Static.
Over the snow on the screen, a line of text appears in red. It reads:
STEREO <- ON AIR
SAP <- ON AIR
HD <- ON AIR
White numbers appear in the corner. Someone must be using a remote.
97
63
38
33
12
8
5
CHANNEL FJORD
A massive three masted yacht races through deep blue waters. It's sails gleam blinding white, unfurled in the late South Pacific sun. The weekdays have gathered around Friday, who rests one arm on a huge wooden steering wheel, near the stern.
"I've heard," begins Friday, "Advances in medical technology are going to prolong the human life by a shocking degree."
The other weekdays nod in agreement - they read the webmonster too.
"But, why exactly? To what end?" He's interrupted by a crewman dressed in the most typecast of sailing-boat crewman uniform - a white cap, striped white and blue crew-neck long-sleeve shirt. and white pants. He holds a tray of fruity looking drinks. Huge chunks of pineapple and oranges are skewered by tiny umbrellas. He places them in eager hands.
"Friday," Monday speaks after a sip, and smacking his lips. "They're afraid. You can't blame 'em for wanting to avoid it."
"Right!" Exclaims Friday. "But, who's to say that by living longer, they'll have more fun?"
"Where there's life, there's hope." Says Wednesday hopefully.
"On a scale of super fun times," Friday pauses for a drink, and moves the wheel a few pegs to the right. (moving the boat to the left) "You can remember what, five? Eight? Ten?"
The weekdays adopt introspective looks as they try and recall the best of the best times. Around the bow of the yacht, a number of dolphins break the surface, and race the boat.
"You might be right." Says Monday.
"Yeah...maybe nine." Thursday adds.
"Well, consider this..." Friday continues, "You're immortal! If you cut a normal human's life down to its most exciting and fun, 98 percent would be gone! Do you think adding an extra ten-or twenty years is really going to give them an extra scene of really super good times?"
"Sad to say, but I'd have to say, nope." Said Thursday.
"Probably not." Monday growled.
Friday's face looked satisfied, as if he'd proven his point. He stared off at the horizon, over leaping dolphins and the slowly setting sun. The sound of gently pounding waves on the hull, was broken by Tuesday.
"I remember this one time. I'd been having a bad run of luck, and apart from you guys..." He holds his drink up in acknowledgement, "There was nothing but hell, along with one fucked up situation after another. I could see the few good people who did stick around, couldn't help, even if they wanted to."
"What are you getting at?" Says Wednesday, "I think we know what you're talking about." He points a thumb to his huge humped-back in a "you think you've got it bad?" gesture.
Tuesday looks at his gathered colleagues. "After an eternity of waiting, I bumped into someone who made all the difference. Someone who changed everything from something to endure, to something to live for. It wasn't just what I wanted, it was more than that. It was better than perfect."
Tuesday's words drifted away in the wind. The other weekdays went back into their minds, finding something similar in their own experiences. Each re-lived, for a moment, times that had long been forgotten. Sly and inside grins began to form on their faces, as they lost themselves in memory.
"That's all I'm saying." Tuesday began, "Sometimes you just have to hold out a bit longer, before something so good shows up, that it changes everything."
"Hell yeah!" Thursday exclaims.
"Yep, right on that one." Monday speaks, then takes a sip of his drink.
"So," Tuesday begins, addressing his words at Friday, "I think that's why they want to keep going, and adding years to their lives. There still might be someone or something that will change everything. A year, maybe two or ten. Extra time, is extra time for it to finally come together, and make everything right."
Friday looked over.
"You're right. I'm wrong. I never thought to see it from that angle." He turned the wheel in his hands, and yelled to the crew.
"Ship sails!"
Various striped-shirted crewmen ran around rolling cranks, and pulling lines. The yacht slowed, gliding into a coral bay of a beautiful tropical island. From the shore huge canoes were launched, shirtless men rhythmically dug paddles into the water, propelling them into the bay. The sun was now a huge orange ball on the right of the horizon. Behind the beach, bonfires were lit, illuminating bamboo huts, and women swaying like waves in grass skirts.
"It's true," Said Friday, "You need patience, to wait for the right moment to arrive."
Huge canoes bumped against the hull of the yacht. Islanders gestured for the weekdays to disembark into empty seats in the canoes.
"But you also have to know when the moment is upon you, and act on it."
He finished the rest of his drink in a huge swallow, then threw it into the ocean.
Friday watched it sink under the gentle waves, and spoke two words.
"We're here."
Happy Friday!
Friday, April 21, 2006
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Sorry, we can't be everywhere...
I hate to say we've failed you, but this was 26 years ago, and apart from the fact I was 10, I didn't have a passport.
A Chinese expedition last winter found a mummy on the edge of the Lop Nur salt basin, at a spot where a well-known scientist went mysteriously missing nearly 26 years ago.
Bastard mummy got hisself a scientist.
I sure hope those guys in the "Chinese Expedition" are careful...sounds like a bad, bad mummy.
A Chinese expedition last winter found a mummy on the edge of the Lop Nur salt basin, at a spot where a well-known scientist went mysteriously missing nearly 26 years ago.
Bastard mummy got hisself a scientist.
I sure hope those guys in the "Chinese Expedition" are careful...sounds like a bad, bad mummy.
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Fjord: Mummy watch twenty-oh-six...
We're watching them
so you don't have to.
I got some great pics from my friend who saw more...
Now, aren't you glad we're keeping an eye on these evil bastards?!
Fjord - keeping you safe from mummies since 2006.
-Tsunami-
Friday, April 14, 2006
Okay...whoever's reading...
We're closing in on 10,000 unique visitors to our backwater webzine, and your Friendly Minor League Media Demon has a request.
Take your tjime figgering this one out.
ONE)
What's your Fjavorite line written in the last year and 4 months?
TWO)
What's your fjavorite post in said time?
We'll make it a HUGE occasion - provided we get enough feedback to make it FEEL like a HUGE OCCASION. (drop it in the comments...we'll see.)
You've got some time to explore our outstanding archives, I'm thinking 3-4 weeks...but it might be sooner. Find out how much power you hjave - it might be more than you kjnow!
Take your tjime figgering this one out.
ONE)
What's your Fjavorite line written in the last year and 4 months?
TWO)
What's your fjavorite post in said time?
We'll make it a HUGE occasion - provided we get enough feedback to make it FEEL like a HUGE OCCASION. (drop it in the comments...we'll see.)
You've got some time to explore our outstanding archives, I'm thinking 3-4 weeks...but it might be sooner. Find out how much power you hjave - it might be more than you kjnow!
It's In The Game
"What exactly is it?" Asked Tuesday. He balanced on the broken remains of a Doric column, then jumped to the broken tiles of an ancient floor. It seemed like the ruins of a Greek building.
"I'm not sure...but it's distracting." Wednesday mumbled, looking through a small leather-bound diary. He flipped through a few pages. "I think," He continued, "it started last week."
"Yeah." Monday said, as looked around. He spied a large wooden cabinet, and moved towards it. "It's like I have purpose, I know what I have, and need to do...but..." He opened the doors, and found a large assortment of wine bottles. He shut the doors closed, and stood there like he'd forgotten why he went there in the first place.
"But you just can't keep your head in the game." Finished Thursday.
"That's it!" Shouted Tuesday and Wednesday together.
"Total lack of focus." Tuesday spoke.
"Befuddled concentration." Added Wednesday
"And you say this started last week?" Monday asked Wednesday.
"What?" Wednesday replied helpfully, but totally out of context.
"This, um...thing..." Monday spied a shiny thing on the tile. He went over to it. It was an old coin. He picked it up and put it in his pocket. This made him happy.
A small beeping came out of Tuesday's jacket. He reached in and produced a P.D.A. He looked at it for a moment.
"Awww, shit!" He said.
"What?" The other's asked.
"Today's Good Friday! What'd we get Friday?"
"Umm..."
"Err..."
"Well...what'd you get him?"
"I forgot." Finished Tuesday.
"I have a coupon for a free haircut." Spoke Wednesday, holding out the coupon.
"I don't think that will do." Said Thursday. "It's hard to believe we forgot."
Just then a chunk of rock, kicked from a foot, skidded across the tiles. Friday walked up talking on a cell. He was laughing and enjoying his talk. When he reached the middle of the ruins, he spoke to the phone the closing line.
"Well, I'm here. So I'll see you later tonight? Great...until then!" He put it away, and looked at his four colleagues. They had rather glum expressions on their faces.
"What?" He asked.
There was a long pause. Birds were singing in the background.
"I got you a free haircut!" Said Wednesday with hopeful enthusiasm, holding out the coupon.
"Friday," Began Thursday, "We forgot this was Good Friday."
"Yeah," Said Monday, "Things have been happening...confusing things."
"I have to agree." Tuesday finished. "We're sorry, but it's just unexplainable. Something's been happening since last week, and we don't know what."
"Ah!" Said Friday. "It's cool. I know. I'm happy you've even noticed."
"What?" Asked Monday.
"I've got a date with Persephone later tonight."
"The wife of the King of the Underworld?!" Exclaimed Wednesday.
"Well," Friday shrugged his shoulders, "It's not exactly a happy marriage. She was abducted and then tricked into the whole thing."
"Friday," Spoke Thursday, "I'm not one to give you advice, but, this seems a little...rash."
"Look..." Friday paused, and walked over to the wine cabinet. He opened it and took out a bottle. He pulled a corkscrew out of his pocket, and un-corked the bottle. Then took a long pull. He took the bottle away from his lips, and looked confused. He pointed to the bottle he held and asked.
"Why didn't you guys start on this?"
Monday looked over at the cabinet. "See, that's what we're talking about. Lately it's been hard to know what's going on."
Friday took another drink. "It's like this." He said, "Persephone's been in the underworld for the last six months, and she popped back up last week sometime. So her mom, yaknow, Demeter - the Goddess - unleashes her powers, and everything starts growing again...starts living again...starts getting confused...because she kinda' has powers over...umm...biological urges. It's the kind of thing that makes you loose focus."
"Wait..." Said Thursday, "You're about to have a date - and if I know you - which I do...you might have amorous relations with the WIFE OF HADES! Friday, that does not sound like a good plan. When that guy gets pissed, I mean, he gets PISSED!"
The others nod in agreement. Friday looks at them for a moment, then walks around handing each a bottle. When completes this task, he draws them in with the "come here" crooked-finger gesture. The weekdays gather round.
"This lady's important." He begins in a whisper. "So important that the earth stops making life when she's gone. But contractually Hades has to let her go for six months - elsewise everything would die, 'cause her mom control's the force of life - dig?"
The four weekdays gathered in a tight circle around Friday (each with a wine bottle) nod their heads in understanding.
"So," Friday whispers, drawing them closer, "after six months in the Land of the Dead - which is not a fun place, I don't have to tell you guys. Do you think the first thing she wants to do is..." His voice rises up, "HANG OUT WITH HER MOM!?"
Friday moves quick - like Moe in the Three Stooges, and in a sweeping smack around the circle strikes them all across the foreheads. There are four solid "whacks" that ring out. All react stupidly - hands up to their heads, with dumb expressions of pain. All except Tuesday, who reflexively smacks the wine bottle across his skull. It shatters, and he falls to the ground drenched in wine, and falling glass shards.
"Persephone wants a good time, and we're going to make sure she gets it! So get your head in the game, and let's go!"
Happy Friday.
"I'm not sure...but it's distracting." Wednesday mumbled, looking through a small leather-bound diary. He flipped through a few pages. "I think," He continued, "it started last week."
