All around the world, people are about to get up, turn on their televisions and computers and fax machines and latte makers. How long would it take any of them to notice that Friday wasn't there? Even if they did, wouldn't they just go along with their days? Might they just assume that something was odd - with Themselves?!?
Friday's emperor-sized bed was warm and comfjordable. A few more hours wouldn't throw the whole universe off. And besides, he thought, he'd make it up to everybody later on. Didn't he always?
He slipped back through the dark of sleep, past the clouds and back to the earth primeval. Thor stood looking over a scenic fjord.
"Hey, where'dja go?" He spoke excitedly not concerned with an answer. "What do you think of this one!!?"
"That's, that's beautiful." Friday answered.
"Yer djamn right its beautiful, I made it. I'm a Gjoddamn Gjod! Everything I do is beautiful. Even the most horrible actions I make are filled with a horrible, terrible beauty."
Thats what Friday liked about hanging around with Thor - he was always so full of himself...a refreshing confidence of an entity that knows - I can do nothing wrong.
"Do it again!" Thor bellowed.
Friday picked up the driftwood, and threw it over the horizon.
Thor chased after it like a happy dog. Minutes later there was another thunderclap, and another Fjord.
Happy Friday
P.S. Not much more to see here for the weekend. Might be a good time to catch up on our stupendous archives!
Thursday, November 10, 2005
QUESTION OF THE WEEK
Question:
Someone pays you 1-million dollars to get into the ring with Mike Tyson. Just to get into the ring! You've got the balls to accept...but once in the ring, whaddaya do?
do you
A) Run around until he takes a swing (that may be a glancing blow, or it may only be really close) and take a fall. Thereby earning the eternal title of "Wimp."
or
B) Take an actual full-bore Tyson punch - which may/would result in lost teeth, broken jaw, broken orbital socket, concussion, crushed larynx, broken arm, broken ribs/sternum, ruptured spleen/liver/tummy/intestines/lungs/heart. However, earning the eternal title of "That stupid guy who took that punch from Tyson."
Either way, it's a million dollars.
(I think I could live with being a wimp...but...)
Someone pays you 1-million dollars to get into the ring with Mike Tyson. Just to get into the ring! You've got the balls to accept...but once in the ring, whaddaya do?
do you
A) Run around until he takes a swing (that may be a glancing blow, or it may only be really close) and take a fall. Thereby earning the eternal title of "Wimp."
or
B) Take an actual full-bore Tyson punch - which may/would result in lost teeth, broken jaw, broken orbital socket, concussion, crushed larynx, broken arm, broken ribs/sternum, ruptured spleen/liver/tummy/intestines/lungs/heart. However, earning the eternal title of "That stupid guy who took that punch from Tyson."
Either way, it's a million dollars.
(I think I could live with being a wimp...but...)
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
(A Letter) A quick and not-too-well-thought-out-thought-on...
Fjord: A Webzine.
Use-ta' kinda' like the whole "blog" thing. But a while back, (umm, last week or something) it turned out that 20-million people have a "blog." Ugg, now I'm sick of it. Someone tells me they're a "blogger," I'd prefer to rip their throats out with my teeth.
I started reading folks in the world-o-blogs cause I thought it was nice there was some people talking about politics that didn't have a Mass-Audience-Press vibe. I could get some (ahem) ideas about, what the hell was going on in a political/news spectrum - that had some sort of shape that resembled mine. Then I found out there were like a million others! But they were different. And they talked about their lives like...well like, dating and working, and doing whatever the hell they did during the day. And I also thought that was kinda' cool, cause, somewhere deep down, I could relate.
But then I got kinda' tired of following the exploits of the bloggers, cause, it's just, (to quote the Red-Rocker...Sammy Hagar) mental masturbation - or perhaps a mental circle-jerk. Either way - for me, the plan would be to have something that didn't quite deal with either of those. Somewhere the blog-weary would have a place that had nothing to do politically with the outside world, (where you might find an amusing/interesting story-filtered from the Webmonster you might not have caught) and yet some vaguely amusing stories (with the names changed to protect the innocent) touching on daily life, that might give a chuckle or guffaw, and be worth reading. (and, I should add, some completely made-up-crap that could be entertaining.)
Anyways, a couple'a days ago, I got caught up in the "blogger-madness" and put out a "I'm hungry for praise," post, which said..."It's been 113 days since anyone but me wrote anything on this-here webzine we call Fjord.
I hope it hasn't let you down."
This was the only response.
"It has. Not that you can't hold your own. You're more than capable of filling fjord with quality entries. But as usual, q-dog brings the party." (edited for time and content - thanks Mr.H)
Cutting thru the crap...
Totally right.
100%
"The Q-Dog brings the party."
Fuck, even I show up here looking for something he wrote, with a small letdown that it ain't there. But, I'd be a real blogger, to say something like, "Well, if that's all I'm gonna get, then fuck alls-ya-alls, we're done here!"
Cause as long as yer coming back to see if the Q-D wrote something, and read a vaguely/mildly/greatly amusing deal-I-OH at Fjord: The Webzine...and it took you away from people's problems, and the (small/medium/large) political or personal quandaries that everyone's gotta' face...then we've done our job.
(check below...I've got some kickass links!)
Yers,
-West Coast Branch-
Use-ta' kinda' like the whole "blog" thing. But a while back, (umm, last week or something) it turned out that 20-million people have a "blog." Ugg, now I'm sick of it. Someone tells me they're a "blogger," I'd prefer to rip their throats out with my teeth.
I started reading folks in the world-o-blogs cause I thought it was nice there was some people talking about politics that didn't have a Mass-Audience-Press vibe. I could get some (ahem) ideas about, what the hell was going on in a political/news spectrum - that had some sort of shape that resembled mine. Then I found out there were like a million others! But they were different. And they talked about their lives like...well like, dating and working, and doing whatever the hell they did during the day. And I also thought that was kinda' cool, cause, somewhere deep down, I could relate.
But then I got kinda' tired of following the exploits of the bloggers, cause, it's just, (to quote the Red-Rocker...Sammy Hagar) mental masturbation - or perhaps a mental circle-jerk. Either way - for me, the plan would be to have something that didn't quite deal with either of those. Somewhere the blog-weary would have a place that had nothing to do politically with the outside world, (where you might find an amusing/interesting story-filtered from the Webmonster you might not have caught) and yet some vaguely amusing stories (with the names changed to protect the innocent) touching on daily life, that might give a chuckle or guffaw, and be worth reading. (and, I should add, some completely made-up-crap that could be entertaining.)
Anyways, a couple'a days ago, I got caught up in the "blogger-madness" and put out a "I'm hungry for praise," post, which said..."It's been 113 days since anyone but me wrote anything on this-here webzine we call Fjord.
I hope it hasn't let you down."
This was the only response.
"It has. Not that you can't hold your own. You're more than capable of filling fjord with quality entries. But as usual, q-dog brings the party." (edited for time and content - thanks Mr.H)
Cutting thru the crap...
Totally right.
100%
"The Q-Dog brings the party."
Fuck, even I show up here looking for something he wrote, with a small letdown that it ain't there. But, I'd be a real blogger, to say something like, "Well, if that's all I'm gonna get, then fuck alls-ya-alls, we're done here!"
Cause as long as yer coming back to see if the Q-D wrote something, and read a vaguely/mildly/greatly amusing deal-I-OH at Fjord: The Webzine...and it took you away from people's problems, and the (small/medium/large) political or personal quandaries that everyone's gotta' face...then we've done our job.
(check below...I've got some kickass links!)
Yers,
-West Coast Branch-
I Have Some Links...
Here's a great post from Pop. Since I can't find the exact URL, you'll have to look for the Nov, 9 05 post...but it's great!
Moving on to the news, we have some nice 'uns.
like...
Fire eater set stripper's boobs alight
(sweet...)
Exploding Head Syndrome
Finally...Robot Bartenders!
I also punked Boingboing for this super-happy-fun video from Japan. Just amazing! Go Watch!
Then there's
Venus Probe Launched Successfully
(While it's not much of a story, I find the picture to be...sort of...well, you do the juxtaposition)
And an Italian town, situated on a hillside, basically goes into the dark every winter, and wants to install a giant mirror to help them get some sun. I can see this somehow going horribly wrong...but even if it doesn't it's still a cool story.
Okay, have a great rest of the Wed!
Moving on to the news, we have some nice 'uns.
like...
Fire eater set stripper's boobs alight
(sweet...)
Exploding Head Syndrome
Finally...Robot Bartenders!
I also punked Boingboing for this super-happy-fun video from Japan. Just amazing! Go Watch!
Then there's
Venus Probe Launched Successfully
(While it's not much of a story, I find the picture to be...sort of...well, you do the juxtaposition)
And an Italian town, situated on a hillside, basically goes into the dark every winter, and wants to install a giant mirror to help them get some sun. I can see this somehow going horribly wrong...but even if it doesn't it's still a cool story.
Okay, have a great rest of the Wed!
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
There was some kind of electioneering going on...
and I didn't like it. So I went to the votin' place, (cause I can't bring myself to call it the "polling place.") and shot down everything. Now I gots some other pressing biz-ness to deal with. Maybe I'll get a shot to drop something later...
Sunday, November 06, 2005
I've just made my own day
I bought Achtung Baby at a garage sale for 25 cents.
Ya, ya, I know...it's not "current" or anything...jeebuz, it's from 1991 for Gjod's sake and I gots to tell ya, writing that year out, actually makes me realize how fucking old I am.
I'm one of those people that actually gave a fuck when U2 changed from their New-Wave, post-punk Irish-strife roots to their current bigger-than-the Beatles mode. I thought they had sold out...and I thought that sucked, cause they were gooooood.
About this time, I was working as a valet for a ritzy Chinese restaurant, and for the first time in my valet career, I was assigned to drive off a fucking sweet Jaguar Xj6, and honest...it was the first (and last) time I ever drove a jag. As I took off to park the ride, I figgered, "When are you ever going to drive a Jag again?" And I took that car for a ride...
Now, somehow...someone...the person that owned the fucking car, had Achtung Baby in the C.D. player. Now driving through downtown Minneapolis in a jag, sorta' puts your mind in a different place. "One" came on, and I cruised past some traffic, and realized, I had been wrong about the whole thing. It was fucking awesome.
So now, 14 years later, I own the gjoddamn cd. Bought for 25 cents, and I've been blasting it for the last 35 minutes at the max volume of my cd/dvd stereo surround sound. I haven't been disappointed yet.
Oh, and shortly before I found this C.D. at the before-mentioned garage sale, I found what I had been looking for. A Gjoddamn crown. I offered the fella 26 cents for it (that was all I had in cash money) and he said,
"No, just take it...
It looks good on you."
I may, without even really trying...
have become the King of Hollywood.
Now, If I could just get my grubby little hands on a Jag...
Ya, ya, I know...it's not "current" or anything...jeebuz, it's from 1991 for Gjod's sake and I gots to tell ya, writing that year out, actually makes me realize how fucking old I am.
I'm one of those people that actually gave a fuck when U2 changed from their New-Wave, post-punk Irish-strife roots to their current bigger-than-the Beatles mode. I thought they had sold out...and I thought that sucked, cause they were gooooood.
About this time, I was working as a valet for a ritzy Chinese restaurant, and for the first time in my valet career, I was assigned to drive off a fucking sweet Jaguar Xj6, and honest...it was the first (and last) time I ever drove a jag. As I took off to park the ride, I figgered, "When are you ever going to drive a Jag again?" And I took that car for a ride...
Now, somehow...someone...the person that owned the fucking car, had Achtung Baby in the C.D. player. Now driving through downtown Minneapolis in a jag, sorta' puts your mind in a different place. "One" came on, and I cruised past some traffic, and realized, I had been wrong about the whole thing. It was fucking awesome.
So now, 14 years later, I own the gjoddamn cd. Bought for 25 cents, and I've been blasting it for the last 35 minutes at the max volume of my cd/dvd stereo surround sound. I haven't been disappointed yet.
Oh, and shortly before I found this C.D. at the before-mentioned garage sale, I found what I had been looking for. A Gjoddamn crown. I offered the fella 26 cents for it (that was all I had in cash money) and he said,
"No, just take it...
It looks good on you."
I may, without even really trying...
have become the King of Hollywood.
Now, If I could just get my grubby little hands on a Jag...
It seems like I've got to tell people fucking everything.
DO NOT TAKE A VACATION IN/AROUND SOMALIA!
Christ...
What are you thinking!? There's bad people over there! And Pirates!