"Yeah." Monday said, as looked around. He spied a large wooden cabinet, and moved towards it. "It's like I have purpose, I know what I have, and need to do...but..." He opened the doors, and found a large assortment of wine bottles. He shut the doors closed, and stood there like he'd forgotten why he went there in the first place.
"But you just can't keep your head in the game." Finished Thursday.
"That's it!" Shouted Tuesday and Wednesday together.
"Total lack of focus." Tuesday spoke.
"Befuddled concentration." Added Wednesday
"And you say this started last week?" Monday asked Wednesday.
"What?" Wednesday replied helpfully, but totally out of context.
"This, um...thing..." Monday spied a shiny thing on the tile. He went over to it. It was an old coin. He picked it up and put it in his pocket. This made him happy.
A small beeping came out of Tuesday's jacket. He reached in and produced a P.D.A. He looked at it for a moment.
"Awww, shit!" He said.
"What?" The other's asked.
"Today's Good Friday! What'd we get Friday?"
"Umm..."
"Err..."
"Well...what'd you get him?"
"I forgot." Finished Tuesday.
"I have a coupon for a free haircut." Spoke Wednesday, holding out the coupon.
"I don't think that will do." Said Thursday. "It's hard to believe we forgot."
Just then a chunk of rock, kicked from a foot, skidded across the tiles. Friday walked up talking on a cell. He was laughing and enjoying his talk. When he reached the middle of the ruins, he spoke to the phone the closing line.
"Well, I'm here. So I'll see you later tonight? Great...until then!" He put it away, and looked at his four colleagues. They had rather glum expressions on their faces.
"What?" He asked.
There was a long pause. Birds were singing in the background.
"I got you a free haircut!" Said Wednesday with hopeful enthusiasm, holding out the coupon.
"Friday," Began Thursday, "We forgot this was Good Friday."
"Yeah," Said Monday, "Things have been happening...confusing things."
"I have to agree." Tuesday finished. "We're sorry, but it's just unexplainable. Something's been happening since last week, and we don't know what."
"Ah!" Said Friday. "It's cool. I know. I'm happy you've even noticed."
"What?" Asked Monday.
"I've got a date with Persephone later tonight."
"The wife of the King of the Underworld?!" Exclaimed Wednesday.
"Well," Friday shrugged his shoulders, "It's not exactly a happy marriage. She was abducted and then tricked into the whole thing."
"Friday," Spoke Thursday, "I'm not one to give you advice, but, this seems a little...rash."
"Look..." Friday paused, and walked over to the wine cabinet. He opened it and took out a bottle. He pulled a corkscrew out of his pocket, and un-corked the bottle. Then took a long pull. He took the bottle away from his lips, and looked confused. He pointed to the bottle he held and asked.
"Why didn't you guys start on this?"
Monday looked over at the cabinet. "See, that's what we're talking about. Lately it's been hard to know what's going on."
Friday took another drink. "It's like this." He said, "Persephone's been in the underworld for the last six months, and she popped back up last week sometime. So her mom, yaknow, Demeter - the Goddess - unleashes her powers, and everything starts growing again...starts living again...starts getting confused...because she kinda' has powers over...umm...biological urges. It's the kind of thing that makes you loose focus."
"Wait..." Said Thursday, "You're about to have a date - and if I know you - which I do...you might have amorous relations with the WIFE OF HADES! Friday, that does not sound like a good plan. When that guy gets pissed, I mean, he gets PISSED!"
The others nod in agreement. Friday looks at them for a moment, then walks around handing each a bottle. When completes this task, he draws them in with the "come here" crooked-finger gesture. The weekdays gather round.
"This lady's important." He begins in a whisper. "So important that the earth stops making life when she's gone. But contractually Hades has to let her go for six months - elsewise everything would die, 'cause her mom control's the force of life - dig?"
The four weekdays gathered in a tight circle around Friday (each with a wine bottle) nod their heads in understanding.
"So," Friday whispers, drawing them closer, "after six months in the Land of the Dead - which is not a fun place, I don't have to tell you guys. Do you think the first thing she wants to do is..." His voice rises up, "HANG OUT WITH HER MOM!?"
Friday moves quick - like Moe in the Three Stooges, and in a sweeping smack around the circle strikes them all across the foreheads. There are four solid "whacks" that ring out. All react stupidly - hands up to their heads, with dumb expressions of pain. All except Tuesday, who reflexively smacks the wine bottle across his skull. It shatters, and he falls to the ground drenched in wine, and falling glass shards.
"Persephone wants a good time, and we're going to make sure she gets it! So get your head in the game, and let's go!"
Happy Friday.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
I was working on an opus
about owning things, and communication, and mummies...but I got side-tracked when my barber came by and started (without my permission) attacking my scalp with his clippers. I was able to chase him out of the Casa with a broom-stick and a can of scrubbing bubbles, but the whole affair has thrown me off my game. I'm going to save my opus for another day, and simply wish you all happy monsterizing until tomorrow.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Wednesday - According to Blogger.
Tho, I've still got an hour in the P.S.T. Zone.
So I figured I'd re-post something from a past Wednesday...cause I'll be busy.
Enjoy.
In the process of ripping my mind
apart from it's old pathways, (partly for research, partly thru personal circumstance (btw an excellent porn name that, "Sir Cum-Stance," but I digress on my original thought)) this post will be a bit more jumbled with non-sequitors and lacking in transitions.
1) Is a computer more powerful than a mountain climbing crampon?
Well, I guess it all depends on the situation. A computer, thru the proper linkage to the Webmonster, is both a super-quick (so quick as to be nearly instantaneous) and effective communications tool, and with access to the global database, provides near (tho by no means infallible - much like human intelligence) omniscience. A mountain climbing crampon is pretty much just good for providing a good foothold on rock, glacier or ice-wall. So, in the normal context of your home, a crampon is useless. It is impotent. It is a very pointy (dangerous) paperweight at best. However, if you are suddenly struck by an urge to destroy your computer, a set of crampons might be just the thing. Triple-forged carbon-alloy foor spikes are more than a match for a plastic/glass Compaq 14" monitor. The idea of those spikes crushing down, piercing plastic, shattering glass...it's almost sexual. And for the tower? You think a 100-gig hard-drive could stand up to the weight of a normal humanid, compressed to the point of two foor-spikes? Um, nah.
All-in-all, crampon wins. Like I said earlier, however, circumstance.
If all you want to do is get off sexually, well, unless yer into some really kinky stuff, the compooter is probably a better bet. ("Wait," Susan Insatiable says, "No...tie me to the bedposts, and put on your robe and crampons! It's the only thing that works for me anymore...")
Considering all the ways you could physically destroy a computer, perhaps the best way would be to use an actual discarded kitchen sink. It would be metaphorically harmonious. Since the only thing a well-endowed computer is inhibited by, is it's own user's imagination, and rhetorically speaking, "the kitchen sink" is a catch-all phrase for "everything else," the physical object embodying that would be the perfect death-tool.
I'm no engineer, therefore I'm going to have to guess the ratio of sink/computer ratio...if say, a large Norse-like (hey-we are Fjord after all) giant was responsible for crushing every discarded computer with a sink. Sooner or later the sink (if made of porcelain-would crack and break, or if made of some kind of metal-would deform to a completely flat, or at least useless for the purpose of crushing computers, shape) would come up against it's last computer. In which case, the giant would take a break, have a sandwich and a smoke, and call for another sink. I'm suspecting, averaging both metal and porcelain sinks together, would be on a ratio of 1 sink to every 14 computer's destroyed.
Yes, all that's well and good, but if we're in the process of pitting object-Vs-object, would you rather have a sink, a crampon, or a computer? I mean, who's really going to do the study on the odds in Vegas, of who's going to win the ultimate battle, Crampon-Vs-Sink? Now THERE'S A FIGHT!
(The aluminum sink--pierced twelve or fourteen times, (some are true gashes across the length of it's bowl) a small hunk of pipe, hangs - about to fall, from around it's drain-section, moving in a counter-clockwise direction, looking for an opening. Across from it, a left-footed crampon. Black nylon attatchment-straps dragging sadly, three of it's spikes are at odd angles, and the frame is so bent now that it would never again fit another foor. It senses Sink about to jump, and strikes first!)
Well mighty Fjordlings...just speaking for myself, I'd prefer to destroy my computer with metal-alloy feer-spikes, I just think it would be a tad more visceral, than say a 2x4" - but that's just me.
(Tho a sink wouldn't be turned down at the right moment...just sayin')
And now a brief commercial interlude:
5 Seconds of Postal-Service-esque electro-pop...
The announcer speaks over the continuing music.
"This metaphorical adventure has been brought to you by Wednesday, the often overlooked and deformed hunchback of a weekday...underwritten in part by Blogger, Google's own on-line journal of dominion, and Miller Lite - "Tastes Great, Less Filling, Miller-Lite."
Cut to:
D.Tsunami, climbing up a practically sheer wall, it is black, but made up of 0's and 1's. Occasionally binary digital outcroppings jut out. He approaches one (er, it's not made of 1's, it's "one" as in outcropping, singular.)
He jabs in his ice-axe, and moves up a crampon. A mist of scattered 1's and 0's fall past and bounce off the lens of the camera below him. He pulls himself up to the ledge, and drops his ass onto it, crampons dangling over the side. The camera rises to his level.
Tsunami - You're probably wondering what all this has to do with Fjord.
(The camera shakes as if it's agreeing with the question)
Tsunami - Well, I'm as much in the dark about it as you are.
(The cameraman breaks the third wall...or silence...or whatever)
Cameraman - Dude, you can't say that, that's stupid. It doesn't advance the narrative at all.
Tsunami - If I don't fall off this precipice, then we'll know.
Cameraman - That's better, but it doesn't help much.
Tsunami - I digit, (that's pronounced "dig-it" spoken quickly, not "digit" like-binary) There's a lot of wall left to climb, and things have a way of happening when you're climbing.
The camera pans upwards, at the sheer digital wall. Then an object falls from above, it grows larger, and at the exact moment it's strikjing the cameraman we make out, it's a white porcelain sink. The camera goes to snow, then fuzz then clear as we watch it fall past the digital wall. For some reason it picks up the sound of Tsunami musing. (must be a really long lavalear cord)
Tsunami - Huh, porcelain. I woulda' thought aluminum.
Then the transmission ends.
Hoooo Boy! How's this show gonna end? Well, tune in next time for the thrilling conclusion of "Fjord!" What will happen to D.Tsunami? What's at the top of the mysterious digital wall, and why is he climbing it!!? Who would really win in a mano-y-mano object battle to the death, Crampon? Sink? Or does Computer have an Ace of Snakes up it's sleeve? And do the writers even have an inkling of an idea of where this is going?
I dunno...I just found out Fjord is worth (calculated, I have no idea how...)
Your blog, fjordsurfing.blogspot.com, is worth $564.54
Doesn't that seem a bit low to you? Anyways, if the writers appear to not have an inkling, (good word, no?) you can understand that they're way undervalued, and probably underappreciated.
Anyways, In the comments of the original post (here) is one by maxmillian, that's super ultra funny.
Happy Hunchbacking.
-Tsunami-
So I figured I'd re-post something from a past Wednesday...cause I'll be busy.
Enjoy.
In the process of ripping my mind
apart from it's old pathways, (partly for research, partly thru personal circumstance (btw an excellent porn name that, "Sir Cum-Stance," but I digress on my original thought)) this post will be a bit more jumbled with non-sequitors and lacking in transitions.
1) Is a computer more powerful than a mountain climbing crampon?
Well, I guess it all depends on the situation. A computer, thru the proper linkage to the Webmonster, is both a super-quick (so quick as to be nearly instantaneous) and effective communications tool, and with access to the global database, provides near (tho by no means infallible - much like human intelligence) omniscience. A mountain climbing crampon is pretty much just good for providing a good foothold on rock, glacier or ice-wall. So, in the normal context of your home, a crampon is useless. It is impotent. It is a very pointy (dangerous) paperweight at best. However, if you are suddenly struck by an urge to destroy your computer, a set of crampons might be just the thing. Triple-forged carbon-alloy foor spikes are more than a match for a plastic/glass Compaq 14" monitor. The idea of those spikes crushing down, piercing plastic, shattering glass...it's almost sexual. And for the tower? You think a 100-gig hard-drive could stand up to the weight of a normal humanid, compressed to the point of two foor-spikes? Um, nah.
All-in-all, crampon wins. Like I said earlier, however, circumstance.
If all you want to do is get off sexually, well, unless yer into some really kinky stuff, the compooter is probably a better bet. ("Wait," Susan Insatiable says, "No...tie me to the bedposts, and put on your robe and crampons! It's the only thing that works for me anymore...")
Considering all the ways you could physically destroy a computer, perhaps the best way would be to use an actual discarded kitchen sink. It would be metaphorically harmonious. Since the only thing a well-endowed computer is inhibited by, is it's own user's imagination, and rhetorically speaking, "the kitchen sink" is a catch-all phrase for "everything else," the physical object embodying that would be the perfect death-tool.
I'm no engineer, therefore I'm going to have to guess the ratio of sink/computer ratio...if say, a large Norse-like (hey-we are Fjord after all) giant was responsible for crushing every discarded computer with a sink. Sooner or later the sink (if made of porcelain-would crack and break, or if made of some kind of metal-would deform to a completely flat, or at least useless for the purpose of crushing computers, shape) would come up against it's last computer. In which case, the giant would take a break, have a sandwich and a smoke, and call for another sink. I'm suspecting, averaging both metal and porcelain sinks together, would be on a ratio of 1 sink to every 14 computer's destroyed.
Yes, all that's well and good, but if we're in the process of pitting object-Vs-object, would you rather have a sink, a crampon, or a computer? I mean, who's really going to do the study on the odds in Vegas, of who's going to win the ultimate battle, Crampon-Vs-Sink? Now THERE'S A FIGHT!
(The aluminum sink--pierced twelve or fourteen times, (some are true gashes across the length of it's bowl) a small hunk of pipe, hangs - about to fall, from around it's drain-section, moving in a counter-clockwise direction, looking for an opening. Across from it, a left-footed crampon. Black nylon attatchment-straps dragging sadly, three of it's spikes are at odd angles, and the frame is so bent now that it would never again fit another foor. It senses Sink about to jump, and strikes first!)
Well mighty Fjordlings...just speaking for myself, I'd prefer to destroy my computer with metal-alloy feer-spikes, I just think it would be a tad more visceral, than say a 2x4" - but that's just me.
(Tho a sink wouldn't be turned down at the right moment...just sayin')
And now a brief commercial interlude:
5 Seconds of Postal-Service-esque electro-pop...
The announcer speaks over the continuing music.
"This metaphorical adventure has been brought to you by Wednesday, the often overlooked and deformed hunchback of a weekday...underwritten in part by Blogger, Google's own on-line journal of dominion, and Miller Lite - "Tastes Great, Less Filling, Miller-Lite."
Cut to:
D.Tsunami, climbing up a practically sheer wall, it is black, but made up of 0's and 1's. Occasionally binary digital outcroppings jut out. He approaches one (er, it's not made of 1's, it's "one" as in outcropping, singular.)
He jabs in his ice-axe, and moves up a crampon. A mist of scattered 1's and 0's fall past and bounce off the lens of the camera below him. He pulls himself up to the ledge, and drops his ass onto it, crampons dangling over the side. The camera rises to his level.
Tsunami - You're probably wondering what all this has to do with Fjord.
(The camera shakes as if it's agreeing with the question)
Tsunami - Well, I'm as much in the dark about it as you are.
(The cameraman breaks the third wall...or silence...or whatever)
Cameraman - Dude, you can't say that, that's stupid. It doesn't advance the narrative at all.
Tsunami - If I don't fall off this precipice, then we'll know.
Cameraman - That's better, but it doesn't help much.
Tsunami - I digit, (that's pronounced "dig-it" spoken quickly, not "digit" like-binary) There's a lot of wall left to climb, and things have a way of happening when you're climbing.
The camera pans upwards, at the sheer digital wall. Then an object falls from above, it grows larger, and at the exact moment it's strikjing the cameraman we make out, it's a white porcelain sink. The camera goes to snow, then fuzz then clear as we watch it fall past the digital wall. For some reason it picks up the sound of Tsunami musing. (must be a really long lavalear cord)
Tsunami - Huh, porcelain. I woulda' thought aluminum.
Then the transmission ends.
Hoooo Boy! How's this show gonna end? Well, tune in next time for the thrilling conclusion of "Fjord!" What will happen to D.Tsunami? What's at the top of the mysterious digital wall, and why is he climbing it!!? Who would really win in a mano-y-mano object battle to the death, Crampon? Sink? Or does Computer have an Ace of Snakes up it's sleeve? And do the writers even have an inkling of an idea of where this is going?
I dunno...I just found out Fjord is worth (calculated, I have no idea how...)
Your blog, fjordsurfing.blogspot.com, is worth $564.54
Doesn't that seem a bit low to you? Anyways, if the writers appear to not have an inkling, (good word, no?) you can understand that they're way undervalued, and probably underappreciated.
Anyways, In the comments of the original post (here) is one by maxmillian, that's super ultra funny.
Happy Hunchbacking.
-Tsunami-
Shaken, not stirred.
The guy in the back shouts. "Yeah man, stirring sucks!"
So I think it's a Spring thing...in fact, I'm positive it's a Spring 2006 thing. Like being a little bubble in an orange soda 2-liter being shaken, alot. I'm not just smelling change, I'm watching the world get ripped apart around me, and I'm standing like a confused bystander on a reasonably firm piece of ground. A simple step off, and I'd be swimming the doggie paddle in a chaos vortex too - which may, or may not be a bad thing.
Like, you're on the train, there's a crazy nutjob on it, who's rambling on and on about some minor detail of life that you'd be more than happy to overlook (maybe oooh, lets say, cat shit) - except he keeps shouting about it. So at the next stop, you duck out of the car, and jump on the next one. Will it be the orgy-car, leaving you wondering (before the first grope of soft, hot flesh) "what took me so long to leave the car with the crazy nutjob?" Or will it be a car full of axe wielding maniacs that leaves you wondering (before a metal wedge to the forehead stops your wondering once in for all) "Why did I leave the last car? All it had was an annoying crazy nutjob talking about cat shit!"
There are two schools of thought on this quandary.
1) When in doubt - do nothing.
2) When in doubt - do something.
Life's probably too complex to sum up in either of these schools of thought, but I'd sure pay someone to make that orgy-car thing work out for me.
-Tsunami-
So I think it's a Spring thing...in fact, I'm positive it's a Spring 2006 thing. Like being a little bubble in an orange soda 2-liter being shaken, alot. I'm not just smelling change, I'm watching the world get ripped apart around me, and I'm standing like a confused bystander on a reasonably firm piece of ground. A simple step off, and I'd be swimming the doggie paddle in a chaos vortex too - which may, or may not be a bad thing.
Like, you're on the train, there's a crazy nutjob on it, who's rambling on and on about some minor detail of life that you'd be more than happy to overlook (maybe oooh, lets say, cat shit) - except he keeps shouting about it. So at the next stop, you duck out of the car, and jump on the next one. Will it be the orgy-car, leaving you wondering (before the first grope of soft, hot flesh) "what took me so long to leave the car with the crazy nutjob?" Or will it be a car full of axe wielding maniacs that leaves you wondering (before a metal wedge to the forehead stops your wondering once in for all) "Why did I leave the last car? All it had was an annoying crazy nutjob talking about cat shit!"
There are two schools of thought on this quandary.
1) When in doubt - do nothing.
2) When in doubt - do something.
Life's probably too complex to sum up in either of these schools of thought, but I'd sure pay someone to make that orgy-car thing work out for me.
-Tsunami-
Monday, April 10, 2006
Webmonster Problems
Are making it tough tonight.
Also taxing day is nigh, and I'm working the numbers to get it all together by then.
Hope things are better on your end.
Also taxing day is nigh, and I'm working the numbers to get it all together by then.
Hope things are better on your end.
Saturday, April 08, 2006
Friday, April 07, 2006
The Cyclone Kid
was heading for Dry Gultch. It wasn't a secret, and the Cyclone Kid made sure he had his agents out in front of him broadcasting the news.
-The one-armed Prospector leans against the telegraph pole speaking with a farmer. Above him is a yellowing poster with the picture of a whirlwind. It reads "Wanted: The Cyclone Kid $10,000"
"The Kid came into Butte last year, damn near tore the place down!" The Prospector says, kicking at a grasshopper on the wooden sidewalk. "Killed thirty-five men, and when he was gone, 'twernt no general store, no hotel, no saloon, no houses, and no stables!" The Farmer runs off to tell his friends and loved ones. -
$10,000 dollars is a lot of money, even split five ways. But the Cyclone Kid knows, it's all about pace.
It's about pace.
Spread the word before you, and wait.
Before long, all the hotheads that would have tied him up with small, viscous and (for them) short skirmishes hear the stories, and begin to bury their heads. Afterwards, only the most ruthless of shootists would remain.
(A less ruthless shootist...
"I just got wind of a juicy gold caravan crossing the Rio Grande! 15 mules in all, and only four guards. 'Sides, I heard the Kid ain't that fast...and...and my Ma' out in Santa Fe just got the typhus. I'll need to be heading that way before long.")
That's when he'd make his move. When everyone who'd expected him, would be dulled after days or weeks or months of waiting.
The sun was heading towards afternoon, and it was hot. Stormclouds gathered on the horizon, and a hot wind whistled through Dry Gultch. Shutters banged against houses, shop keepers (who could afford them) took down their awnings. Tethered horses cried out in terrified screams to be taken somewhere safer. Down the main street, a woman wearing a bonnet grabbed her child off the street and ran indoors.
A Coachman stood on the wooden sidewalk, talking with a Saloon Keeper.
"Crossed his path about three miles back. He was meandering about, smashing up the trailer park out by the krick. Otherwise, he would have had my stage and horses."
"So he's at the "Windy Pines?" The Saloon Keeper asks.
"T'ain't no pines out there, friend. 'Less you call sawdust a tree."
In fact, this was accurate. A mile away, the Cyclone Kid had finished with the trailer park, and was moving across the open fields towards Dry Gultch proper. He spotted a farmhouse, and whirled closer. In whirlwind form, he was quite powerful. As he drew closer, the shingles on the roof began to rip off, and fly into the air. Closer, the windows disappeared in showers of ragged shards. Closer, and the boards pulled themselves off of the frame, and whipped away. Finally, the frame itself shook loose, and flew up into the sky, falling to the earth like shattering piledrivers. One landed in the main street sending huge splinters everywhere.
The Saloon Keeper looked at the Coachman, a three foot spear of house-frame vibrating in the Saloon wall between them.
"Not sure what good it'd do," said the Coachman in a cool voice, "but maybe we should get inside."