Real bad evil nasty cruel pirates.
Christ...
What are you thinking!? There's bad people over there! And Pirates!
Real bad evil nasty cruel pirates.
Friday, November 04, 2005
Just a teeeeny-tiiiiny reminder...
It's been 113 days since anyone but me wrote anything on this-here webzine we call Fjord.
I hope it hasn't let you down.
-Tsunami-
I hope it hasn't let you down.
-Tsunami-
Sorry for the delay...
But yer pal D.Tsunami had some real people-to-people interactions this early eve...and for those of you who "aren't in the know" I can be pretty damn charming. That means, unfortunately, time taken...nay, stolen, from blogging.
So without further ado...here's this post!
Friday sat with eager eyes in the passenger seat of a sweet conversion van that raced across the city.
"Would you like anything?" Asks Thursday, nursing a wicked hangover, but serving the greater cause, by driving.
"I would like..." Friday says, rubbing his solid jaw, "I would like sex. I would like drugs. I would like rock-n-roll."
Thursday leans forward and clicks on the radio. Sidewalkin' By Jesus and the Mary Chain begins.
"Well, I can help you with the last." Thursday leans back and tries to blink away his dubious take on reality.
"I know a pusher over on 14th street." Monday says from a captains chair in the back of the van. He's still wearing his bad-ass attitude from the week's Halloween.
"I would like..." Friday continues, "I would like someone to talk smart to me."
"What?" Tuesday asks, from way back in the van on a bench seat.
"I would like someone to talk smart to me." Friday repeats himself. "I like it when people talk smart to me."
"Shall I tell you about the differences between post-conceptualism and post-modernism?" Wednesday's hump-back asks.
"No."
The van is quiet, except for the radio.
---I gotta get a car---and I gotta get a ride---I gotta get a car with Jesus on my side---sidewalkin...sidewalkin...sidewalkin...sidewalkin...
"There are a select few people in the world," Friday speaks, adopting a philosophical tone, "who bring out the best in me. Now, we're all friends from, well from day one. Whatever surprises you surprise me with, or any of us with, are surprises that we have come to expect from each other. That doesn't' mean we don't appreciate it, it's just that it's routine. But there are entities out there in the world that make me stand up on my toes, and play at my "A" game. They're the kind of people that I'm not sure what they're going to do next. They're the kind of people who are willing to fall flat in front of me, and they're the kind of people who combine things together that I would never have thought in a million years. They're the kind of people that can make me wax philosophical over a thought, or crack me up with real laughter, over crazy impressions of things I completely understand, but never combined. I want to be surrounded by them tonight."
"Dude," said Tuesday, "That's a pretty fucked up request."
Wednesday added, "Yeah man, I mean, how we supposed to just deliver that to your..."
He was cut off by Thursday.
"I got an in with the Muses."
"What?" Asked Friday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Monday, all at once.
"Yaknow...the muses. Calliope, Clio, Erato, Euterpe, Melpomene, Polyhymnia, Terpsichore, Thalia, and Urania. Yaknow, the Fucking Nine Muses. If you're around them and you ain't inspired to bring your "A" game, well, then you really ain't a playa.'"
Friday looked over at his driver. He had a strange, and shocked look on his face. "You mean that all this time, you've known the Muses?!? Why didn't you tell me!"
Thursday's eyes were on the road as two cars collided in front of him. They spun off to the right in a shower of sparks and skidding wheels. He moved the conversion van over to the left lane, passing the spinning mass of metal as it plowed into a streetlight, which buckled, and started a slow decent towards the street. The van scooted under it without much trouble.
"Sometimes man," Thursday spoke calmly, oblivious to the other weekday's white knuckles (even Friday's) on their arm-rests, "It's nice to know something that other people don't. Having a secret is having power. You get that, right?"
"Yeah..." Friday said, cracking his neck, and looking back in the passenger-side rear view mirror at the flaming mess that once was two cars. "I totally respect that. And thanks...thanks for letting us know. Now. Let's meet the Muses, I got a thing or two to tell that bitch Clio! Fucking up my flow and shit!"
"You'd be wise to not use that word around her." Thursday knocked the pre-set on the radio, and Big Spender came on. "Those broads are fucking touchy about their vanity."
"Considering what tonight could be..." Friday spoke, looking out the window at a passing dirty, run-down strip mall, "Consider me warned."
Happy Friday
So without further ado...here's this post!
Friday sat with eager eyes in the passenger seat of a sweet conversion van that raced across the city.
"Would you like anything?" Asks Thursday, nursing a wicked hangover, but serving the greater cause, by driving.
"I would like..." Friday says, rubbing his solid jaw, "I would like sex. I would like drugs. I would like rock-n-roll."
Thursday leans forward and clicks on the radio. Sidewalkin' By Jesus and the Mary Chain begins.
"Well, I can help you with the last." Thursday leans back and tries to blink away his dubious take on reality.
"I know a pusher over on 14th street." Monday says from a captains chair in the back of the van. He's still wearing his bad-ass attitude from the week's Halloween.
"I would like..." Friday continues, "I would like someone to talk smart to me."
"What?" Tuesday asks, from way back in the van on a bench seat.
"I would like someone to talk smart to me." Friday repeats himself. "I like it when people talk smart to me."
"Shall I tell you about the differences between post-conceptualism and post-modernism?" Wednesday's hump-back asks.
"No."
The van is quiet, except for the radio.
---I gotta get a car---and I gotta get a ride---I gotta get a car with Jesus on my side---sidewalkin...sidewalkin...sidewalkin...sidewalkin...
"There are a select few people in the world," Friday speaks, adopting a philosophical tone, "who bring out the best in me. Now, we're all friends from, well from day one. Whatever surprises you surprise me with, or any of us with, are surprises that we have come to expect from each other. That doesn't' mean we don't appreciate it, it's just that it's routine. But there are entities out there in the world that make me stand up on my toes, and play at my "A" game. They're the kind of people that I'm not sure what they're going to do next. They're the kind of people who are willing to fall flat in front of me, and they're the kind of people who combine things together that I would never have thought in a million years. They're the kind of people that can make me wax philosophical over a thought, or crack me up with real laughter, over crazy impressions of things I completely understand, but never combined. I want to be surrounded by them tonight."
"Dude," said Tuesday, "That's a pretty fucked up request."
Wednesday added, "Yeah man, I mean, how we supposed to just deliver that to your..."
He was cut off by Thursday.
"I got an in with the Muses."
"What?" Asked Friday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Monday, all at once.
"Yaknow...the muses. Calliope, Clio, Erato, Euterpe, Melpomene, Polyhymnia, Terpsichore, Thalia, and Urania. Yaknow, the Fucking Nine Muses. If you're around them and you ain't inspired to bring your "A" game, well, then you really ain't a playa.'"
Friday looked over at his driver. He had a strange, and shocked look on his face. "You mean that all this time, you've known the Muses?!? Why didn't you tell me!"
Thursday's eyes were on the road as two cars collided in front of him. They spun off to the right in a shower of sparks and skidding wheels. He moved the conversion van over to the left lane, passing the spinning mass of metal as it plowed into a streetlight, which buckled, and started a slow decent towards the street. The van scooted under it without much trouble.
"Sometimes man," Thursday spoke calmly, oblivious to the other weekday's white knuckles (even Friday's) on their arm-rests, "It's nice to know something that other people don't. Having a secret is having power. You get that, right?"
"Yeah..." Friday said, cracking his neck, and looking back in the passenger-side rear view mirror at the flaming mess that once was two cars. "I totally respect that. And thanks...thanks for letting us know. Now. Let's meet the Muses, I got a thing or two to tell that bitch Clio! Fucking up my flow and shit!"
"You'd be wise to not use that word around her." Thursday knocked the pre-set on the radio, and Big Spender came on. "Those broads are fucking touchy about their vanity."
"Considering what tonight could be..." Friday spoke, looking out the window at a passing dirty, run-down strip mall, "Consider me warned."
Happy Friday
Thursday, November 03, 2005
I can't let you go away...
So nearly empty-handed.
I just put up a chunk of chaper two...over at Batrastard's Burlesque.
Check it out...
I just put up a chunk of chaper two...over at Batrastard's Burlesque.
Check it out...
Housekeeping...
For those of you who are in the "know," I do quite a lot of wordsmithing around here. On occasions I run out of stuff to write about, and mostly then I just post links to stuff I think is kinda cool. Sometimes when I'm tapped, and there's nothing cool to link too, I just don't put anything up.
However lame it may be to not post anything, there are always ideas floating around...ideas that might make the beginnings of a good/great posts (only two options here at Fjord...well maybe STUPENDOUS...but we all know that's a rarity, which is why stupendous isn't a word thrown around lightly at cocktail parties. (except by really really drunk fellas'.)) So for today, I wanted to throw out some ideas that didn't make posts this week.
1) Writing. Ya, I know, I've written about how hard writing is before, but this is different. See the closest skill I can compare writing to (um, at the moment...don't push me or I'll bring up the super particle collider) is knitting.
See, to be a writer, you've got to stitch together words, that make some sort of sense, and don't have a whole lot of glaring mistakes, in order to make a whole. However, when someone asks, "What do you do?" And you say, "I'm a writer," well, they're just going to have to take your words for it. Or, if they're really ambitious, they can ask to "see" some of your writing. This implies they Want To Read Your Words. Even if you happen to have a manuscript on you, there's basically no way of making sure they read it. (even if they think it's crap, at least they would have to read it first.)
However, someone who knits has something really tangible at the end. A scarf, afghan. When someone says, "Oh, you're a knitter, what do you knit." You could say - this sweater I'm wearing. That's why being a writer is hard, much like knitting, if you ain't doing it, you're not a knitter, er...a writer.
2) My bathroom. Jeeeeeeezus! This is an ongoing saga, that really, I can't even go into, other than it's lasted three weeks, and since Monday, I've been taking showers in the upstairs bathroom...horrible. Perhaps if I have a spare moment this weekend, I'll go into detail. But it's got lots of dust, grime, and mmm...plumbing. (no, it's not THAT kind of tale...sickos)
3) I've recently started advertising on Craigslist for sex-partners who have a serious cleaning fetish. I figger if I can get just a few over to the Casa, by the time they realize I'm not into them, they'll have cleaned up more than I could in a week.
And if I am...Jackpot!
4) And next (and foreshadowed buy #3 nicely don't-cha' think?) Dario Tsunami and Island Breeze Kitty are splitzville. I suppose it was too much to hope for with monikers so very diverse. I did some noir-detective-esque thinking on this and came up with this line.
"I should'a known when she started working for the Magic Kingdom, that we were through."
Don't get me wrong, it was nice, and not one hard feeling. But it's been lurking in my brain for a while.
5) Finally...today, I wrote out (I have excellent handwriting BTW, you'd be pleased as punch to read any words I wrote out in script...) the most AMAZING "B" ever scribed by a pen. I showed it to numerous "others," and they all agreed, it was the most ass-kicking "B" they'd ever seen. If I get my grubby little hands on a scanner, I'll show it too yas! Really.
6) Oh- ONE MORE! I had thought of expanding on this line, I wrote quite a while ago (read...within the last decade or two) it was the beginning of a song which never panned out. (what? you didn't know I was a songsmith either? Oh, well, yeah, I dabble)
Here it is.
Well, there's two good things that I know about.
One is getting in.
The other's getting out.
And now my brain is rid of all that. Next up...something to do with Friday.
-Tsunami-
However lame it may be to not post anything, there are always ideas floating around...ideas that might make the beginnings of a good/great posts (only two options here at Fjord...well maybe STUPENDOUS...but we all know that's a rarity, which is why stupendous isn't a word thrown around lightly at cocktail parties. (except by really really drunk fellas'.)) So for today, I wanted to throw out some ideas that didn't make posts this week.
1) Writing. Ya, I know, I've written about how hard writing is before, but this is different. See the closest skill I can compare writing to (um, at the moment...don't push me or I'll bring up the super particle collider) is knitting.
See, to be a writer, you've got to stitch together words, that make some sort of sense, and don't have a whole lot of glaring mistakes, in order to make a whole. However, when someone asks, "What do you do?" And you say, "I'm a writer," well, they're just going to have to take your words for it. Or, if they're really ambitious, they can ask to "see" some of your writing. This implies they Want To Read Your Words. Even if you happen to have a manuscript on you, there's basically no way of making sure they read it. (even if they think it's crap, at least they would have to read it first.)