The Saloon Keeper nodded, and they went back in through the swinging doors.
Inside, the Saloon Keeper tried to keep his voice calm.
"If anyone wants to do anything about it, the Cyclone Kid's on the way, and it looks like he's gonna' shake Dry Gultch down to the foundations."
The Town Drunk chirps up.
"What's in it for us!?"
"Well," The Saloon Keeper begins, "Free drinks for tonight?"
"Not Enough!" The Drunk shouts back.
From the shadows, a chair scrapes itself back from a table. The sound of spurs, and footfalls as a tall man appears - his face covered in shadow.
"I'll deal with him for free drinks."
"We'd be mightly obliged, stranger." Says the Saloon Keeper.
The other doesn't reply as he walks out towards the street with hearty clangs of his spurs. When he reaches the street, the Saloon Keeper, the Coachman, and all the rest of the patrons in the place rush to find somewhere to watch.
The stranger wears a black hat, and keeps it low - it's brim covering his face. Below a black shirt, criss-crossed with two bandoleers of gleaming bullets. A black leather belt holds a black leather holster, holding a silver Colt .45. Below that are weathered pants tucked into weathered European riding boots. The stranger stands like a statue, as the sound of the Kid's arrival grows to a gale-forced howl.
From the stranger's view, the Cyclone Kid's arrival is impressive. A small, squat twister traveling over the plain, until it reaches the city. The winds rip apart the blacksmith's, the laundry place, and the telegraph office, leaving only piles of heavy rubble. The lighter stuff - clothes, paper, chairs - sails off, joining the dirty and dangerous air. Then the Kid stops spinning. He stands in perfect balance, with his hands out as if he's just performed a triple axle, and came to a complete stop.
The first thing you notice is the moustache. It was huge, black, and hung down far past his jaw. Then the eyes. It looks as if they're spinning - and not in a good way. The rest of him is beaten and dirty, until you see the guns. Two gleaming revolvers in holsters, under a cartrage belt. He lowers his hands down over them.
"Never seen you before, stranger." He says. It seems that winds whip around his words as they carry across the empty street. Four heavy shingles fall from the sky, land around the stranger's feet.
"You should have." The stranger replies, in a vaguely familiar voice. "I've seen you lots of times."
The Kid eyes his opponent. Not too much to be worried about here, just another cool customer, out of his league.
"Well, you should have just kept on watching. Crossing my path is a sure way to get you scattered to the four winds."
"Well," The hat raises, revealing the face of Friday, who eyes the Cyclone Kid. A thrill of fear shoots through the Kid as he hears Friday's last words. "I aim to prove you wrong. Warm you iron!"
The Cyclone Kid draws his guns as fast as a wind-enhanced magical being can (which, as we all know, is pretty damn fast) and fires.
It's about pace.
Two bullets race from his two weapons. His ears detect no reply. The Cyclone Kid's eyes catch up to the scene, and where he shot to hit, (which he did) is nothing but empty air. He shoots a glance to his left. Then hears a sound made by a mouth, the kind of sound a cowboy would make to get his horse moving. Just a simple "click." He looks to the right, and sees Friday lying prone on the ground.
Friday pulls the trigger, and a bullet speeds from the chamber of his silver Colt into the Cyclone Kid's forehead. He falls to the dry street with a thud, his gleaming guns thrown backwards in slow-motion spirals.
The Saloon erupts in cheers, and patrons spill onto the street, followed by the rest of Dry Gultch who were cowering about. They pick Friday up and carry him on their shoulders. Everyone is all smiles and exuberance. Friday notices the Saloon Keeper in the crowd and yells down.
"I believe there was something about free drinks?!"
Happy Friday
-The one-armed Prospector leans against the telegraph pole speaking with a farmer. Above him is a yellowing poster with the picture of a whirlwind. It reads "Wanted: The Cyclone Kid $10,000"
"The Kid came into Butte last year, damn near tore the place down!" The Prospector says, kicking at a grasshopper on the wooden sidewalk. "Killed thirty-five men, and when he was gone, 'twernt no general store, no hotel, no saloon, no houses, and no stables!" The Farmer runs off to tell his friends and loved ones. -
$10,000 dollars is a lot of money, even split five ways. But the Cyclone Kid knows, it's all about pace.
It's about pace.
Spread the word before you, and wait.
Before long, all the hotheads that would have tied him up with small, viscous and (for them) short skirmishes hear the stories, and begin to bury their heads. Afterwards, only the most ruthless of shootists would remain.
(A less ruthless shootist...
"I just got wind of a juicy gold caravan crossing the Rio Grande! 15 mules in all, and only four guards. 'Sides, I heard the Kid ain't that fast...and...and my Ma' out in Santa Fe just got the typhus. I'll need to be heading that way before long.")
That's when he'd make his move. When everyone who'd expected him, would be dulled after days or weeks or months of waiting.
The sun was heading towards afternoon, and it was hot. Stormclouds gathered on the horizon, and a hot wind whistled through Dry Gultch. Shutters banged against houses, shop keepers (who could afford them) took down their awnings. Tethered horses cried out in terrified screams to be taken somewhere safer. Down the main street, a woman wearing a bonnet grabbed her child off the street and ran indoors.
A Coachman stood on the wooden sidewalk, talking with a Saloon Keeper.
"Crossed his path about three miles back. He was meandering about, smashing up the trailer park out by the krick. Otherwise, he would have had my stage and horses."
"So he's at the "Windy Pines?" The Saloon Keeper asks.
"T'ain't no pines out there, friend. 'Less you call sawdust a tree."
In fact, this was accurate. A mile away, the Cyclone Kid had finished with the trailer park, and was moving across the open fields towards Dry Gultch proper. He spotted a farmhouse, and whirled closer. In whirlwind form, he was quite powerful. As he drew closer, the shingles on the roof began to rip off, and fly into the air. Closer, the windows disappeared in showers of ragged shards. Closer, and the boards pulled themselves off of the frame, and whipped away. Finally, the frame itself shook loose, and flew up into the sky, falling to the earth like shattering piledrivers. One landed in the main street sending huge splinters everywhere.
The Saloon Keeper looked at the Coachman, a three foot spear of house-frame vibrating in the Saloon wall between them.
"Not sure what good it'd do," said the Coachman in a cool voice, "but maybe we should get inside."
The Saloon Keeper nodded, and they went back in through the swinging doors.
Inside, the Saloon Keeper tried to keep his voice calm.
"If anyone wants to do anything about it, the Cyclone Kid's on the way, and it looks like he's gonna' shake Dry Gultch down to the foundations."
The Town Drunk chirps up.
"What's in it for us!?"
"Well," The Saloon Keeper begins, "Free drinks for tonight?"
"Not Enough!" The Drunk shouts back.
From the shadows, a chair scrapes itself back from a table. The sound of spurs, and footfalls as a tall man appears - his face covered in shadow.
"I'll deal with him for free drinks."
"We'd be mightly obliged, stranger." Says the Saloon Keeper.
The other doesn't reply as he walks out towards the street with hearty clangs of his spurs. When he reaches the street, the Saloon Keeper, the Coachman, and all the rest of the patrons in the place rush to find somewhere to watch.
The stranger wears a black hat, and keeps it low - it's brim covering his face. Below a black shirt, criss-crossed with two bandoleers of gleaming bullets. A black leather belt holds a black leather holster, holding a silver Colt .45. Below that are weathered pants tucked into weathered European riding boots. The stranger stands like a statue, as the sound of the Kid's arrival grows to a gale-forced howl.
From the stranger's view, the Cyclone Kid's arrival is impressive. A small, squat twister traveling over the plain, until it reaches the city. The winds rip apart the blacksmith's, the laundry place, and the telegraph office, leaving only piles of heavy rubble. The lighter stuff - clothes, paper, chairs - sails off, joining the dirty and dangerous air. Then the Kid stops spinning. He stands in perfect balance, with his hands out as if he's just performed a triple axle, and came to a complete stop.
The first thing you notice is the moustache. It was huge, black, and hung down far past his jaw. Then the eyes. It looks as if they're spinning - and not in a good way. The rest of him is beaten and dirty, until you see the guns. Two gleaming revolvers in holsters, under a cartrage belt. He lowers his hands down over them.
"Never seen you before, stranger." He says. It seems that winds whip around his words as they carry across the empty street. Four heavy shingles fall from the sky, land around the stranger's feet.
"You should have." The stranger replies, in a vaguely familiar voice. "I've seen you lots of times."
The Kid eyes his opponent. Not too much to be worried about here, just another cool customer, out of his league.
"Well, you should have just kept on watching. Crossing my path is a sure way to get you scattered to the four winds."
"Well," The hat raises, revealing the face of Friday, who eyes the Cyclone Kid. A thrill of fear shoots through the Kid as he hears Friday's last words. "I aim to prove you wrong. Warm you iron!"
The Cyclone Kid draws his guns as fast as a wind-enhanced magical being can (which, as we all know, is pretty damn fast) and fires.
It's about pace.
Two bullets race from his two weapons. His ears detect no reply. The Cyclone Kid's eyes catch up to the scene, and where he shot to hit, (which he did) is nothing but empty air. He shoots a glance to his left. Then hears a sound made by a mouth, the kind of sound a cowboy would make to get his horse moving. Just a simple "click." He looks to the right, and sees Friday lying prone on the ground.
Friday pulls the trigger, and a bullet speeds from the chamber of his silver Colt into the Cyclone Kid's forehead. He falls to the dry street with a thud, his gleaming guns thrown backwards in slow-motion spirals.
The Saloon erupts in cheers, and patrons spill onto the street, followed by the rest of Dry Gultch who were cowering about. They pick Friday up and carry him on their shoulders. Everyone is all smiles and exuberance. Friday notices the Saloon Keeper in the crowd and yells down.
"I believe there was something about free drinks?!"
Happy Friday
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Perhaps You've Noticed
That we're going through a slow period over here at the W.C.B.
Let me just assure you, it's just taking us longer than normal to get up-to-speed with this whole "spring-time" thing. And we hope it's taken you a lot longer than it has us.
Let me just assure you, it's just taking us longer than normal to get up-to-speed with this whole "spring-time" thing. And we hope it's taken you a lot longer than it has us.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Sunday, April 02, 2006
This is cooler
I didn't know how good this was until I watched this.
And it's a puzzle.
Figger it out and make yourself happy.
And it's a puzzle.
Figger it out and make yourself happy.
um this is cool...
Fjord Borg has a vested intrest in this band....
And for some reason I do too.
However, when I saw what they were up to, I stopped being a fan, and just felt proud that they were up to something as cool as this.
I'd also like to let Mike and Dan know I appreciate the link.
Now I'm off to listen to these guys.
And for some reason I do too.
However, when I saw what they were up to, I stopped being a fan, and just felt proud that they were up to something as cool as this.
I'd also like to let Mike and Dan know I appreciate the link.
Now I'm off to listen to these guys.
Just cause
I thought this was deserving of a better response...
GO HERE!
My most handsome, beautiful, lovely and adorable readership. You know how glamourous you are don't you?
OF COURSE YOU DO!
(This was really what I was talking about)
(you of course know that the word glamor is Scottish, and means to bespell or enchant. I think by now you all know I'm totally into spells and enchantment...which is why I find your eyeballs sooooo appealing. I'm practically ensorcled by the fact that you keep coming back. (And if you're really bored on a late Sunday night (it's daylight savings time after all...) then you could jump over here -and learn more about glamor.)
GO HERE!
My most handsome, beautiful, lovely and adorable readership. You know how glamourous you are don't you?
OF COURSE YOU DO!
(This was really what I was talking about)
(you of course know that the word glamor is Scottish, and means to bespell or enchant. I think by now you all know I'm totally into spells and enchantment...which is why I find your eyeballs sooooo appealing. I'm practically ensorcled by the fact that you keep coming back. (And if you're really bored on a late Sunday night (it's daylight savings time after all...) then you could jump over here -and learn more about glamor.)
I was gonna
Give you a link to something I found on a site, then I realized, it'd be easier to tell you to get over to reverse cowgirl.
Good stuff.
Good stuff.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Friday, March 31, 2006
It was getting loud
In an upscale cocktail lounge. The place was halfway packed, but there still was enough space to move around.
Friday and his weekday-colleagues had taken over a large red booth, and were in various poses of relaxation. Monday and Tuesday were already half in the bag, and Wednesday wasn't too far from it. Happy hour for them started four, three, and two days earlier. One (who had a mortal's bank account) would not want to even guess at their bar tab.
Tuesday's face was stuck in a huge bowl of a glass, nearly hidden behind a huge spear of garnished pineapples, oranges, cherries, and other large fruits. His left arm kept his face up and he finished a huge pull from two large straws.
"Yaknow, I think they got it wrong when they made the humanids."
"Whaddaya mean...?" Mumbled Monday, "The ever-growing eyebrows?"
"Their inability to make a good chair?" Added Wednesday, his huge hump bulging into the booth's back-rest.
"No," said Tuesday, "I meant when they scrambled their code back in the day."
"So they could never have psychic powers and laser vision?" Thursday quipped.
"No, so they could never have who they wanted."
Monday leaned his head to look over at Tuesday. As he did, he knocked over a huge array of empty Miller Highlife bottles.
"Whaaaaat?" He slurred.
"Look, you see it everywhere." Begins Tuesday, "he likes her, but she likes him, and he likes another woman, and she likes him back, but she's already married. And her husband wants his file-clerk, but he's straight. He wants the broad from accounting, but she wants the guy on the train...and he'd be fine with it, except, she never tells him, and he's wondering if he should get back with the woman who's the father of his child, even though he'd never really love her. It's fucked up. They never should have done it."
"Yeah." Agrees Friday. "But I think there was some sort of plan."
"Oh sure." Tuesday's pretty sarcastic. "There's always (he makes quotes with his fingers) "some sort of plan." Well, if there's a plan, it's pretty fucked up. None of them are ever happy. It's cause they scrambled the code. I say it's fucked up."
"Now that you mention it, it is fucked up!" Says Thursday. "I've never really thought about it before."
"Let's go to master control, hack the computers, and fix it!" Tuesday emphatically finishes his statement with a huge sip through his straws, his face hidden behind his fruit-garnish camouflage.
"Yeah! - Let's go!" Wednesday leans forward and pounds the table with his massive fist. It sends the rest of Monday's beer bottles flying off the table and onto the floor. Friday's brimming whiskey-coke spills enough to soak the bev-nap underneath it, allowing rivulets of liquor to crawl across the table.
"Let's not." Says Friday in a calm tone, watching his drink crawl away from him, across the table.
Monday speaks slowly, with a glimmer of bad-ass in his eyes. He's too drunk to do anything, but not drunk enough to say something with a mean tone.
"Why not Friday?"
"Because I've seen the plan."
"How come they always show you the plans and not us!?" Monday spits back. "We're on equal footing, we're all weekdays! We should know the fucking secret plans too!" He puts his hands on the table to boost his head up. His vision spins around so that Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday are all moving around in a clockwise fashion. He shakes his head, and tries to focus on Friday. "You know how many humanids hate me because they didn't get what they want over the weekend? I'll tell you. Every last one of them!" After saying his piece, his head rolls around loosely on his neck.
Friday leans in, and finishes his drink in a couple of big gulps.
"Look, the only reason any of them do anything, is because they don't have what they want. They decided the only way to keep the shit rolling forward, was to make sure nobody was happy for long. Otherwise, they'd meet up with someone perfect when they were fifteen, and NOBODY WOULD DO ANYTHING! No art. No monuments. No music. No television. No cars, hell, they'd be nothing more than mummies, only moving to get something to eat. Those poor suckers only do things when they don't like stuff. It's got to be that way. Make a humanid happy, comfjortable, and safe...and you've got eight-hundred billion cells sitting on their ass, waiting to die."
There was a long moment, as Friday stopped speaking. He notices a waitress, and gestures for another drink. The pause lasts until Thursday speaks.
"Oh."
Wednesday takes his time.
"I see..."
Monday looks around with glazed eyes that see nothing but huge blobs of drifting color. Then, his head clunks down on the table.
"Okay then," Says Tuesday, "What are we going to do tonight, Friday?"
"Let's do dangerous things...
and then downplay them."
Happy Friday!
Friday and his weekday-colleagues had taken over a large red booth, and were in various poses of relaxation. Monday and Tuesday were already half in the bag, and Wednesday wasn't too far from it. Happy hour for them started four, three, and two days earlier. One (who had a mortal's bank account) would not want to even guess at their bar tab.
Tuesday's face was stuck in a huge bowl of a glass, nearly hidden behind a huge spear of garnished pineapples, oranges, cherries, and other large fruits. His left arm kept his face up and he finished a huge pull from two large straws.
"Yaknow, I think they got it wrong when they made the humanids."
"Whaddaya mean...?" Mumbled Monday, "The ever-growing eyebrows?"
"Their inability to make a good chair?" Added Wednesday, his huge hump bulging into the booth's back-rest.
"No," said Tuesday, "I meant when they scrambled their code back in the day."
"So they could never have psychic powers and laser vision?" Thursday quipped.
"No, so they could never have who they wanted."
Monday leaned his head to look over at Tuesday. As he did, he knocked over a huge array of empty Miller Highlife bottles.
"Whaaaaat?" He slurred.
"Look, you see it everywhere." Begins Tuesday, "he likes her, but she likes him, and he likes another woman, and she likes him back, but she's already married. And her husband wants his file-clerk, but he's straight. He wants the broad from accounting, but she wants the guy on the train...and he'd be fine with it, except, she never tells him, and he's wondering if he should get back with the woman who's the father of his child, even though he'd never really love her. It's fucked up. They never should have done it."
"Yeah." Agrees Friday. "But I think there was some sort of plan."
"Oh sure." Tuesday's pretty sarcastic. "There's always (he makes quotes with his fingers) "some sort of plan." Well, if there's a plan, it's pretty fucked up. None of them are ever happy. It's cause they scrambled the code. I say it's fucked up."
"Now that you mention it, it is fucked up!" Says Thursday. "I've never really thought about it before."
"Let's go to master control, hack the computers, and fix it!" Tuesday emphatically finishes his statement with a huge sip through his straws, his face hidden behind his fruit-garnish camouflage.
"Yeah! - Let's go!" Wednesday leans forward and pounds the table with his massive fist. It sends the rest of Monday's beer bottles flying off the table and onto the floor. Friday's brimming whiskey-coke spills enough to soak the bev-nap underneath it, allowing rivulets of liquor to crawl across the table.
"Let's not." Says Friday in a calm tone, watching his drink crawl away from him, across the table.
Monday speaks slowly, with a glimmer of bad-ass in his eyes. He's too drunk to do anything, but not drunk enough to say something with a mean tone.
"Why not Friday?"
"Because I've seen the plan."
"How come they always show you the plans and not us!?" Monday spits back. "We're on equal footing, we're all weekdays! We should know the fucking secret plans too!" He puts his hands on the table to boost his head up. His vision spins around so that Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday are all moving around in a clockwise fashion. He shakes his head, and tries to focus on Friday. "You know how many humanids hate me because they didn't get what they want over the weekend? I'll tell you. Every last one of them!" After saying his piece, his head rolls around loosely on his neck.
Friday leans in, and finishes his drink in a couple of big gulps.
"Look, the only reason any of them do anything, is because they don't have what they want. They decided the only way to keep the shit rolling forward, was to make sure nobody was happy for long. Otherwise, they'd meet up with someone perfect when they were fifteen, and NOBODY WOULD DO ANYTHING! No art. No monuments. No music. No television. No cars, hell, they'd be nothing more than mummies, only moving to get something to eat. Those poor suckers only do things when they don't like stuff. It's got to be that way. Make a humanid happy, comfjortable, and safe...and you've got eight-hundred billion cells sitting on their ass, waiting to die."
There was a long moment, as Friday stopped speaking. He notices a waitress, and gestures for another drink. The pause lasts until Thursday speaks.
"Oh."
Wednesday takes his time.
"I see..."
Monday looks around with glazed eyes that see nothing but huge blobs of drifting color. Then, his head clunks down on the table.
"Okay then," Says Tuesday, "What are we going to do tonight, Friday?"
"Let's do dangerous things...
and then downplay them."
Happy Friday!
Thursday, March 30, 2006
I am, and always will be, your friend
The small man says to his friend,
"I wish there was more time."
He has no idea of the repercussions of his statement.
(Behind him, is of course, Time. He's already not a puny fella in any shape or form. And his scythe is busy mowing down days and weeks - like a chainsaw cutting through small branches. He grows larger, reaching gigantic proportions, and cuts more - and faster. He laughs at his increased powers, and puny mortals running hither and yon in fear!
The Teevee Gods can help. If you've ever spent an active Sunday - running to the store, getting your haircut, cleaning the bathroom, playing a round of golf, and making your lunch for Monday...you'll wonder where the day went as you crawl into bed. But, if you spend the entire day watching teevee, you'll notice that you have lots of time left for more teevee watching. Still, as much as they want to help, they're only real power is to distract you from the passing clock, and the fact that your chores (and lunch) remain undone.
Point-wise, I'm just saying, wishing, hoping, waiting, and wanting more Time only leads to Time growing bigger, stronger and faster at cutting down the hours, days, weeks, months and years. Perhaps it's time to change the (*gasp - he's going to say it, isn't he!??!*) paradigm, and start wishing for less time. Maybe that will lead to a better, and longer life for all of us.)
The small man's friend replies,
"I don't."
"I wish there was more time."
He has no idea of the repercussions of his statement.
(Behind him, is of course, Time. He's already not a puny fella in any shape or form. And his scythe is busy mowing down days and weeks - like a chainsaw cutting through small branches. He grows larger, reaching gigantic proportions, and cuts more - and faster. He laughs at his increased powers, and puny mortals running hither and yon in fear!
The Teevee Gods can help. If you've ever spent an active Sunday - running to the store, getting your haircut, cleaning the bathroom, playing a round of golf, and making your lunch for Monday...you'll wonder where the day went as you crawl into bed. But, if you spend the entire day watching teevee, you'll notice that you have lots of time left for more teevee watching. Still, as much as they want to help, they're only real power is to distract you from the passing clock, and the fact that your chores (and lunch) remain undone.
Point-wise, I'm just saying, wishing, hoping, waiting, and wanting more Time only leads to Time growing bigger, stronger and faster at cutting down the hours, days, weeks, months and years. Perhaps it's time to change the (*gasp - he's going to say it, isn't he!??!*) paradigm, and start wishing for less time. Maybe that will lead to a better, and longer life for all of us.)
The small man's friend replies,
"I don't."
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Change is in the air tonite
And I'm a part of it.
There's a mess of stuff happening with the West Coast Branch, and I've got like 500 scratchers I have to scratch-off, in order to fund my next endevor.
All I need is 5-G's, and we'll take Fjord to a whole new level.