However, someone who knits has something really tangible at the end. A scarf, afghan. When someone says, "Oh, you're a knitter, what do you knit." You could say - this sweater I'm wearing. That's why being a writer is hard, much like knitting, if you ain't doing it, you're not a knitter, er...a writer.
2) My bathroom. Jeeeeeeezus! This is an ongoing saga, that really, I can't even go into, other than it's lasted three weeks, and since Monday, I've been taking showers in the upstairs bathroom...horrible. Perhaps if I have a spare moment this weekend, I'll go into detail. But it's got lots of dust, grime, and mmm...plumbing. (no, it's not THAT kind of tale...sickos)
3) I've recently started advertising on Craigslist for sex-partners who have a serious cleaning fetish. I figger if I can get just a few over to the Casa, by the time they realize I'm not into them, they'll have cleaned up more than I could in a week.
And if I am...Jackpot!
4) And next (and foreshadowed buy #3 nicely don't-cha' think?) Dario Tsunami and Island Breeze Kitty are splitzville. I suppose it was too much to hope for with monikers so very diverse. I did some noir-detective-esque thinking on this and came up with this line.
"I should'a known when she started working for the Magic Kingdom, that we were through."
Don't get me wrong, it was nice, and not one hard feeling. But it's been lurking in my brain for a while.
5) Finally...today, I wrote out (I have excellent handwriting BTW, you'd be pleased as punch to read any words I wrote out in script...) the most AMAZING "B" ever scribed by a pen. I showed it to numerous "others," and they all agreed, it was the most ass-kicking "B" they'd ever seen. If I get my grubby little hands on a scanner, I'll show it too yas! Really.
6) Oh- ONE MORE! I had thought of expanding on this line, I wrote quite a while ago (read...within the last decade or two) it was the beginning of a song which never panned out. (what? you didn't know I was a songsmith either? Oh, well, yeah, I dabble)
Here it is.
Well, there's two good things that I know about.
One is getting in.
The other's getting out.
And now my brain is rid of all that. Next up...something to do with Friday.
-Tsunami-
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
De Los Muertos...
Today's Day of the Dead celebration has taken on a decidedly Tiki vibe. I don't exactly know why it decided to do that, but it did. There's torches scattered about, a nice fire-pit with a skewered pig, a spoooky old mask smoking over in the corner, next to the faux volcano. And of course, the spirits...the place is laden with 'em.
The fact that the party took place in the top floor of Mr. Head-Honcho's Hollywood penthouse of course, didn't make any bit of difference. I showed up clutching my invitation (which I had been clutching since the day I got it over two weeks ago. In Hollywood, you don't often get invitations to Mr. Head-Honcho's Hollywood extravaganzas all that often.) It was a small square of paper that had all the appropriate "invitation" stuff on it, but underneath was written "Get Freaky at the Tiki!" Which, I thought was a nice touch.
Anyways, I walked through the joint sizing up the crowd, and the kind of taste having a bajillion dollars can buy a fella'. I hit the bar, and got something with a mess of rum in it, and was about to saunter over to the girl with the leis, when an arm like a vice latched onto my shoulder.
"Hey Tsunami, great you could make it."
Holy-Smoke! It was Mr. Head-Honcho in the flesh! He was the kind of guy that advertised the benefits of having a personal trainer and a kick-ass dental plan. He also had a good tailor.
"Uh, sure Chief." I said. He was the kind of guy that wouldn't slander the title "Chief" if you called him that.
He walked me over to a staircase, and we went up to the roof, sauntered across it, and came to rest at the edge, looking out over the lights of Los Ang-el-eeze.
"Tsunami," He began, "I'm feeling empty. Lately, things just haven't filled me up. I can feel it, like I've got a hole in my soul, and I don't know what to do about it."
"Chief, you've got a hundred flunkies, and a thousand friends, mind my asking, why yer dropping this on me?"
"Well-hell, those kids...they've got spirit all right, but most of them can't handle the heavy stuff. I need someone that's got some soul to deal with this heavy sitch-u-ation. That's you."
I took a sip of drink, and thought, "Crap." I didn't want this problem, and most of all, I didn't want to be type-cast. However, it seemed I had no choice.
"Oh." I said, summoning up my best guru-vibe. "See, yer dealin' with a common post-modern combination of enui and the lack of personal awareness that comes from mirroring yourself in too many mass-media archetypes."
To our left, there was a loud thump. I looked over, and climbing over the rail of the roof, were seven strange, lurching ninja-clad men. Strange mechanical sounds came from them as they moved to surround us.
"Um, what are those?" I asked.
"Oh, don't worry about it," He said, "They're just zombie robot ninjas. I cut them out of the last picture, and they've been sorta pissed about it."
"Will they hurt us?" I enquired.
"They'll certainly kill us if we give them half-a-chance. Watch my back." He said, moving off. I dropped my drink and we lined up back-to-back. Three came forward. He lashed out with a massive right, breaking the jaw of a zombie robot ninja. The second rushed at me, I kicked out at waist-high level, and felt a satisfying crack around the pelvis. The third stopped and moved back to regroup with the other four.
"That's very interesting," Mr. Head-Honcho spoke, "Please continue with your narrative."
"See," I began uneasily as the zombie robot ninjas fiddled in their black ninja suits. "You're busy watching Indiana Jones, or Bart Simpson, or James Bond, and subconsciously you're identifying with the struggles that they're going through. Only their struggles are well-defined, by a writer, years before...they're going to get through them. However, since you're not them, your own actions seem weak, watery, unsure. You're just muddling through..."
He cut me off, "Hang on a sec. This is going to get tricky."
Sure enough, the zombie ninja robots had fiddled around and pulled out throwing stars! They adopted a semi-circle around us...and threw 'em.
Well, there was a lot of crazy jerking I put my body through...and I'm sure I'm going to feel some weird muscles tomorrow...but, apart from a clipped ear, and ripped shirt, I was unhurt. Of course Mr. Head-Honcho was fine. He then made a springing jump, and crushed one of the zombie ninja robots under two feet. Then he picked up the body, and swung it at the other three. It caught two, and the last one ran off to the edge with the sound of gimbles and servers. "YOU'LL NEVER WORK IN THIS TOWN AGAIN!" Head-Honcho shouted after him.
Then he turned to me with a perfectly calm tone-of-voice. "So you're saying because of our culture, I'm bound to feel this way, sooner or later?"
"Yeah. All of us get this way, but most of us don't have a bajillion bucks to make it go away. Go by a car, or apartment complex...or you could pick up a new hobby. Shopping's easier tho."
"Wow. Thanks Tsunami, this helps alot."
"Sure buddy."
He turned his back to me, and started walking for the stairs. "Well, enjoy the party, I've really got to mingle."
"You bet," I said, leaning on the rail, and noticing sadly, my drink had spilled. Then one of the zombie ninja robots began to move, trying to function with broken limbs. I scampered across the roof, and down the stairs. I thought, "It's a crazy town, El-Ay, anything can happen here." A grass-clad woman walked by with a tray of appetizers.
"Hey," I asked excitedly, "Is that Hawaiian pizza!?"
The fact that the party took place in the top floor of Mr. Head-Honcho's Hollywood penthouse of course, didn't make any bit of difference. I showed up clutching my invitation (which I had been clutching since the day I got it over two weeks ago. In Hollywood, you don't often get invitations to Mr. Head-Honcho's Hollywood extravaganzas all that often.) It was a small square of paper that had all the appropriate "invitation" stuff on it, but underneath was written "Get Freaky at the Tiki!" Which, I thought was a nice touch.
Anyways, I walked through the joint sizing up the crowd, and the kind of taste having a bajillion dollars can buy a fella'. I hit the bar, and got something with a mess of rum in it, and was about to saunter over to the girl with the leis, when an arm like a vice latched onto my shoulder.
"Hey Tsunami, great you could make it."
Holy-Smoke! It was Mr. Head-Honcho in the flesh! He was the kind of guy that advertised the benefits of having a personal trainer and a kick-ass dental plan. He also had a good tailor.
"Uh, sure Chief." I said. He was the kind of guy that wouldn't slander the title "Chief" if you called him that.
He walked me over to a staircase, and we went up to the roof, sauntered across it, and came to rest at the edge, looking out over the lights of Los Ang-el-eeze.
"Tsunami," He began, "I'm feeling empty. Lately, things just haven't filled me up. I can feel it, like I've got a hole in my soul, and I don't know what to do about it."
"Chief, you've got a hundred flunkies, and a thousand friends, mind my asking, why yer dropping this on me?"
"Well-hell, those kids...they've got spirit all right, but most of them can't handle the heavy stuff. I need someone that's got some soul to deal with this heavy sitch-u-ation. That's you."
I took a sip of drink, and thought, "Crap." I didn't want this problem, and most of all, I didn't want to be type-cast. However, it seemed I had no choice.
"Oh." I said, summoning up my best guru-vibe. "See, yer dealin' with a common post-modern combination of enui and the lack of personal awareness that comes from mirroring yourself in too many mass-media archetypes."
To our left, there was a loud thump. I looked over, and climbing over the rail of the roof, were seven strange, lurching ninja-clad men. Strange mechanical sounds came from them as they moved to surround us.
"Um, what are those?" I asked.
"Oh, don't worry about it," He said, "They're just zombie robot ninjas. I cut them out of the last picture, and they've been sorta pissed about it."
"Will they hurt us?" I enquired.
"They'll certainly kill us if we give them half-a-chance. Watch my back." He said, moving off. I dropped my drink and we lined up back-to-back. Three came forward. He lashed out with a massive right, breaking the jaw of a zombie robot ninja. The second rushed at me, I kicked out at waist-high level, and felt a satisfying crack around the pelvis. The third stopped and moved back to regroup with the other four.
"That's very interesting," Mr. Head-Honcho spoke, "Please continue with your narrative."
"See," I began uneasily as the zombie robot ninjas fiddled in their black ninja suits. "You're busy watching Indiana Jones, or Bart Simpson, or James Bond, and subconsciously you're identifying with the struggles that they're going through. Only their struggles are well-defined, by a writer, years before...they're going to get through them. However, since you're not them, your own actions seem weak, watery, unsure. You're just muddling through..."
He cut me off, "Hang on a sec. This is going to get tricky."
Sure enough, the zombie ninja robots had fiddled around and pulled out throwing stars! They adopted a semi-circle around us...and threw 'em.
Well, there was a lot of crazy jerking I put my body through...and I'm sure I'm going to feel some weird muscles tomorrow...but, apart from a clipped ear, and ripped shirt, I was unhurt. Of course Mr. Head-Honcho was fine. He then made a springing jump, and crushed one of the zombie ninja robots under two feet. Then he picked up the body, and swung it at the other three. It caught two, and the last one ran off to the edge with the sound of gimbles and servers. "YOU'LL NEVER WORK IN THIS TOWN AGAIN!" Head-Honcho shouted after him.
Then he turned to me with a perfectly calm tone-of-voice. "So you're saying because of our culture, I'm bound to feel this way, sooner or later?"
"Yeah. All of us get this way, but most of us don't have a bajillion bucks to make it go away. Go by a car, or apartment complex...or you could pick up a new hobby. Shopping's easier tho."
"Wow. Thanks Tsunami, this helps alot."
"Sure buddy."
He turned his back to me, and started walking for the stairs. "Well, enjoy the party, I've really got to mingle."
"You bet," I said, leaning on the rail, and noticing sadly, my drink had spilled. Then one of the zombie ninja robots began to move, trying to function with broken limbs. I scampered across the roof, and down the stairs. I thought, "It's a crazy town, El-Ay, anything can happen here." A grass-clad woman walked by with a tray of appetizers.
"Hey," I asked excitedly, "Is that Hawaiian pizza!?"
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Allright...I know I might have been a little...
WORDY over the last few posts...but Gjoddamn it! There's been some QUALITY WORK going on here! I'm not claiming that it should be worth cash-oooo-la, nor am I claiming it should have been read in the first place. I'm just that kinda' guy.
However, after readin' the last 15 days worth of writin,' I'm thinking, this is at the very least worth a person or two dropping a kind word on my comments!
Someone...anyone?
However, after readin' the last 15 days worth of writin,' I'm thinking, this is at the very least worth a person or two dropping a kind word on my comments!
Someone...anyone?
CALGON! TAKE ME AWAY!
Scrub scrub scrub...I gots some cleanin' to do around the Casa tonite. Maybe if I'm feeling a touch more feisty later I'll add somethin' up. Till then, howabaout you patronize your local tavern and participate in the economy?
Or if you want, you can tell me about your Halloooooweeen...
-Tsunami-
Or if you want, you can tell me about your Halloooooweeen...
-Tsunami-
Monday, October 31, 2005
Badass
Back in the day, waaay back in the day (seriously, I'm talking extreme far back to the actual day when Monday showed up as a real day.) Monday had happy feet. The kind of feet that would pick themselves up with glee - and carry him with springy muscles towards his doom. But after the centuries passed, and it became obvious that not many people ever looked forward to his arrival, those feet began to plod.
He began to take on, instead of a bright outlook on life - (as he truly believed the world was going to give him what he wanted) he took on a grim delight at people's dread of his arrival. Sometimes, Monday would even postpone his arrival by a few hours...just to make people squirm. Who was going to complain? Tuesday? Wednesday? Hell, just the threat of, "Well, you can always switch places if you don't like the job I'm doing." Was enough to get anyone off his back.
But today, today was his day, and he heard it everywhere. It was whispered through the matter of the universe, and it said, "Badass."
He heard it when his feet hit the sidewalk. "Badass."
He heard it from the thumping beats of passing cars. "Badass."
He heard it echo from his reflection in storefront windows. "Badass."
There was no denying it today, "Badass," a tree whispered through it's leaves as he passed. He was going to take the cruel joke the fates had played upon him, and use it to the best advantage.
He passed blocks, and apartment buildings, and strip-malls and parks. Each step the ground trembled with dread. Then a pack of trick-or-treater's dressed up as princesses and ghouls and cowboy's walked into his space.
"Hey Mister!" They said, "What are you supposed to be?"
"I'm from the dark place that you fear." He spoke quietly, "The place you never want to go, but you will..."
"No you're not!" Said a cowboy.
"You don't look like my basement!" Said a ghoul.
"Yer not that scary." Said a princess.
He adopted the most fearsome look on his face, and shoved it at them. "OH NO!? FOOLISH CHILDREN, LOOK UPON THE FACE OF MONDAY!" All screamed and then took to their heels, except for the princess. She looked at him like she understood a magic-trick, but couldn't quite see how it was done.
"You're not that bad." She said quietly.
"Hm, no little girl?" Then he reached out a hand, and placed it on her shoulder. Then through the touch, he imparted all the knowledge upon her short years, of what Monday would mean to her in the future. Her face grew older, her eyes saw terror, and her body knew suffering. She screamed, "I was wrong! I was wrong!" Then she pulled away and ran after the others.
"Well," Monday said to himself, "I guess she learned her lesson." And continued to walk. He passed a bus stop, it said to him, "Badass..."
Happy Halloween.
He began to take on, instead of a bright outlook on life - (as he truly believed the world was going to give him what he wanted) he took on a grim delight at people's dread of his arrival. Sometimes, Monday would even postpone his arrival by a few hours...just to make people squirm. Who was going to complain? Tuesday? Wednesday? Hell, just the threat of, "Well, you can always switch places if you don't like the job I'm doing." Was enough to get anyone off his back.
But today, today was his day, and he heard it everywhere. It was whispered through the matter of the universe, and it said, "Badass."
He heard it when his feet hit the sidewalk. "Badass."
He heard it from the thumping beats of passing cars. "Badass."
He heard it echo from his reflection in storefront windows. "Badass."
There was no denying it today, "Badass," a tree whispered through it's leaves as he passed. He was going to take the cruel joke the fates had played upon him, and use it to the best advantage.
He passed blocks, and apartment buildings, and strip-malls and parks. Each step the ground trembled with dread. Then a pack of trick-or-treater's dressed up as princesses and ghouls and cowboy's walked into his space.
"Hey Mister!" They said, "What are you supposed to be?"
"I'm from the dark place that you fear." He spoke quietly, "The place you never want to go, but you will..."
"No you're not!" Said a cowboy.
"You don't look like my basement!" Said a ghoul.
"Yer not that scary." Said a princess.
He adopted the most fearsome look on his face, and shoved it at them. "OH NO!? FOOLISH CHILDREN, LOOK UPON THE FACE OF MONDAY!" All screamed and then took to their heels, except for the princess. She looked at him like she understood a magic-trick, but couldn't quite see how it was done.
"You're not that bad." She said quietly.
"Hm, no little girl?" Then he reached out a hand, and placed it on her shoulder. Then through the touch, he imparted all the knowledge upon her short years, of what Monday would mean to her in the future. Her face grew older, her eyes saw terror, and her body knew suffering. She screamed, "I was wrong! I was wrong!" Then she pulled away and ran after the others.
"Well," Monday said to himself, "I guess she learned her lesson." And continued to walk. He passed a bus stop, it said to him, "Badass..."
Happy Halloween.
Friday, October 28, 2005
Friday Emerged From the Haze
like the Isle of Avalon. (small side note here...I was just looking thru the history of one itty-bitty-city called London...did you know it was once completely taken over and run by the Vikings (much like a good chunk of England all together) the proud peoples who called the original land of Fjords, their home? Well, if you didn't, or you did and you forgot, now you do.(um, again))
Let's continue this fjord-dweller thread for a sec. Thanks to a quick google search and a handy Viking God website, I knocked into this...
Freya, or Freyja, was the goddess of beauty and love. A beautiful, blonde, blue-eyed young woman, she was the sister of Frey and in later traditions the wife of Odin.
Freya claimed half of the heroes slain in battle, carrying them to her realm of Folkvang in Asgard. Most of her myths concern attempts by the giants to abduct her. In Teutonic mythology, she was named Frigg. Friday is named after her, Freitag in German and vrijdag in Dutch.
Shit.
It's a known human characteristic to give human traits to animals and objects, it's called anthropomorphism. When I started all this "weekday persona" crap back in the day, I just figgered, "why not make them all dudes, then if you have to bash-em, you won't get the feminists all up-in-arms over some slight, which was really a response to how a particular weekday treated me...after all most women, like weekdays, are pretty touchy. However, with the weight of an entire website against me, I will change the King of All Weekdays, to the Queen of All weekdays. Here we go!
The Queen of All Weekdays lay in a bed surrounded by sheer silken sheets. She stretched her arms above her head, and then ran her fingers through her long blond hair. A pillow had somehow slipped under the small of her back, and the illusion was one of a perfect pin-up model pose. Her nipples stuck out through...
Fuck. This is never going to work. It's always going to degenerate into porn. And without pictures, porn just don't have the plot maluability that you (Fjord Readers) are going to demand. Viking God Website...Fuck ya'. In my world Friday's King!
(Let's start this again...)
Friday sits up from his throne. (it's a massively cushioned lay-z-boy implanted in which are the latest techno-gadgets (and some that haven't yet been invented.)) He's just awoken from having dozed off while Thursday was mumbling some kind of story.
"I just had the most wonderful dream." The Big Daddy of Weekdays mutters. Then he realizes where he is. "Whaaa?"
"As I was saying," Thursday looks a little perturbed, "I was looking for something to puke in...it wasn't a Roman Villa with a built-in vomitorium, it was a one bedroom apartment, and all the woman had were some of those Chinese food to-go boxes. So I figgured..."
"No!" Says Friday, getting his bearings. "I mean, Whaaaat are we going to do today?"
Wednesday chimes in, "Same thing we do every Friday, Friday. Try and take over the world!"
For some reason this cracks the whole room up, except Friday.
"That's not what I ment." He speaks softly.
"Well it is kinda' spooky this week-end." Tuesday begins, "Perhaps we should find someone to...ahem...spook."
"That's not bad. But that honor actually belongs to Monday." Friday finishes with a declaration.
"About time I get some frikken honor around here..." Monday speaks softly. The others are a tad confused.
"I think what we're going to need..." Friday pulls the lever, lowering the foor-rest back into the Lay-Z-Boy and sitting up, "Is a whole new construct."
"Whaddaya mean?" Asks Tuesday.
Cut To:
The Digital Wall (remember? it ended with something like this...What will happen to D.Tsunami? What's at the top of the mysterious digital wall, and why is he climbing it!!? Who would really win in a mano-y-mano object battle to the death, Crampon? Sink? Or does Computer have an Ace of Snakes up it's sleeve? And do the writers even have an inkling of an idea of where this is going? Riiiight...of course you do.)
Tsunami climbs to the top of the wall, and, and well...lets slow this up just a touch, and talk about something that I've been thinking about. Suppose you find a cave, and want to climb down into it. Now, suppose this cave is like, well, a cave that leads through the center of the earth and (if yer from the U.S. of A.) it leads straight thru the planet and ends up in China. There's going to be a strange moment (if you were committed to such a trip) where you stop climbing, and start falling. It only makes gravitational sense, no?
Well, in this particular narrative, one D.Tsunami doesn't find out about this clever (cleaver?) little gravitational trick until he's exactly one handhold away from the top of the wall. He begins to fall.
"Fucking shit!" He shouts. (to no one...as the cameraman has been killed by a random falling porcelain sink, however, (for some reason) we're still there...cool huh?) The edge of the wall shoots past him, and a split-second before the wall passes his waist, he launches his ice-axe in a motion that would make an old looting, raping, pillaging Viking very proud...crams it into the world before he falls off.
Tsunami hangs from the edge of the world for a moment, only by a straining right hand. Legs, gear, scarf...hang downwards, pulled by a strange gravity into the void. Then he grabs onto the axe with his left. Then he lifts himself up. Using the axe handle as a lever, he puts his left leg onto the ceiling (roof? top?) As soon as he does, gravity (that tricky bastard) reverses itself, and he falls in a heap back to the ground. He repeats hjimself.
"Fucking shit!"
Pulling the axe out of the ground, he takes stock. Trees, grass, and a couple of beach chairs, lie between him and a huge temple. They're all made out of the same crazy matter...black with a bunch of yellow (or is it off-white?) zero's and one's. It's like at the end of the Matrix, when Neo figgers out what the hell is going on. He heads past the beach chairs and approaches the temple.
Cut To: Friday's Throne Room
Tuesday repeats himself.
"Whaddaya mean?"
With a crash, the doors of the room are thrown open. Standing there is Tsunami, clad in a parka, knit-cap, with snowpants, crampons, ice-axe and sunglasses.
Friday stands.
"If it isn't my favorite oddball digital construct...Dario Tsunami!" He moves forward across the room. "Man is it good to see you!" He gives Tsunami a big hug.
"Hey King of All Weekdays." Tsunami says, patting Friday on the back. "Whaddaya mean," He disengages himself from the hug and makes "quotation marks" with his fingers, "Construct?"
"Well, I was just saying we needed a whole new construct, and what are you? Something made to represent something that doesn't exist."
"Wait..." Says Tsunami...
"No," Continues Friday, "yer like a cartoon tidal-wave, a Leggo Bhudda, a chicken McNugget in a magazine! You should exist, but you don't. That's why I..." He turns to the other weekdays, who stand there agape, "That's why I love this guy!"
A moment of silence passes before the Hunchback speaks.
"Ahem..." Wednesday clears his throat, "I, umm, well the thing is..." And then, as what usually happens to Wednesday, his moment is broken by a tremendous shout. More of a battle cry. And then the Vikings show up.
They got axes. They got moustaches. They got shields and horned helmets and breastplates. They're thick in the waist, and they got belts with big buckles to hold up their breeches. They got spears, and they got daggers, and they got swords and they got axes. It's a fucking army of looting, raping and pillaging Vikings, and they're led by a beautiful blond blue-eyed maiden.
Monday shouts - "Quick, to the armory!"
Friday's bodyguards (burly, in dark suits and sunglasses, pull out their pistols, and gun down a few unsuspecting Vikings, before they are overwhelmed and, umm, hacked apart in various ways) hold them off for long enough for the weekdays to make their escape. Friday grabs Tusnami, and hustles him towards the armory. As they disappear between the last two bodyguards, firing madly into the Viking swarm, the woman's voice is heard.
"I want what you took from me! You can't be Friday! I'm Friday!" Man, even her voice is hot.
The door is shut behind them. The rest of the weekdays are already looking like someone from a late 80's action movie, clad with bandoleers of ammo, huge machine-guns, and the occasional headband. Friday and Tsunami begin arming themselves when the sound of axes begin to strike upon the door.
"Okay," Says, Friday, "Mon, and Tues, you take the left. Wed. and Thurs. you take the right. Tsunami and me will go right up the middle. And remember," He smiles just a little bit, "The woman's mine!"
(Crap, I really didn't want this to end up a porno. Well...maybe, is there a chance that they'd all git killed by the Vikes...who'm I kidding, like we'd be that lucky? Eternal Saturday starting from 10-28-05?)