(and I already won two bucks! $4,998.00 more, and we'll be there!)
There's a mess of stuff happening with the West Coast Branch, and I've got like 500 scratchers I have to scratch-off, in order to fund my next endevor.
All I need is 5-G's, and we'll take Fjord to a whole new level.
(and I already won two bucks! $4,998.00 more, and we'll be there!)
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
I don't know how this all happened...
But there've been 20,000 hits on our little backwater webzine according to the count-O-meter.
Of course, who shows up to spoil this occasion...?
"March 24 (Bloomberg) -- The bog mummies have come to Los Angeles, and they are fascinating and creepy."
(Yeah - creepy like, showing up to suck souls! Why now!!?? - Because at moments of great triumph, soul-energy is at its most intoxicating)
"The mummified remains of six people are highlights of an exhibition about early Europeans that opens this weekend at the Natural History Museum of Los Angeles County. It features flint and bronze tools, clothing, household wares, jewelry, musical instruments and other artifacts that are as old as 12,000 years."
So, if I'm a little pre-occupied in the next couple of days, it's cause I got six brand-new-out-of-state mummies I'm dealing with. Luckily, I knew this was coming, and gots me one of these.
Of course, who shows up to spoil this occasion...?
"March 24 (Bloomberg) -- The bog mummies have come to Los Angeles, and they are fascinating and creepy."
(Yeah - creepy like, showing up to suck souls! Why now!!?? - Because at moments of great triumph, soul-energy is at its most intoxicating)
"The mummified remains of six people are highlights of an exhibition about early Europeans that opens this weekend at the Natural History Museum of Los Angeles County. It features flint and bronze tools, clothing, household wares, jewelry, musical instruments and other artifacts that are as old as 12,000 years."
So, if I'm a little pre-occupied in the next couple of days, it's cause I got six brand-new-out-of-state mummies I'm dealing with. Luckily, I knew this was coming, and gots me one of these.
Friday, March 24, 2006
The Answer Goddess
Sits on a fine stool, inlaid with gold and platinum, and each of the legs ends in a polished human skull. The answer goddess is tall, beautiful though with a troubled look on her face. A telephone headset is strapped over a golden jewel-studded tiara, placed atop her luxurious hair, which is done up in a beehive.
Each one of her thirty-two arms moves rapidly, unplugging and plugging in lines to an old-timey telephone exchange. She drops calls as soon as she's done speaking, and moves on to the next. There are a lot of people in the world, and they all want answers.
"My watch band broke." Says a whiney man-voice. She replies in a clipped, but easy on the ears tone.
"Time is just a measurement of the duration of matter in the dimension of space. It's apt to be shorter than you'd like. However, it varies alternately with perspective."
Next call
-a different whiney-toned male with a lisp-
"I went to the denthist this week. Losth three teeth."
The Answer Goddess speaks.
"The body is inconsequential, at best you got what, 60 more years? Take your cobra poison like a man."
Next call
-a mature woman, her voice carrying over the line with real feeling.
"I need a change."
The Answer Goddess does not have time for idle emotional sympathy.
"-There is only one thing you can change - input or output. You must alter one or the other. They are in a feedback loop. A change in one will effect the other. Decide which you can more readily alter.
Next call
-nobody speaks.
She asks,
"what can I do for you?"
A man with a snake-like voice oozes through the headset.
"I'm here to place you into my indexing system. Show me your tits!"
Click.
She's had so many calls like this that it weighs on her mind like an eye-blink that happened 15 minutes earlier.
Next Call
-A younger woman
"I'll be late paying the bills."
Answer Goddess:
"The undertaker waits at the end of the road. His list is of all you owe - and not one line on it speaks of money.
Next Call
A man, 50's probably balding.
"I'm worried about what will happen."
The Answer Goddess replies in a stock answer...let's face it, they're all stock answers. She's heard it all before, for thousands of years.
" -Fear is the one thing that drives all of us. It drives us in front of it like cattle, and sooner or later, we turn around with our worthless horns...or we don't, and get it up the ass anyways."
Next Call
The King of All Weekdays speaks with his rich baritone. She can't place the voice right away, but nails it after the fifth word.
"I told him my theory about eggs, and when I was done, he kinda' twitched funny, then produced a strange gurgle out of his throat, fell to the ground, and his brains oozed out of his ears and nose and mouth like - well, sort of like Pepto-Bismol. I don't know if I blew his mind cause my theory was so profound, or if I just bored his brains to mush. I hope it wasn't the latter.
The Answer Goddess smiles. It's the first good question she's heard in eons. She leans forward, makes a pyramid with her arms, and rests her chin on her hands.
"Obviously you bored his brains to mush."
"You're good." Says Friday. "Can I ask another question?"
"Shoot." She replies.
"Who wants to go to heaven?"
"You've seen it. You tell me." She hits back quick, with a knowing tone. She's been there too. After all, she is a Goddess.
"It's about quitting time, howabout I take you out and show you what it's all about."
"That sounds like a line from a bad 70's F.M. radio song."
"So what? It's a question. Gimme an answer - Answer Goddess!"
She looks at a large and elaborate wristwatch on her 17th arm. It reads 4:58 (and thirty-two seconds)
"Pick me up in three minutes, I've got one more call to take. Then I have to make myself presentable. And I don't want another of your dive-bar nights Friday...I'm a classy dame."
"Awww, but they're so much more fun!" Friday's voice is pleading. She pulls out a cord, and the line goes dead. Five hundred thousand lights reveal the callers still trying to get through. She closes her eyes and randomly connects to her last call of the week.
It's the whiney man's voice whom she dealt with four minutes ago.
"My watch band broke, I really liked that watch band! What do I do!!??"
"-time is a measurement of the duration of matter in the dimension of space." She begins, but then realizes it's the same guy. What are the odds of him calling back, and getting through!? "Why worry about time?" She says with exasperation. "Worry about why you're not having sex with more people! Besides, it's Friday...and I don't care."
Happy Friday.
Each one of her thirty-two arms moves rapidly, unplugging and plugging in lines to an old-timey telephone exchange. She drops calls as soon as she's done speaking, and moves on to the next. There are a lot of people in the world, and they all want answers.
"My watch band broke." Says a whiney man-voice. She replies in a clipped, but easy on the ears tone.
"Time is just a measurement of the duration of matter in the dimension of space. It's apt to be shorter than you'd like. However, it varies alternately with perspective."
Next call
-a different whiney-toned male with a lisp-
"I went to the denthist this week. Losth three teeth."
The Answer Goddess speaks.
"The body is inconsequential, at best you got what, 60 more years? Take your cobra poison like a man."
Next call
-a mature woman, her voice carrying over the line with real feeling.
"I need a change."
The Answer Goddess does not have time for idle emotional sympathy.
"-There is only one thing you can change - input or output. You must alter one or the other. They are in a feedback loop. A change in one will effect the other. Decide which you can more readily alter.
Next call
-nobody speaks.
She asks,
"what can I do for you?"
A man with a snake-like voice oozes through the headset.
"I'm here to place you into my indexing system. Show me your tits!"
Click.
She's had so many calls like this that it weighs on her mind like an eye-blink that happened 15 minutes earlier.
Next Call
-A younger woman
"I'll be late paying the bills."
Answer Goddess:
"The undertaker waits at the end of the road. His list is of all you owe - and not one line on it speaks of money.
Next Call
A man, 50's probably balding.
"I'm worried about what will happen."
The Answer Goddess replies in a stock answer...let's face it, they're all stock answers. She's heard it all before, for thousands of years.
" -Fear is the one thing that drives all of us. It drives us in front of it like cattle, and sooner or later, we turn around with our worthless horns...or we don't, and get it up the ass anyways."
Next Call
The King of All Weekdays speaks with his rich baritone. She can't place the voice right away, but nails it after the fifth word.
"I told him my theory about eggs, and when I was done, he kinda' twitched funny, then produced a strange gurgle out of his throat, fell to the ground, and his brains oozed out of his ears and nose and mouth like - well, sort of like Pepto-Bismol. I don't know if I blew his mind cause my theory was so profound, or if I just bored his brains to mush. I hope it wasn't the latter.
The Answer Goddess smiles. It's the first good question she's heard in eons. She leans forward, makes a pyramid with her arms, and rests her chin on her hands.
"Obviously you bored his brains to mush."
"You're good." Says Friday. "Can I ask another question?"
"Shoot." She replies.
"Who wants to go to heaven?"
"You've seen it. You tell me." She hits back quick, with a knowing tone. She's been there too. After all, she is a Goddess.
"It's about quitting time, howabout I take you out and show you what it's all about."
"That sounds like a line from a bad 70's F.M. radio song."
"So what? It's a question. Gimme an answer - Answer Goddess!"
She looks at a large and elaborate wristwatch on her 17th arm. It reads 4:58 (and thirty-two seconds)
"Pick me up in three minutes, I've got one more call to take. Then I have to make myself presentable. And I don't want another of your dive-bar nights Friday...I'm a classy dame."
"Awww, but they're so much more fun!" Friday's voice is pleading. She pulls out a cord, and the line goes dead. Five hundred thousand lights reveal the callers still trying to get through. She closes her eyes and randomly connects to her last call of the week.
It's the whiney man's voice whom she dealt with four minutes ago.
"My watch band broke, I really liked that watch band! What do I do!!??"
"-time is a measurement of the duration of matter in the dimension of space." She begins, but then realizes it's the same guy. What are the odds of him calling back, and getting through!? "Why worry about time?" She says with exasperation. "Worry about why you're not having sex with more people! Besides, it's Friday...and I don't care."
Happy Friday.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Have you ever felt really, really small?
It's probably due to a lack of perspective. Compared to this, you're absolutely titanic!
And please remember this as you're busy monsterizing your way through tonight and into the K.O.A.W.!
And please remember this as you're busy monsterizing your way through tonight and into the K.O.A.W.!
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Fjord Defends Its Honor!!!
I was re-reading some stuff I wrote a few months ago. The one I wanted to bring your attention to was this. My speculations on cat-brain parasites. (which alter the brain chemistry in any creature they infect, and according to science, by gender as well.)
Our pal Hash (who's own spot seems to be off-line at the mo - so no coolb hyperlink) left a few words about the post. I responded, and it turns out, a further commenter left something that should be shared.
"Anonymous said...
fjord you apparently have not read any current info on toxoplasmosis. and hashbrown, you are a complete unkind and crazy person if you read something this man said then had your cat put to sleep. how horrible. it saddens me for there are unkind and crazy and mostly ignorant people in this world fjord apparently you don't research anything and just a cat hater. kille or molested any children lately"
Now, I've mentioned before, there are enemies of Fjord. There are also people who don't at all understand Fjord...and that's fine. But when you start writin stuff like: "it saddens me for there are unkind and crazy and mostly ignorant people in this world fjord apparently you don't research anything and just a cat hater." I just have to ask/say:
1) English is the primary conveyance of Fjord. If it's not your 1st tongue, lots of stuff will loose most/all meaning.
2 Unkind??? Some of the nicest people you'd ever meet read Fjord. (did I also mention how attractive we are?) We are inclusive to the point of ridiculousness.
3) Crazy??? Yeah - guilty as charged.
4) Mostly Ignorant??? Okay, that's gone too far. There is no-one who reads this webzine that's ignorant. We might not know whats-what in Iraq, or happnin' with the Federal Budget, be we know tons about robots, and zombies and particle accelerators, and mummy attacks. What do you know!!??
5)Don't research anything??? Did you notice the links to that post? I suppose some stuff gets past our pals at BoingBoing, but the BBC??? Are you on a soap-box and calling the BBC a liar? It's cool - it could happen, just bring some proof.
6)Cat Hater??? Well, I'm allergic to cats, and I'm a dog guy myself...but that don't mean I don't have cat-friends. You can ask them...seriously.
7)Kille or molested any children lately??? Come on, now, you're walking off the plank into total lunacy. Fjord, while full of adult content, and content that's too sophisticated for younger (or stupider) readers, wants only happy childhoods for whatever annoying brats who are spoiling my wait in the grocery-store with their crying, or in the park, or at the club-listening to prodigy playing "Smack My Bitch Up," or at the Denny's trying to get a short-stack at 2:30 in the A.M. when I gots to work by 8.
8) Anonymous...as a helpful reminder, that last statement "kille or molested any children lately"
should have been ended with a "?" mark.
9) Fuck you and the duck you rode in on.
10) You've got no right to show up on my webzine and criticize me or my readers under the name Anonymous. I got a bloggin' handle myself, but you can find me without too much fucking trouble. When yer accusin' me, or my readers of "child molesting or kille" - why, you'd better be proud and unafraid of your creds. Elsewise, we'll wipe the floor with yas, and make some sort of slander/libel suit against you. And if you haven't come up against the legal prowess of Skewerburger, Skullcracker, Fishmonger and Brick, be warned...they're a bad-assed legal team.
Yers,
-Tsunami-
Our pal Hash (who's own spot seems to be off-line at the mo - so no coolb hyperlink) left a few words about the post. I responded, and it turns out, a further commenter left something that should be shared.
"Anonymous said...
fjord you apparently have not read any current info on toxoplasmosis. and hashbrown, you are a complete unkind and crazy person if you read something this man said then had your cat put to sleep. how horrible. it saddens me for there are unkind and crazy and mostly ignorant people in this world fjord apparently you don't research anything and just a cat hater. kille or molested any children lately"
Now, I've mentioned before, there are enemies of Fjord. There are also people who don't at all understand Fjord...and that's fine. But when you start writin stuff like: "it saddens me for there are unkind and crazy and mostly ignorant people in this world fjord apparently you don't research anything and just a cat hater." I just have to ask/say:
1) English is the primary conveyance of Fjord. If it's not your 1st tongue, lots of stuff will loose most/all meaning.
2 Unkind??? Some of the nicest people you'd ever meet read Fjord. (did I also mention how attractive we are?) We are inclusive to the point of ridiculousness.
3) Crazy??? Yeah - guilty as charged.
4) Mostly Ignorant??? Okay, that's gone too far. There is no-one who reads this webzine that's ignorant. We might not know whats-what in Iraq, or happnin' with the Federal Budget, be we know tons about robots, and zombies and particle accelerators, and mummy attacks. What do you know!!??
5)Don't research anything??? Did you notice the links to that post? I suppose some stuff gets past our pals at BoingBoing, but the BBC??? Are you on a soap-box and calling the BBC a liar? It's cool - it could happen, just bring some proof.
6)Cat Hater??? Well, I'm allergic to cats, and I'm a dog guy myself...but that don't mean I don't have cat-friends. You can ask them...seriously.
7)Kille or molested any children lately??? Come on, now, you're walking off the plank into total lunacy. Fjord, while full of adult content, and content that's too sophisticated for younger (or stupider) readers, wants only happy childhoods for whatever annoying brats who are spoiling my wait in the grocery-store with their crying, or in the park, or at the club-listening to prodigy playing "Smack My Bitch Up," or at the Denny's trying to get a short-stack at 2:30 in the A.M. when I gots to work by 8.
8) Anonymous...as a helpful reminder, that last statement "kille or molested any children lately"
should have been ended with a "?" mark.
9) Fuck you and the duck you rode in on.
10) You've got no right to show up on my webzine and criticize me or my readers under the name Anonymous. I got a bloggin' handle myself, but you can find me without too much fucking trouble. When yer accusin' me, or my readers of "child molesting or kille" - why, you'd better be proud and unafraid of your creds. Elsewise, we'll wipe the floor with yas, and make some sort of slander/libel suit against you. And if you haven't come up against the legal prowess of Skewerburger, Skullcracker, Fishmonger and Brick, be warned...they're a bad-assed legal team.
Yers,
-Tsunami-
So I'm talking
to the receptionist at the Dentists office and I bring up dental hypochondriacs, which is a bizarre affliction I just learned about. She says, "It's like they come in, and they know there's something there...and we look, and poke around and take x-rays, and nope, there's nothing there. But they can feel it. They know there's something - it has to be something." But anyways, I go back, and they put me in the chair, and I notice something a little - off - about my dentist. Something in the eyes, I think. So as she's about to "numb me up" I leap up out of the chair, whip the sword from my cane, and brandish it towards her.
"Yer not going to inject me with your cobra venom!" I yelled.
She looked shocked. Not - "I'm your dentist about to inject you with novacain and you brandish a sword at me," shocked...more of a "I was about to inject you with cobra venom under the guise of novacain, and you found out," kind of shocked.
It's not mentioned enough here on these pages, that correspondents at Fjord have a large array of enemies. One must keep up an almost constant guard, or face a horrifying array of vile tortures and gruesome deaths.
Needless to say, I underwent the procedure with a different dentist, in a different office across town, with no anesthetic. Apart from being a little more safe, it also felt like a more authentic experience.
"Yer not going to inject me with your cobra venom!" I yelled.
She looked shocked. Not - "I'm your dentist about to inject you with novacain and you brandish a sword at me," shocked...more of a "I was about to inject you with cobra venom under the guise of novacain, and you found out," kind of shocked.
It's not mentioned enough here on these pages, that correspondents at Fjord have a large array of enemies. One must keep up an almost constant guard, or face a horrifying array of vile tortures and gruesome deaths.
Needless to say, I underwent the procedure with a different dentist, in a different office across town, with no anesthetic. Apart from being a little more safe, it also felt like a more authentic experience.
Linkbs are coolb!
This, is a super great bit on a couple of designers who are working on the puzzle of clothing as interfaces with technology. I totally dig the idea of the kinetic dress, that changes colors depending on what the wearer is doing.
I haven't done much research on this particular branch of technology that fuses my lust for fashion with my desire to be Master of All Technology, but I might. The dress gave me the idea of how squids can rapidly change their color (almost instantaneously) to communicate. (-warning PDF file here)
And I decided it would be cool as hell if a dress could sense another dress, and change color, depending on what the other dress (or it's wearer) was up to...
Anyways, this was from the super cool place, we-make-money-not-art which you should visit. I sent Reg over there, a quick email about what to do in L.A., and got a very nice letter back.
I haven't done much research on this particular branch of technology that fuses my lust for fashion with my desire to be Master of All Technology, but I might. The dress gave me the idea of how squids can rapidly change their color (almost instantaneously) to communicate. (-warning PDF file here)
And I decided it would be cool as hell if a dress could sense another dress, and change color, depending on what the other dress (or it's wearer) was up to...
Anyways, this was from the super cool place, we-make-money-not-art which you should visit. I sent Reg over there, a quick email about what to do in L.A., and got a very nice letter back.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
I've been saving this...
For the right time. That time is now. Our good pal Hashbrown sent this in as a response to my post about where to get cool bag-gear. He's obviously ahead of the Fjordian curve.
I also enjoy the massive cocktail, and the fact that you can tell he's reading Fjord thru the reflection. The tuke's fuckin' sweet too.
Thanks Hash.
Has someone been neglecting you???
Aww...
Poor, poor, super-adorable and most attractive of all webzine readership, looking at me with your beady little eyes, and begging to be scratched behind the ears...we've talked about this.
Since this internets thingy is on a hyper-advanced dog-years-like time frame, it may have seemed like forever, but really, it's only been three days! Anyways, don't worry, I didn't forget. In fact, I brought something for yas!
Who'd like a Flying Cow?
If that's not enough for you (and you read nothing I do...this'll be new) - here's another installment of our continuing series from the cyborg-warfare department, altho I'm not exactly sure if an insect-bot really qualifies as a cyborg, but a swarm of robo-wasps would scare the fuck out of me, no question. However, you might remember that I did some research into anti-bug robotics a while back. I'm certainly going to have to do some modifications to my original design - which was for normal household beasties...but at least I'm not starting from square one! Yeah, yeah, laugh all you want...but what about you? You got any defenses against robo-bugs?
All right then.
-Tsunami-
Poor, poor, super-adorable and most attractive of all webzine readership, looking at me with your beady little eyes, and begging to be scratched behind the ears...we've talked about this.
Since this internets thingy is on a hyper-advanced dog-years-like time frame, it may have seemed like forever, but really, it's only been three days! Anyways, don't worry, I didn't forget. In fact, I brought something for yas!
Who'd like a Flying Cow?
If that's not enough for you (and you read nothing I do...this'll be new) - here's another installment of our continuing series from the cyborg-warfare department, altho I'm not exactly sure if an insect-bot really qualifies as a cyborg, but a swarm of robo-wasps would scare the fuck out of me, no question. However, you might remember that I did some research into anti-bug robotics a while back. I'm certainly going to have to do some modifications to my original design - which was for normal household beasties...but at least I'm not starting from square one! Yeah, yeah, laugh all you want...but what about you? You got any defenses against robo-bugs?
All right then.
-Tsunami-
Friday, March 17, 2006
There's no title needed...we all know.
IT'S THE 600th POST ON FJORD!!!!
(obviously it's because we like you)
Friday knows that this day is the one holiday that's truly designed for drunks. It's wondrous and magical, and there's only one thing that can ruin it.
Weaponized Leprechauns.
Yeah, we know about weaponized sharks, weaponized deathbots, and weaponized electrons, however, this might be the most insidious weapon ever devised. Deep in the Pentagon's dungeons of the Special and Magical creature detention facility, (where they perform other creepy experiments) scientists have been genetically tinkering on Leprechauns, in order to turn them into controllable W.P.O.T.D (Wee-People Of Terrible Destruction.)
Ever seen an army turned into a field of Shamrocks? A secure facility breached by a teleportation? Guards drunk instantaneously on Irish Whisky? Well, that's cause you haven't seen the awesome power of a W.P.O.T.P.
However, knowing Friday like we do, we also know he's not the kind of guy to worry about that kind of stuff, until it's in front of him, messing with his good time. In which case, he will deal with all threats with equal ruthlessness. And that's what needs to be said tonight. Friday will take care of evil leprechauns, and spend an evening getting smashed and playing harmless pranks with the good ones. You should do the same.
Happy Friday
(obviously it's because we like you)
Friday knows that this day is the one holiday that's truly designed for drunks. It's wondrous and magical, and there's only one thing that can ruin it.
Weaponized Leprechauns.
Yeah, we know about weaponized sharks, weaponized deathbots, and weaponized electrons, however, this might be the most insidious weapon ever devised. Deep in the Pentagon's dungeons of the Special and Magical creature detention facility, (where they perform other creepy experiments) scientists have been genetically tinkering on Leprechauns, in order to turn them into controllable W.P.O.T.D (Wee-People Of Terrible Destruction.)
Ever seen an army turned into a field of Shamrocks? A secure facility breached by a teleportation? Guards drunk instantaneously on Irish Whisky? Well, that's cause you haven't seen the awesome power of a W.P.O.T.P.
However, knowing Friday like we do, we also know he's not the kind of guy to worry about that kind of stuff, until it's in front of him, messing with his good time. In which case, he will deal with all threats with equal ruthlessness. And that's what needs to be said tonight. Friday will take care of evil leprechauns, and spend an evening getting smashed and playing harmless pranks with the good ones. You should do the same.