Happy Friday.
Let's continue this fjord-dweller thread for a sec. Thanks to a quick google search and a handy Viking God website, I knocked into this...
Freya, or Freyja, was the goddess of beauty and love. A beautiful, blonde, blue-eyed young woman, she was the sister of Frey and in later traditions the wife of Odin.
Freya claimed half of the heroes slain in battle, carrying them to her realm of Folkvang in Asgard. Most of her myths concern attempts by the giants to abduct her. In Teutonic mythology, she was named Frigg. Friday is named after her, Freitag in German and vrijdag in Dutch.
Shit.
It's a known human characteristic to give human traits to animals and objects, it's called anthropomorphism. When I started all this "weekday persona" crap back in the day, I just figgered, "why not make them all dudes, then if you have to bash-em, you won't get the feminists all up-in-arms over some slight, which was really a response to how a particular weekday treated me...after all most women, like weekdays, are pretty touchy. However, with the weight of an entire website against me, I will change the King of All Weekdays, to the Queen of All weekdays. Here we go!
The Queen of All Weekdays lay in a bed surrounded by sheer silken sheets. She stretched her arms above her head, and then ran her fingers through her long blond hair. A pillow had somehow slipped under the small of her back, and the illusion was one of a perfect pin-up model pose. Her nipples stuck out through...
Fuck. This is never going to work. It's always going to degenerate into porn. And without pictures, porn just don't have the plot maluability that you (Fjord Readers) are going to demand. Viking God Website...Fuck ya'. In my world Friday's King!
(Let's start this again...)
Friday sits up from his throne. (it's a massively cushioned lay-z-boy implanted in which are the latest techno-gadgets (and some that haven't yet been invented.)) He's just awoken from having dozed off while Thursday was mumbling some kind of story.
"I just had the most wonderful dream." The Big Daddy of Weekdays mutters. Then he realizes where he is. "Whaaa?"
"As I was saying," Thursday looks a little perturbed, "I was looking for something to puke in...it wasn't a Roman Villa with a built-in vomitorium, it was a one bedroom apartment, and all the woman had were some of those Chinese food to-go boxes. So I figgured..."
"No!" Says Friday, getting his bearings. "I mean, Whaaaat are we going to do today?"
Wednesday chimes in, "Same thing we do every Friday, Friday. Try and take over the world!"
For some reason this cracks the whole room up, except Friday.
"That's not what I ment." He speaks softly.
"Well it is kinda' spooky this week-end." Tuesday begins, "Perhaps we should find someone to...ahem...spook."
"That's not bad. But that honor actually belongs to Monday." Friday finishes with a declaration.
"About time I get some frikken honor around here..." Monday speaks softly. The others are a tad confused.
"I think what we're going to need..." Friday pulls the lever, lowering the foor-rest back into the Lay-Z-Boy and sitting up, "Is a whole new construct."
"Whaddaya mean?" Asks Tuesday.
Cut To:
The Digital Wall (remember? it ended with something like this...What will happen to D.Tsunami? What's at the top of the mysterious digital wall, and why is he climbing it!!? Who would really win in a mano-y-mano object battle to the death, Crampon? Sink? Or does Computer have an Ace of Snakes up it's sleeve? And do the writers even have an inkling of an idea of where this is going? Riiiight...of course you do.)
Tsunami climbs to the top of the wall, and, and well...lets slow this up just a touch, and talk about something that I've been thinking about. Suppose you find a cave, and want to climb down into it. Now, suppose this cave is like, well, a cave that leads through the center of the earth and (if yer from the U.S. of A.) it leads straight thru the planet and ends up in China. There's going to be a strange moment (if you were committed to such a trip) where you stop climbing, and start falling. It only makes gravitational sense, no?
Well, in this particular narrative, one D.Tsunami doesn't find out about this clever (cleaver?) little gravitational trick until he's exactly one handhold away from the top of the wall. He begins to fall.
"Fucking shit!" He shouts. (to no one...as the cameraman has been killed by a random falling porcelain sink, however, (for some reason) we're still there...cool huh?) The edge of the wall shoots past him, and a split-second before the wall passes his waist, he launches his ice-axe in a motion that would make an old looting, raping, pillaging Viking very proud...crams it into the world before he falls off.
Tsunami hangs from the edge of the world for a moment, only by a straining right hand. Legs, gear, scarf...hang downwards, pulled by a strange gravity into the void. Then he grabs onto the axe with his left. Then he lifts himself up. Using the axe handle as a lever, he puts his left leg onto the ceiling (roof? top?) As soon as he does, gravity (that tricky bastard) reverses itself, and he falls in a heap back to the ground. He repeats hjimself.
"Fucking shit!"
Pulling the axe out of the ground, he takes stock. Trees, grass, and a couple of beach chairs, lie between him and a huge temple. They're all made out of the same crazy matter...black with a bunch of yellow (or is it off-white?) zero's and one's. It's like at the end of the Matrix, when Neo figgers out what the hell is going on. He heads past the beach chairs and approaches the temple.
Cut To: Friday's Throne Room
Tuesday repeats himself.
"Whaddaya mean?"
With a crash, the doors of the room are thrown open. Standing there is Tsunami, clad in a parka, knit-cap, with snowpants, crampons, ice-axe and sunglasses.
Friday stands.
"If it isn't my favorite oddball digital construct...Dario Tsunami!" He moves forward across the room. "Man is it good to see you!" He gives Tsunami a big hug.
"Hey King of All Weekdays." Tsunami says, patting Friday on the back. "Whaddaya mean," He disengages himself from the hug and makes "quotation marks" with his fingers, "Construct?"
"Well, I was just saying we needed a whole new construct, and what are you? Something made to represent something that doesn't exist."
"Wait..." Says Tsunami...
"No," Continues Friday, "yer like a cartoon tidal-wave, a Leggo Bhudda, a chicken McNugget in a magazine! You should exist, but you don't. That's why I..." He turns to the other weekdays, who stand there agape, "That's why I love this guy!"
A moment of silence passes before the Hunchback speaks.
"Ahem..." Wednesday clears his throat, "I, umm, well the thing is..." And then, as what usually happens to Wednesday, his moment is broken by a tremendous shout. More of a battle cry. And then the Vikings show up.
They got axes. They got moustaches. They got shields and horned helmets and breastplates. They're thick in the waist, and they got belts with big buckles to hold up their breeches. They got spears, and they got daggers, and they got swords and they got axes. It's a fucking army of looting, raping and pillaging Vikings, and they're led by a beautiful blond blue-eyed maiden.
Monday shouts - "Quick, to the armory!"
Friday's bodyguards (burly, in dark suits and sunglasses, pull out their pistols, and gun down a few unsuspecting Vikings, before they are overwhelmed and, umm, hacked apart in various ways) hold them off for long enough for the weekdays to make their escape. Friday grabs Tusnami, and hustles him towards the armory. As they disappear between the last two bodyguards, firing madly into the Viking swarm, the woman's voice is heard.
"I want what you took from me! You can't be Friday! I'm Friday!" Man, even her voice is hot.
The door is shut behind them. The rest of the weekdays are already looking like someone from a late 80's action movie, clad with bandoleers of ammo, huge machine-guns, and the occasional headband. Friday and Tsunami begin arming themselves when the sound of axes begin to strike upon the door.
"Okay," Says, Friday, "Mon, and Tues, you take the left. Wed. and Thurs. you take the right. Tsunami and me will go right up the middle. And remember," He smiles just a little bit, "The woman's mine!"
(Crap, I really didn't want this to end up a porno. Well...maybe, is there a chance that they'd all git killed by the Vikes...who'm I kidding, like we'd be that lucky? Eternal Saturday starting from 10-28-05?)
Happy Friday.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
NOW WIGGLE!
Different channel. A British Spitfire races past the camera - it's the Battle of Britain!
Only so much information (or anything, for that matter) can travel down any one conduit.
Different channel. Boston Pops!
The rate of transfer at the end of the conduit depends on processing capability.
Different channel. A man stands in a file room. Stacks and stacks of paper, files...it's the dead letter office of every corporation. It's where signals and communications are printed out in hard-copy, and left to rot, in the obscure chance that they're needed again. They rarely are. "I found it!" He says.
Different channel. It's a hamburger commercial.
No matter how information is transmitted...print, voice, picture, music, video, movie, blog, comedy, drama, thought, liquid, vegetable, mineral. (I am the model of a modern major general) While things originate somewhere, where someone has a (the) message, it ends up at the other end, at the pure discression of the receiver. (binary...again...but this time it's not a static structure...the receiver can throw away junk mail without ever reading it...)
Different channel. Friends - ugg!
Different channel. A cowboy is tied up back-to-back with a woman in a bonnet and a prairie dress, and both are bound to the rails of train-track. He speaks over his shoulder to the damsel. "It might be exactly what I have to do...but I sure as shit ain't gonna say, I have to wiggle."
Altho no self-respecting cowboy would be caught dead wiggling...there's really nothing wrong with it. I mean, worms do it, snakes do it (altho you can gussy-it-up by saying wordssss like slither, glide, ooze, or slide) dancers do it too. But even though it's an unseemly activity for any Lady or Gentleman, everyone needs a little wiggle-room. It's the ultimate expression of having, at least a little-itty-bitty amount of space.
The problem with space, is, (besides the vast distances between, er, everything) gravity.
Int. Elevator - day
A man stands with a large envelope. The door opens and a businesswoman walks on. She's very thin, pretty, but obviously very pregnant.
Woman: Hi!
Man: Good afternoon.
They stand for a moment, the man looks at the floor numbers passing by.
Woman: Quite the weather we're having.
Man: Yes. Very, um, unseasonal.
Then the man begins to bend slightly from the waist. He fights with all his back muscles, but his head is drawn towards the pregnant woman's belly.
Man: I hope you don't mind my asking (he's practically being sucked right towards her) but...
Too late. His head's stuck to her stomach. He looks up at her.
Man: What do you have in this thing?
Woman: A baby!
Man: Really? Made of what, magnets?
Woman" Why, do you have a metal plate in your skull?
Man: Actually I do.
A Fed Ex guy walks onto the elevator, pulling an empty two-wheeled dolly. He looks perturbed at the scene.
Woman: Oh, I'm sorry.
She strokes the man's head (stuck to her belly) soothingly.
Woman: Perhaps we can find someone who can help us, umm, apart. Excuse me. (she asks to the Fed Ex guy) Could you help pull us apart?
Fed Ex Guy: I don't know...
suddenly the two wheeled dolly takes on a life of it's own and is sucked towards the woman's belly! The Fed Ex Guy grapples with it for a moment, then it flies across the evelvator, and lands across the man's back- stuck there with a powerful attraction.
Fed Ex Guy: Wow! Sorry about that.
Man: No Prob.
Fed Ex Guy: Yeah, um, let me help.
He begins prying on the man's head, it doesn't budge. He grabs the dolly, and yanks back. The three of them lurch across the elevator, and end up on the other side, in a tangled mess. The Fed Ex Guy pulls crazily on the dolly. The doors open and two well-dressed businessmen stand outside the door.
Businessman 1: We'll take the next one.
The doors close, and the elevator continues. The man looks up from the jostling of the Fed Ex Guy trying to get his dolly off his back and into the eyes of the woman.
Man: Would you like to go out sometime?
Woman: What?
Man: Well, in your current state, you probably don't have a lot of offers.
Woman: What!?!?
Man: I'm just saying, if the father's not around - and these are modern times we're living in - I'd like to take you to dinner.
Woman: Oh. Well, okay.
Fed Ex Guy: This is some fucked up shit.
HOLY MOLY! Can we leave it at any more of a cliffhanger?!!? Who's the father of the buisnesswoman's daughter (oop, slipped up and gave away summore of the plot! Crap!) Who wins the Battle of Britan?!? Will the Boston Pop's play "Cats" or Motzart!? Was the Document found in the file-room really that important!? Who eats the Gjoddamn hamburger - cause I'm hungry! Will the Cowboy actually wiggle and make himself a laughingstock of the entire cowboy world?!! (And is, "The Wiggling Kid" a good gunfighter name?)
The only way to find out is to stay tuned to channel fjord.
Only so much information (or anything, for that matter) can travel down any one conduit.
Different channel. Boston Pops!
The rate of transfer at the end of the conduit depends on processing capability.
Different channel. A man stands in a file room. Stacks and stacks of paper, files...it's the dead letter office of every corporation. It's where signals and communications are printed out in hard-copy, and left to rot, in the obscure chance that they're needed again. They rarely are. "I found it!" He says.
Different channel. It's a hamburger commercial.
No matter how information is transmitted...print, voice, picture, music, video, movie, blog, comedy, drama, thought, liquid, vegetable, mineral. (I am the model of a modern major general) While things originate somewhere, where someone has a (the) message, it ends up at the other end, at the pure discression of the receiver. (binary...again...but this time it's not a static structure...the receiver can throw away junk mail without ever reading it...)
Different channel. Friends - ugg!
Different channel. A cowboy is tied up back-to-back with a woman in a bonnet and a prairie dress, and both are bound to the rails of train-track. He speaks over his shoulder to the damsel. "It might be exactly what I have to do...but I sure as shit ain't gonna say, I have to wiggle."
Altho no self-respecting cowboy would be caught dead wiggling...there's really nothing wrong with it. I mean, worms do it, snakes do it (altho you can gussy-it-up by saying wordssss like slither, glide, ooze, or slide) dancers do it too. But even though it's an unseemly activity for any Lady or Gentleman, everyone needs a little wiggle-room. It's the ultimate expression of having, at least a little-itty-bitty amount of space.
The problem with space, is, (besides the vast distances between, er, everything) gravity.
Int. Elevator - day
A man stands with a large envelope. The door opens and a businesswoman walks on. She's very thin, pretty, but obviously very pregnant.
Woman: Hi!
Man: Good afternoon.
They stand for a moment, the man looks at the floor numbers passing by.
Woman: Quite the weather we're having.
Man: Yes. Very, um, unseasonal.
Then the man begins to bend slightly from the waist. He fights with all his back muscles, but his head is drawn towards the pregnant woman's belly.
Man: I hope you don't mind my asking (he's practically being sucked right towards her) but...
Too late. His head's stuck to her stomach. He looks up at her.
Man: What do you have in this thing?
Woman: A baby!
Man: Really? Made of what, magnets?
Woman" Why, do you have a metal plate in your skull?
Man: Actually I do.
A Fed Ex guy walks onto the elevator, pulling an empty two-wheeled dolly. He looks perturbed at the scene.
Woman: Oh, I'm sorry.
She strokes the man's head (stuck to her belly) soothingly.
Woman: Perhaps we can find someone who can help us, umm, apart. Excuse me. (she asks to the Fed Ex guy) Could you help pull us apart?
Fed Ex Guy: I don't know...
suddenly the two wheeled dolly takes on a life of it's own and is sucked towards the woman's belly! The Fed Ex Guy grapples with it for a moment, then it flies across the evelvator, and lands across the man's back- stuck there with a powerful attraction.
Fed Ex Guy: Wow! Sorry about that.
Man: No Prob.
Fed Ex Guy: Yeah, um, let me help.
He begins prying on the man's head, it doesn't budge. He grabs the dolly, and yanks back. The three of them lurch across the elevator, and end up on the other side, in a tangled mess. The Fed Ex Guy pulls crazily on the dolly. The doors open and two well-dressed businessmen stand outside the door.
Businessman 1: We'll take the next one.
The doors close, and the elevator continues. The man looks up from the jostling of the Fed Ex Guy trying to get his dolly off his back and into the eyes of the woman.
Man: Would you like to go out sometime?
Woman: What?
Man: Well, in your current state, you probably don't have a lot of offers.
Woman: What!?!?
Man: I'm just saying, if the father's not around - and these are modern times we're living in - I'd like to take you to dinner.
Woman: Oh. Well, okay.
Fed Ex Guy: This is some fucked up shit.
HOLY MOLY! Can we leave it at any more of a cliffhanger?!!? Who's the father of the buisnesswoman's daughter (oop, slipped up and gave away summore of the plot! Crap!) Who wins the Battle of Britan?!? Will the Boston Pop's play "Cats" or Motzart!? Was the Document found in the file-room really that important!? Who eats the Gjoddamn hamburger - cause I'm hungry! Will the Cowboy actually wiggle and make himself a laughingstock of the entire cowboy world?!! (And is, "The Wiggling Kid" a good gunfighter name?)
The only way to find out is to stay tuned to channel fjord.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
In the process of ripping my mind
apart from it's old pathways, (partly for research, partly thru personal circumstance (btw an excellent porn name that, "Sir Cum-Stance," but I digress on my original thought)) this post will be a bit more jumbled with non-sequitors and lacking in transitions.
1) Is a computer more powerful than a mountain climbing crampon?
Well, I guess it all depends on the situation. A computer, thru the proper linkage to the Webmonster, is both a super-quick (so quick as to be nearly instantaneous) and effective communications tool, and with access to the global database, provides near (tho by no means infallible - much like human intelligence) omniscience. A mountain climbing crampon is pretty much just good for providing a good foothold on rock, glacier or ice-wall. So, in the normal context of your home, a crampon is useless. It is impotent. It is a very pointy (dangerous) paperweight at best. However, if you are suddenly struck by an urge to destroy your computer, a set of crampons might be just the thing. Triple-forged carbon-alloy foor spikes are more than a match for a plastic/glass Compaq 14" monitor. The idea of those spikes crushing down, piercing plastic, shattering glass...it's almost sexual. And for the tower? You think a 100-gig hard-drive could stand up to the weight of a normal humanid, compressed to the point of two foor-spikes? Um, nah.
All-in-all, crampon wins. Like I said earlier, however, circumstance.
If all you want to do is get off sexually, well, unless yer into some really kinky stuff, the compooter is probably a better bet. ("Wait," Susan Insatiable says, "No...tie me to the bedposts, and put on your robe and crampons! It's the only thing that works for me anymore...")
Considering all the ways you could physically destroy a computer, perhaps the best way would be to use an actual discarded kitchen sink. It would be metaphorically harmonious. Since the only thing a well-endowed computer is inhibited by, is it's own user's imagination, and rhetorically speaking, "the kitchen sink" is a catch-all phrase for "everything else," the physical object embodying that would be the perfect death-tool.
I'm no engineer, therefore I'm going to have to guess the ratio of sink/computer ratio...if say, a large Norse-like (hey-we are Fjord after all) giant was responsible for crushing every discarded computer with a sink. Sooner or later the sink (if made of porcelain-would crack and break, or if made of some kind of metal-would deform to a completely flat, or at least useless for the purpose of crushing computers, shape) would come up against it's last computer. In which case, the giant would take a break, have a sandwich and a smoke, and call for another sink. I'm suspecting, averaging both metal and porcelain sinks together, would be on a ratio of 1 sink to every 14 computer's destroyed.
Yes, all that's well and good, but if we're in the process of pitting object-Vs-object, would you rather have a sink, a crampon, or a computer? I mean, who's really going to do the study on the odds in Vegas, of who's going to win the ultimate battle, Crampon-Vs-Sink? Now THERE'S A FIGHT!
(The aluminum sink--pierced twelve or fourteen times, (some are true gashes across the length of it's bowl) a small hunk of pipe, hangs - about to fall, from around it's drain-section, moving in a counter-clockwise direction, looking for an opening. Across from it, a left-footed crampon. Black nylon attatchment-straps dragging sadly, three of it's spikes are at odd angles, and the frame is so bent now that it would never again fit another foor. It senses Sink about to jump, and strikes first!)
Well mighty Fjordlings...just speaking for myself, I'd prefer to destroy my computer with metal-alloy feer-spikes, I just think it would be a tad more visceral, than say a 2x4" - but that's just me.
(Tho a sink wouldn't be turned down at the right moment...just sayin')
And now a brief commercial interlude:
5 Seconds of Postal-Service-esque electro-pop...
The announcer speaks over the continuing music.
"This metaphorical adventure has been brought to you by Wednesday, the often overlooked and deformed hunchback of a weekday...underwritten in part by Blogger, Google's own on-line journal of dominion, and Miller Lite - "Tastes Great, Less Filling, Miller-Lite."
Cut to:
D.Tsunami, climbing up a practically sheer wall, it is black, but made up of 0's and 1's. Occasionally binary digital outcroppings jut out. He approaches one (er, it's not made of 1's, it's "one" as in outcropping, singular.)
He jabs in his ice-axe, and moves up a crampon. A mist of scattered 1's and 0's fall past and bounce off the lens of the camera below him. He pulls himself up to the ledge, and drops his ass onto it, crampons dangling over the side. The camera rises to his level.
Tsunami - You're probably wondering what all this has to do with Fjord.
(The camera shakes as if it's agreeing with the question)
Tsunami - Well, I'm as much in the dark about it as you are.
(The cameraman breaks the third wall...or silence...or whatever)
Cameraman - Dude, you can't say that, that's stupid. It doesn't advance the narrative at all.
Tsunami - If I don't fall off this precipice, then we'll know.
Cameraman - That's better, but it doesn't help much.
Tsunami - I digit, (that's pronounced "dig-it" spoken quickly, not "digit" like-binary) There's a lot of wall left to climb, and things have a way of happening when you're climbing.
The camera pans upwards, at the sheer digital wall. Then an object falls from above, it grows larger, and at the exact moment it's strikjing the cameraman we make out, it's a white porcelain sink. The camera goes to snow, then fuzz then clear as we watch it fall past the digital wall. For some reason it picks up the sound of Tsunami musing. (must be a really long lavalear cord)
Tsunami - Huh, porcelain. I woulda' thought aluminum.
Then the transmission ends.
Hoooo Boy! How's this show gonna end? Well, tune in next time for the thrilling conclusion of "Fjord!" What will happen to D.Tsunami? What's at the top of the mysterious digital wall, and why is he climbing it!!? Who would really win in a mano-y-mano object battle to the death, Crampon? Sink? Or does Computer have an Ace of Snakes up it's sleeve? And do the writers even have an inkling of an idea of where this is going?
1) Is a computer more powerful than a mountain climbing crampon?
Well, I guess it all depends on the situation. A computer, thru the proper linkage to the Webmonster, is both a super-quick (so quick as to be nearly instantaneous) and effective communications tool, and with access to the global database, provides near (tho by no means infallible - much like human intelligence) omniscience. A mountain climbing crampon is pretty much just good for providing a good foothold on rock, glacier or ice-wall. So, in the normal context of your home, a crampon is useless. It is impotent. It is a very pointy (dangerous) paperweight at best. However, if you are suddenly struck by an urge to destroy your computer, a set of crampons might be just the thing. Triple-forged carbon-alloy foor spikes are more than a match for a plastic/glass Compaq 14" monitor. The idea of those spikes crushing down, piercing plastic, shattering glass...it's almost sexual. And for the tower? You think a 100-gig hard-drive could stand up to the weight of a normal humanid, compressed to the point of two foor-spikes? Um, nah.
All-in-all, crampon wins. Like I said earlier, however, circumstance.
If all you want to do is get off sexually, well, unless yer into some really kinky stuff, the compooter is probably a better bet. ("Wait," Susan Insatiable says, "No...tie me to the bedposts, and put on your robe and crampons! It's the only thing that works for me anymore...")
Considering all the ways you could physically destroy a computer, perhaps the best way would be to use an actual discarded kitchen sink. It would be metaphorically harmonious. Since the only thing a well-endowed computer is inhibited by, is it's own user's imagination, and rhetorically speaking, "the kitchen sink" is a catch-all phrase for "everything else," the physical object embodying that would be the perfect death-tool.
I'm no engineer, therefore I'm going to have to guess the ratio of sink/computer ratio...if say, a large Norse-like (hey-we are Fjord after all) giant was responsible for crushing every discarded computer with a sink. Sooner or later the sink (if made of porcelain-would crack and break, or if made of some kind of metal-would deform to a completely flat, or at least useless for the purpose of crushing computers, shape) would come up against it's last computer. In which case, the giant would take a break, have a sandwich and a smoke, and call for another sink. I'm suspecting, averaging both metal and porcelain sinks together, would be on a ratio of 1 sink to every 14 computer's destroyed.
Yes, all that's well and good, but if we're in the process of pitting object-Vs-object, would you rather have a sink, a crampon, or a computer? I mean, who's really going to do the study on the odds in Vegas, of who's going to win the ultimate battle, Crampon-Vs-Sink? Now THERE'S A FIGHT!
(The aluminum sink--pierced twelve or fourteen times, (some are true gashes across the length of it's bowl) a small hunk of pipe, hangs - about to fall, from around it's drain-section, moving in a counter-clockwise direction, looking for an opening. Across from it, a left-footed crampon. Black nylon attatchment-straps dragging sadly, three of it's spikes are at odd angles, and the frame is so bent now that it would never again fit another foor. It senses Sink about to jump, and strikes first!)
Well mighty Fjordlings...just speaking for myself, I'd prefer to destroy my computer with metal-alloy feer-spikes, I just think it would be a tad more visceral, than say a 2x4" - but that's just me.
(Tho a sink wouldn't be turned down at the right moment...just sayin')
And now a brief commercial interlude:
5 Seconds of Postal-Service-esque electro-pop...
The announcer speaks over the continuing music.
"This metaphorical adventure has been brought to you by Wednesday, the often overlooked and deformed hunchback of a weekday...underwritten in part by Blogger, Google's own on-line journal of dominion, and Miller Lite - "Tastes Great, Less Filling, Miller-Lite."
Cut to:
D.Tsunami, climbing up a practically sheer wall, it is black, but made up of 0's and 1's. Occasionally binary digital outcroppings jut out. He approaches one (er, it's not made of 1's, it's "one" as in outcropping, singular.)
He jabs in his ice-axe, and moves up a crampon. A mist of scattered 1's and 0's fall past and bounce off the lens of the camera below him. He pulls himself up to the ledge, and drops his ass onto it, crampons dangling over the side. The camera rises to his level.
Tsunami - You're probably wondering what all this has to do with Fjord.
(The camera shakes as if it's agreeing with the question)
Tsunami - Well, I'm as much in the dark about it as you are.
(The cameraman breaks the third wall...or silence...or whatever)
Cameraman - Dude, you can't say that, that's stupid. It doesn't advance the narrative at all.
Tsunami - If I don't fall off this precipice, then we'll know.
Cameraman - That's better, but it doesn't help much.
Tsunami - I digit, (that's pronounced "dig-it" spoken quickly, not "digit" like-binary) There's a lot of wall left to climb, and things have a way of happening when you're climbing.
The camera pans upwards, at the sheer digital wall. Then an object falls from above, it grows larger, and at the exact moment it's strikjing the cameraman we make out, it's a white porcelain sink. The camera goes to snow, then fuzz then clear as we watch it fall past the digital wall. For some reason it picks up the sound of Tsunami musing. (must be a really long lavalear cord)
Tsunami - Huh, porcelain. I woulda' thought aluminum.
Then the transmission ends.
Hoooo Boy! How's this show gonna end? Well, tune in next time for the thrilling conclusion of "Fjord!" What will happen to D.Tsunami? What's at the top of the mysterious digital wall, and why is he climbing it!!? Who would really win in a mano-y-mano object battle to the death, Crampon? Sink? Or does Computer have an Ace of Snakes up it's sleeve? And do the writers even have an inkling of an idea of where this is going?
I dunno...I just found out Fjord is worth (calculated, I have no idea how...)
Your blog, fjordsurfing.blogspot.com, is worth $564.54
Doesn't that seem a bit low to you? Anyways, if the writers appear to not have an inkling, (good word, no?) you can understand that they're way undervalued, and probably underappreciated.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Incase some of you
Are into the whole RSS junk (which I'm still trying to get my head around...seriously) we've got a feed.
Ya can subscribe to it here.
Make sure you never miss a minute of up-to-date Fjordian insight!
You can also find our XML graphic at the bottom of the screen!
Ya can subscribe to it here.
Make sure you never miss a minute of up-to-date Fjordian insight!
You can also find our XML graphic at the bottom of the screen!
Fjord is a nerve ending
If you were inclined, such as I am, you might view the world wide web as a living entity...or to be more precise, a society of Large Server-Monsters.
These Large Server-Monsters (henceforth called LS-M's)are part of the nerve-structure that makes up the global-sized enormous creature called "The Internets" Or possibly, if you prefer,
"Webmonster." Considering there are 7 primary servers which control all of the traffic on the internet, it's sort of like Voltron, or the Voltron-inspired Power Rangers. The server-monsters combine to form the "Webmonster" and from there...well, they either go on to defeat the
evil, er, hideous, umm, yaknow, bad thing that wants to usurp the way things is, or loose to said diabolical monstrosity, and have to come back next time to defeat it. Or, something like that.
Since I'm not really on a kick here to describe the higher (and for most of us) unfathomable battles the internets-webmonster has to battle to keep the world in it's current order-structure, I just want to tell you about where I think our little place in the world is.
See, if the LS-M's are the equivalent of a sentient being, then the nexus of other smaller
servers (which in their own right are pretty massive) that are attached to the LS-M's (such as corporate servers, yahoo, google, espn...you get my drift) would be very close to having the makeup of a very dispersed brain. Which was the reason the internet came into existence, as a redundant non-centralized military communications network, able to function after a significant atomic attack.
And if, as in the body of a mammal, every nerve is connected (at least by another nerve)
directly to the brain...it's as if each computer functions as if it actually is a nerve.
So, these nerves, er, computers, transmit messages to the smaller servers, sending directions and stimuli, in order to produce an action from the brain. (such as publishing this post, or requesting pornography...both worthy requests)
So, in this round about way, I've just described the Internets in order to lead you back to THE PLACE OF FJORD in this whole grand scheme of things. I'd say we're a nerve ending, located somewhere near the skin of the right bicept of the LS-M. There, we're busy pushing the undeniable signal of annoying pain. (it's not like we want too, it's just that a nerve can only fire, or not fire (sort of a binary thing...as I've been trying to get across...)) Anyways, a bit less pain than being hit on the thumb with a hammer, and a bit more pain than the dull ache you get from a toothache. Still, it's the kind of sensation, that keeps a few neighboring neurons looking over and going, "What the hell's happening over there?"
Hopefully after doing this long enough, the LS-M will reach over and rub a hand, or some fingernails across it's small and annoying pain, on it's upper right bicept, and we'll make contact with some nerves over there. Hopefully, you can see where this is going. Electronic Murmurs heading straight into the brain of the Large Server-Monster.
My philosophy is, if you take over a Large Server-Monster, the Webmonster is next.
These Large Server-Monsters (henceforth called LS-M's)are part of the nerve-structure that makes up the global-sized enormous creature called "The Internets" Or possibly, if you prefer,
"Webmonster." Considering there are 7 primary servers which control all of the traffic on the internet, it's sort of like Voltron, or the Voltron-inspired Power Rangers. The server-monsters combine to form the "Webmonster" and from there...well, they either go on to defeat the
evil, er, hideous, umm, yaknow, bad thing that wants to usurp the way things is, or loose to said diabolical monstrosity, and have to come back next time to defeat it. Or, something like that.
Since I'm not really on a kick here to describe the higher (and for most of us) unfathomable battles the internets-webmonster has to battle to keep the world in it's current order-structure, I just want to tell you about where I think our little place in the world is.
See, if the LS-M's are the equivalent of a sentient being, then the nexus of other smaller
servers (which in their own right are pretty massive) that are attached to the LS-M's (such as corporate servers, yahoo, google, espn...you get my drift) would be very close to having the makeup of a very dispersed brain. Which was the reason the internet came into existence, as a redundant non-centralized military communications network, able to function after a significant atomic attack.
And if, as in the body of a mammal, every nerve is connected (at least by another nerve)
directly to the brain...it's as if each computer functions as if it actually is a nerve.
So, these nerves, er, computers, transmit messages to the smaller servers, sending directions and stimuli, in order to produce an action from the brain. (such as publishing this post, or requesting pornography...both worthy requests)
So, in this round about way, I've just described the Internets in order to lead you back to THE PLACE OF FJORD in this whole grand scheme of things. I'd say we're a nerve ending, located somewhere near the skin of the right bicept of the LS-M. There, we're busy pushing the undeniable signal of annoying pain. (it's not like we want too, it's just that a nerve can only fire, or not fire (sort of a binary thing...as I've been trying to get across...)) Anyways, a bit less pain than being hit on the thumb with a hammer, and a bit more pain than the dull ache you get from a toothache. Still, it's the kind of sensation, that keeps a few neighboring neurons looking over and going, "What the hell's happening over there?"
Hopefully after doing this long enough, the LS-M will reach over and rub a hand, or some fingernails across it's small and annoying pain, on it's upper right bicept, and we'll make contact with some nerves over there. Hopefully, you can see where this is going. Electronic Murmurs heading straight into the brain of the Large Server-Monster.
My philosophy is, if you take over a Large Server-Monster, the Webmonster is next.
Monday, October 24, 2005
BONEHOUSE
I was just noticing the ad-bombardment during the World Series for the crime-detective story of "Bones" a forensic investigator with a specialty in skeletons (also featuring the hunky "Angel" from teevee's "Angel" previously a recurring character on "Buffy the vampire slayer") And also the show "House" about a doctor, (called, er, House") who's quite a card, but also the best doctor around. Now, I've seen both these shows, but seeing ads for them back-to-back, I realized they could just merge, drop out a couple of secondary characters, and become a supershow, called BONEHOUSE!
It'd save us all a lot of time, if we could just get one-stop shopping these days.
Could someone let Fox know?
It'd save us all a lot of time, if we could just get one-stop shopping these days.
Could someone let Fox know?
Hello My Friendly Fjordian
gangsta's and gangsta'-ettes.
Sorry it's been a while, but, there's been some shit going on.
Some seriously heavy shit.
What kind of shit Mr. Tsunami - yer all askin'...
Wellllllllll...
It's in the data-stream right now, and that's what I've been dealing with. Seriously...some heavy binary shit. On-off, transmitting-receiving, positive-negative, Monday-Saturday, rich-poor, healthy-sick, clean-dirty, yin-yang, one-zero. You get that right...binary.
Now I understand you all might think I'm being a bit obtuse, snickering behind your hands, whispering to each other, "We figured that all out, like, in the third grade."
But it isn't like that. Not even close to like that. In fact, answer this question:
Am I the 1 that's filling up your 0
Or are you the 1 devouring me?
Of course, I realize this is just another in the long string of assaults that Fjord has had to deal with over the short (altho long in internet time) lifespan. But it's been pretty pressing, and taken up much of my time. (the rest filled with football, baseball and reading copious numbers of Romance Novels.)
Now, today was a (I don't know if the word "great" should be added here, but,) milestone in the internet, as it marked the creation of the blog that broke the 20-million number. That's a hella' lotta blogs. However, I was also made aware that it was started by some skool-children's to talk about a fucking race they just had.
I've seen what even a few months of blogging can do to grown men (such as my counterparts here at Fjord) and don't think I'm not suffering from having my life broken by the massive binary torture-rack...because, like I said, there's some heavy shit going on right now. Anyways, I'd like to see those piss-ant kids write 400 posts, then we'll find out what kind of slobbering retards they've become.
Sorry it's been a while, but, there's been some shit going on.
Some seriously heavy shit.
What kind of shit Mr. Tsunami - yer all askin'...
Wellllllllll...
It's in the data-stream right now, and that's what I've been dealing with. Seriously...some heavy binary shit. On-off, transmitting-receiving, positive-negative, Monday-Saturday, rich-poor, healthy-sick, clean-dirty, yin-yang, one-zero. You get that right...binary.
Now I understand you all might think I'm being a bit obtuse, snickering behind your hands, whispering to each other, "We figured that all out, like, in the third grade."
But it isn't like that. Not even close to like that. In fact, answer this question:
Am I the 1 that's filling up your 0
Or are you the 1 devouring me?
Of course, I realize this is just another in the long string of assaults that Fjord has had to deal with over the short (altho long in internet time) lifespan. But it's been pretty pressing, and taken up much of my time. (the rest filled with football, baseball and reading copious numbers of Romance Novels.)
Now, today was a (I don't know if the word "great" should be added here, but,) milestone in the internet, as it marked the creation of the blog that broke the 20-million number. That's a hella' lotta blogs. However, I was also made aware that it was started by some skool-children's to talk about a fucking race they just had.
I've seen what even a few months of blogging can do to grown men (such as my counterparts here at Fjord) and don't think I'm not suffering from having my life broken by the massive binary torture-rack...because, like I said, there's some heavy shit going on right now. Anyways, I'd like to see those piss-ant kids write 400 posts, then we'll find out what kind of slobbering retards they've become.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Dario "Gjoddamn" Tsunami
here to plant a big 'ole digital kiss on your big 'ole bright eyes. 01010011010100100101011011000000HHHHHHHoooooh!
That was me trying to be nice. Hope it was as good for you...
So there's only a week before we've got the Halloween weekend upon us, and I've done zero work on the costume roundup. Haven't even gone out looking for something that might be suitable. Anyone got any suggestions?
That was me trying to be nice. Hope it was as good for you...
So there's only a week before we've got the Halloween weekend upon us, and I've done zero work on the costume roundup. Haven't even gone out looking for something that might be suitable. Anyone got any suggestions?
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Further Mishaps...
I'm getting to the point where much like a boxer who's taken too many blows, I've just become goofy...and the next big haymaker that's heading my way (starting from my fately-appointed opponent's shoestrings) I'm gonna take right on the chin. And if it doesn't drop me to the canvass in a pile of gooey manflesh, I'm going to laugh.
There's nothing more to explain about my philosophy on this. I hope I conveyed it reasonably well.
Now then...
Last night I went out and saw my pals in the band 3D Arson. They hit really hard, and are entertaining as fuck. They also have a stage gravity that's damn impressive. If you wanna check 'em out, they've got a pretty kick-ass site. There's ton's of free downloadable goodies there, if you like that kind of thing.
While I was out, I bumped into a couple of the guys from Soho Vamp, who after damn near five years, are finally getting their rock opera off the ground. It's going to be performed Halloween weekend (Oct. 29th) at the Taix bar in Echo Park. If you're in L.A. and haven't seen these guys, you should go. They're bad-assed glam vampire rock, and perfect for a Halloween go-out. Should be good, as the man says.
Speaking of good...I wanted to thank the young lady in the pink sweater and huge sunglasses for shoving her breasts into my face for the majority of my train ride today. Not only did I enjoy it, but it was exactly what I needed. Whoever was responsible for this, please continue sending this kind of thing my way.
There's nothing more to explain about my philosophy on this. I hope I conveyed it reasonably well.
Now then...
Last night I went out and saw my pals in the band 3D Arson. They hit really hard, and are entertaining as fuck. They also have a stage gravity that's damn impressive. If you wanna check 'em out, they've got a pretty kick-ass site. There's ton's of free downloadable goodies there, if you like that kind of thing.
While I was out, I bumped into a couple of the guys from Soho Vamp, who after damn near five years, are finally getting their rock opera off the ground. It's going to be performed Halloween weekend (Oct. 29th) at the Taix bar in Echo Park. If you're in L.A. and haven't seen these guys, you should go. They're bad-assed glam vampire rock, and perfect for a Halloween go-out. Should be good, as the man says.
Speaking of good...I wanted to thank the young lady in the pink sweater and huge sunglasses for shoving her breasts into my face for the majority of my train ride today. Not only did I enjoy it, but it was exactly what I needed. Whoever was responsible for this, please continue sending this kind of thing my way.
Where we at?
I just sacrificed myself (and most likely the most hunchbacked of all weekdays (Wednesday) at the alter of the Drawring (yeah, that's right, I said, Drawring) Room. If you'd look into my brain right now thru a cat-scan or perhaps a psychic taro card reader, you'd see a three ring circus with jugglers (kill 'em all) acrobats (also to be killed) and a couple of sandwich artists without any medium to work with. (certainly, also deserving of death...)
Fortunately the knife thrower was well aware of what was going down, and refrained from the previously mentioned chaos, and well, lets just say some financial inducement...decided all the aforementioned motha-fuckas, were indeed worthy of their fates - sent them well upon the way towards meeting them.
Perhaps later, we'll be able to talk to said knife thrower, but tonight, the knife-thrower is being strangely tight-lipped. Which, as I recall, has never actually happened to anyone who wants to be interviewed here at Fjord. I'd guess it's just that he doesn't want to be I.D.'d to any crimes that have recently occurred.
However, I'm curious as to why the knife thrower (notice I'm leaving the knife thrower's gender well out of this post- - to protect the innocent...and guilty) doesn't want the publicity? I'm of the mind...that this is the kind of thing you'd want to advertise. I suppose that's because I don't have the power to kill people with throwing knives.
And that's all I'm going to say on the matter.
(However, if you need to avail yourself of the knife-thrower's services...please feel free to leave a comment...)
Fortunately the knife thrower was well aware of what was going down, and refrained from the previously mentioned chaos, and well, lets just say some financial inducement...decided all the aforementioned motha-fuckas, were indeed worthy of their fates - sent them well upon the way towards meeting them.
Perhaps later, we'll be able to talk to said knife thrower, but tonight, the knife-thrower is being strangely tight-lipped. Which, as I recall, has never actually happened to anyone who wants to be interviewed here at Fjord. I'd guess it's just that he doesn't want to be I.D.'d to any crimes that have recently occurred.
However, I'm curious as to why the knife thrower (notice I'm leaving the knife thrower's gender well out of this post- - to protect the innocent...and guilty) doesn't want the publicity? I'm of the mind...that this is the kind of thing you'd want to advertise. I suppose that's because I don't have the power to kill people with throwing knives.
And that's all I'm going to say on the matter.
(However, if you need to avail yourself of the knife-thrower's services...please feel free to leave a comment...)
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Update!!!!
Howdy!
I'm not sure if it's because there's things happening, the kinds and qualities of things happening, my slightly changing evening habits, or just that it's been raining and whatnot for the last couple of days...but I'm feeling a 75% chance of light posting in the next couple of days.
Even the always reliable links to news have seemed a bit dull...so I've declined to make any.
I'll make sure to update you to any changes, promise.
I'm not sure if it's because there's things happening, the kinds and qualities of things happening, my slightly changing evening habits, or just that it's been raining and whatnot for the last couple of days...but I'm feeling a 75% chance of light posting in the next couple of days.
Even the always reliable links to news have seemed a bit dull...so I've declined to make any.
I'll make sure to update you to any changes, promise.
Friday, October 14, 2005
Well my sweet minions
Friday's giving me the 'ole, "I dunno pal, I'm just as baffled as you," shrug. It could be one of those nights where an intergalactic king or queen, sucks you off on a space cruiser to sample his/her harem planet, or it could be the kind of night where you're surrounded by evil reconnaissance monkeys from the 5th dimension. I'm usually able to channel these kinds of things about this time of night, around this day...and let you know what my impressions are, but tonight I'm pretty much thrown off.
I will say, I do believe this will be one of those odd-card weekends. Like getting delt a 19 of diamonds, or the Snake of spades. All I can tell you is, at least there's a chance at getting the inside straight. I don't need to remind you that you've got to know when to hold 'em, and know when to fold 'em, right?
Right.
Happy Gjoddamn
I will say, I do believe this will be one of those odd-card weekends. Like getting delt a 19 of diamonds, or the Snake of spades. All I can tell you is, at least there's a chance at getting the inside straight. I don't need to remind you that you've got to know when to hold 'em, and know when to fold 'em, right?
Right.
Happy Gjoddamn
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Having a heat-wave da..de..da..da..heat-wave...
That's right! Middle of Gjoddamn Oktober, and it's 90!
There was a reason I moved to L.A. and this wasn't it. However, it turned out to be a great benefit. Sort of a 401K for the soul. However, it could also be what the natives here call "Earthquake Weather." There isn't really a standard "Earthquake Weather" system, it's more along the lines of something unusual in the stratos--or troposphere...then the natives start getting restless.
I've taken a liking to the phrase "Earthquake Weather" and am more than happy when it appears, as if by magic, in actual word form. However, starting with the Tsunami, then Katrina, then Rita, then Stan (which strangely received practically no media coverage in the U.S.of A.)jacked up Central America somethin' fierce, and the ginormous quake in Pakistan, I'm starting to get a little, umm...concerned.
For those of you who are new here, we did, once upon a time, have a lot more fjord (the geological formation) related content. Such as this little nugget. Since then, well, I'm not going to say we've slipped, so much as the world took on a lot more interesting developments, that has sort of pushed our attention away from promoting our favorite landmass. However, barring a governmental program to construct senic fjords, about the only way we're gonna get anything close to a fjord in L.A. is if we...yaknow, get a really big one!
Now I'm not going to say that's what I want, because my little Casa is woefully uninsured. And even though my worldly possessions are inadequate and truthfully would reveal my existence as a dweller in the lower, lower, lower middle class...or if you prefer, the upper, upper, lower class, I still like my stuff, and would prefer it not being buried under tons of rubble, brought down by a massive earthquake, which in common parlance of the area would be called, "The Big One."
Still, if the Gjods, fate, or mama Earth wants to bring it on, and spare me the cost of replacing my goods by sparing the noble Casa Aloha, and open a rift through Santa Monica, Beverly Hills, West Hollywood, Hancock Park (that's right you little sickos, I wrote Hancock)...and have the "Hollywood Sound" end at Hollywood Boulevard, a mere block away, I wouldn't complain. Infact, it'd be pretty fucking sweet.
Well, that's me, always trying to look on the bright side. In the mean while, I got 4 fans, a pair of cargo-shorts, and just finished a very refreshing rum-n-coke sno-cone. Hope you're doing well too. Happy Thursday.
There was a reason I moved to L.A. and this wasn't it. However, it turned out to be a great benefit. Sort of a 401K for the soul. However, it could also be what the natives here call "Earthquake Weather." There isn't really a standard "Earthquake Weather" system, it's more along the lines of something unusual in the stratos--or troposphere...then the natives start getting restless.
I've taken a liking to the phrase "Earthquake Weather" and am more than happy when it appears, as if by magic, in actual word form. However, starting with the Tsunami, then Katrina, then Rita, then Stan (which strangely received practically no media coverage in the U.S.of A.)jacked up Central America somethin' fierce, and the ginormous quake in Pakistan, I'm starting to get a little, umm...concerned.
For those of you who are new here, we did, once upon a time, have a lot more fjord (the geological formation) related content. Such as this little nugget. Since then, well, I'm not going to say we've slipped, so much as the world took on a lot more interesting developments, that has sort of pushed our attention away from promoting our favorite landmass. However, barring a governmental program to construct senic fjords, about the only way we're gonna get anything close to a fjord in L.A. is if we...yaknow, get a really big one!
Now I'm not going to say that's what I want, because my little Casa is woefully uninsured. And even though my worldly possessions are inadequate and truthfully would reveal my existence as a dweller in the lower, lower, lower middle class...or if you prefer, the upper, upper, lower class, I still like my stuff, and would prefer it not being buried under tons of rubble, brought down by a massive earthquake, which in common parlance of the area would be called, "The Big One."
Still, if the Gjods, fate, or mama Earth wants to bring it on, and spare me the cost of replacing my goods by sparing the noble Casa Aloha, and open a rift through Santa Monica, Beverly Hills, West Hollywood, Hancock Park (that's right you little sickos, I wrote Hancock)...and have the "Hollywood Sound" end at Hollywood Boulevard, a mere block away, I wouldn't complain. Infact, it'd be pretty fucking sweet.
Well, that's me, always trying to look on the bright side. In the mean while, I got 4 fans, a pair of cargo-shorts, and just finished a very refreshing rum-n-coke sno-cone. Hope you're doing well too. Happy Thursday.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
So yeah...
NYC was a week ago, and there's been quite a lot happening, apart from the fact that I got pretty much the cold from hell, and really lost a bit of focus. Still, I'm now looking at only 2 more laundry loads to finish, a couple a bills to pay, and some vitamins to take, a few hundreds of phone messages to listen too, and I might be close to getting back on track!
Since it seriously might take a while to actually find that track, I've culled a few web-based resources to find some interesting tales that are out on the interweb. I hope you enjoy.
1) Here's one about ancient man-beast lovin'!
2) For you Simpsons fans, here's a great lexicon of made up words from the show. Very Funny...you should read the whole thing.
3) And finally - Boy George - yeah, that Boy George, was caught with a lot of cocaine in his apartment. I'm not happy about it, I'm just sort of amused that his lawyer tried the "It's not his, and he doesn't know how it got there, officer," defense.
And now, I remove myself from the compooter here at Casa Aloha, and will attempt to grab the rest of Hunchback-day by the tail, and try and accomplish something.
Since it seriously might take a while to actually find that track, I've culled a few web-based resources to find some interesting tales that are out on the interweb. I hope you enjoy.
1) Here's one about ancient man-beast lovin'!
2) For you Simpsons fans, here's a great lexicon of made up words from the show. Very Funny...you should read the whole thing.
3) And finally - Boy George - yeah, that Boy George, was caught with a lot of cocaine in his apartment. I'm not happy about it, I'm just sort of amused that his lawyer tried the "It's not his, and he doesn't know how it got there, officer," defense.
And now, I remove myself from the compooter here at Casa Aloha, and will attempt to grab the rest of Hunchback-day by the tail, and try and accomplish something.
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