Happy Friday
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Write
err, right - I mean, rite, dig?
Being a writer has some advantages. Sometimes you find yourself in polite society, and your talking out about retirement plans or something, when all of a sudden, you're talking off on a tangent about the smog monster, that's hovering over the basin absorbing people's hemoglobin - and that leads you go off about the blood-curdling human sacrificial rites of the Mayans, and describing in gory detail, their method of slicing open a victim's chest with an obsidian knife, and taking their gory, blood-slick and still beating heart out of their body and holding it up for their strange and psychopathically named gods.
Whereupon, you then realize, most people don't really talk about these kinds of things, and people around the copy machine are looking at you with dazed, and dropped-jaw looks. You know from experience, in mere seconds, they are forever going to regard you as a deranged weirdo who may be a practitioner of Satanic (at best) or Cannibalistic (which - as
we all know, can get really really fucked up.) rituals when you're not at work, and should by no means be trusted ever again.
Which is exactly the right moment to mention something along the lines of, "The reason I mention this is that I'm doing some research for a piece I'm working on. I'm a writer." It's kind of like a "get out of jail free" card. Nobody will question whatever crazy fucked up crap
you're into, as long as you preface it with "It research for a book I'm working on."
Even if you're not a writer, it's a handy trick. Try it sometime.
Being a writer has some advantages. Sometimes you find yourself in polite society, and your talking out about retirement plans or something, when all of a sudden, you're talking off on a tangent about the smog monster, that's hovering over the basin absorbing people's hemoglobin - and that leads you go off about the blood-curdling human sacrificial rites of the Mayans, and describing in gory detail, their method of slicing open a victim's chest with an obsidian knife, and taking their gory, blood-slick and still beating heart out of their body and holding it up for their strange and psychopathically named gods.
Whereupon, you then realize, most people don't really talk about these kinds of things, and people around the copy machine are looking at you with dazed, and dropped-jaw looks. You know from experience, in mere seconds, they are forever going to regard you as a deranged weirdo who may be a practitioner of Satanic (at best) or Cannibalistic (which - as
we all know, can get really really fucked up.) rituals when you're not at work, and should by no means be trusted ever again.
Which is exactly the right moment to mention something along the lines of, "The reason I mention this is that I'm doing some research for a piece I'm working on. I'm a writer." It's kind of like a "get out of jail free" card. Nobody will question whatever crazy fucked up crap
you're into, as long as you preface it with "It research for a book I'm working on."
Even if you're not a writer, it's a handy trick. Try it sometime.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Monday, March 13, 2006
Aloha!
Greetings from the Casa Aloha.
Your Minor League Media Demon has a lot on his plate right now.
We’ve just taken on a class at the community college, and for the next four Monday’s, there’ll be light posting, if any. On top of that, I’ve got a draft of a script due on Wednesday, and that will consume most of my “happy fun webzine writin’ time.” (as I like to call it) With all of this happening, I’m not even talking about the troubles I’ve had with my closet particle accelerator project, the backyard Zeppelin construction, and my in-depth radio-telescope research into sub-atomic particles on the Event Horizon of supermassive black holes. (yeah – yeah…the last three are just hobbies, I’ll admit)
However, with all that, and keeping the guests at my fine resort happy…I might not be around much in the next few days.
Aloha.
-Tsunami-
Your Minor League Media Demon has a lot on his plate right now.
We’ve just taken on a class at the community college, and for the next four Monday’s, there’ll be light posting, if any. On top of that, I’ve got a draft of a script due on Wednesday, and that will consume most of my “happy fun webzine writin’ time.” (as I like to call it) With all of this happening, I’m not even talking about the troubles I’ve had with my closet particle accelerator project, the backyard Zeppelin construction, and my in-depth radio-telescope research into sub-atomic particles on the Event Horizon of supermassive black holes. (yeah – yeah…the last three are just hobbies, I’ll admit)
However, with all that, and keeping the guests at my fine resort happy…I might not be around much in the next few days.
Aloha.
-Tsunami-
Saturday, March 11, 2006
Friday, March 10, 2006
Circles
"Which way?" Asked Tuesday. He was standing on a landing that looked out at a bewildering array of staircases - going up, down, sideways, backwards...like an Escher creation.
Wednesday climbed the last two stairs, and emerged on another landing thirty-five feet above Tuesday. He was, paradoxically, standing directly above Tuesday, looking down at him (or was he looking up?) but apart from the slight vertigo the scene induced, he felt quite happily nailed to his landing by gravity.
"Not the one to the right!" He put his hand on the banister, and found it was made out of hard plastic. He decided for a minute or two, he'd just hold onto it.
"Don't try the one on the left either." Said Thursday, who, was across on another landing fifty feet away, but facing them like a small wall. Wednesday was happy he had a hold of the banister, the effect of someone standing on a ceiling and wall, was a touch discombobulating. He looked up and off to the right, and watched Monday trudge down a staircase, and then up another. The way the place was constructed, it appeared as though he moved both closer, and farther away as various seconds passed.
"I think you're going the wrong way." Wednesday shouted with a small echo.
"Fuck you." Replied Monday, who kept walking.
"Hang on a second!" Thursday yelled across the space to Wednesday.
"No problem!" Wednesday shouted back, still holding the banister.
Thursday took a few steps back, took off in a sprint, and leapt.
It was a good jump - like an Olympic long jump kinda effort. Thursday rose off the landing five feet - six, nearly seven right across the divide towards Thursday...then gravity pulled him back down in a tumble.
"Ow." He mumbled.
Monday (who was now much closer) spoke from a landing not far off. "So who's bright idea was it, again, to split up?"
"Hey!" Interrupted Tuesday, "I think I see something." He pointed off at a distant landing. Wednesday, the staircase to your left goes to a landing. It looks like this one at my feet goes there too! Thursday - take the one that leads straight down. We should be able to meet up!"
"What about me?!!?" Monday fumed - looking both down and sideways at his co-weekdays.
"Hang on, and we'll figure out where you're at once we're together. Now let's go!"
They all moved down their allotted staircases, heading for the same landing. However, through whatever strange physics or spells that ruled this place, they all merely switched positions! Wednesday was on the wall-side, Tuesday and Thursday looked up and down at each other.
"Fuck!" Shouted Tuesday.
Monday cracked up. "Man, welcome to Mindfucktown! Population you guys! Ha - HA! Heheheee!"
Then the lights went out.
Somebody said, "Fuck." (probly more than one.)
Moments passed in darkness. The sound of leathery wings fluttered past their ears. After a few minutes Monday said.
"Thursday? Wednesday? Tuesday?"
"Yeah." Said Thursday.
"Here." Said Weds.
"Still alive." Finished Tuesday.
"Okay, well, that's good." Monday said, and he sat down in the darkness, on the last step of a staircase.
Minutes and hours or seconds passed. Occasionally, one would say something to reassure himself that his companions were still there. Then, from far off, a small light appeared. They all watched it, since nothing else could be seen. Then it disappeared.
"Did you see that?" Asked Wednesday.
"Of course. We're in darkness, not blind." Huffed Monday.
"What was it?" Said Tuesday.
"A fucking light." Thursday replied testily.
The light reappeared, moving closer...then disappearing for another moment. Then it emerged behind a staircase, and moved up towards Monday. It was about fifteen feet away when Monday spoke out to his colleagues.
"Hey guys, if something happens to me, I've got some awesome steaks in my fridge at home. Hate to see them wasted." Then the light blinded him, he threw his arm up over his face, and was overcome.
After a few seconds, his eyes adjusted, and saw Friday - attired as a spelunker, with a powerful light on his hard-hat. He had already opened a flask, and shoved a bit of libation down his throat. Monday coughed, and backed away.
"Okay, okay! I get it. Geesh!" He said as he backed away. What's the plan?
Friday looked over, flashing his head-light on Monday's face again,
"Round up the rest of you mugs." And with that, moved off. Monday followed close, then tripped on a rope that was dragging from Friday's belt. He fell hard, but Friday didn't slow. He sprang back up, and raced after. By the time he had caught up, they were on Thursday's landing.
"Hi Thursday." Friday said. "Follow along."
Thursday and Monday were close at his heels, and in short order they collected Tuesday, and finally got to Wednesday's landing.
"Hey. what the fuck Friday?" Asked Wednesday, "What's the deal with this place? There's no up or down or left or right. It's confusing as hell!"
"Why is it so dark?" Said Tuesday.
"And what's the deal with the rope?!" Added Monday, still rubbing sore spots from his fall.
"Okay, look." Said Friday, casting his blindingly bright headlamp in each of the weekdays faces. "I'm only going to say this once. Sometimes you guys get going around in circles, and that's all you see. That's why I come along, to end this nonsense. It's dark, because when you're confused, sometimes you just have to shut some stimuli off, otherwise you'll just tire yourself out."
"You turned off the lights!?!" Shouted Tuesday.
"You bet. Otherwise rounding you all up would have been twice as hard. Now, I imagine you've all heard the legend of the labyrinth?"
"Yeah." They all answered sheepishly.
"Well, we follow this rope, and we'll shortly be where I tied the end of it."
"Where's that?" Asked Thursday.
"A bar-b-que I was invited to. Brats, beer, marshmallows...yaknow, good times. So, you wanna...?"
"Yeah, screw this - I'm up for grillin'!" Said Wednesday. The others enthusiastically agreed.
"Then, if there's nothing else...follow me."
Happy Friday.
Wednesday climbed the last two stairs, and emerged on another landing thirty-five feet above Tuesday. He was, paradoxically, standing directly above Tuesday, looking down at him (or was he looking up?) but apart from the slight vertigo the scene induced, he felt quite happily nailed to his landing by gravity.
"Not the one to the right!" He put his hand on the banister, and found it was made out of hard plastic. He decided for a minute or two, he'd just hold onto it.
"Don't try the one on the left either." Said Thursday, who, was across on another landing fifty feet away, but facing them like a small wall. Wednesday was happy he had a hold of the banister, the effect of someone standing on a ceiling and wall, was a touch discombobulating. He looked up and off to the right, and watched Monday trudge down a staircase, and then up another. The way the place was constructed, it appeared as though he moved both closer, and farther away as various seconds passed.
"I think you're going the wrong way." Wednesday shouted with a small echo.
"Fuck you." Replied Monday, who kept walking.
"Hang on a second!" Thursday yelled across the space to Wednesday.
"No problem!" Wednesday shouted back, still holding the banister.
Thursday took a few steps back, took off in a sprint, and leapt.
It was a good jump - like an Olympic long jump kinda effort. Thursday rose off the landing five feet - six, nearly seven right across the divide towards Thursday...then gravity pulled him back down in a tumble.
"Ow." He mumbled.
Monday (who was now much closer) spoke from a landing not far off. "So who's bright idea was it, again, to split up?"
"Hey!" Interrupted Tuesday, "I think I see something." He pointed off at a distant landing. Wednesday, the staircase to your left goes to a landing. It looks like this one at my feet goes there too! Thursday - take the one that leads straight down. We should be able to meet up!"
"What about me?!!?" Monday fumed - looking both down and sideways at his co-weekdays.
"Hang on, and we'll figure out where you're at once we're together. Now let's go!"
They all moved down their allotted staircases, heading for the same landing. However, through whatever strange physics or spells that ruled this place, they all merely switched positions! Wednesday was on the wall-side, Tuesday and Thursday looked up and down at each other.
"Fuck!" Shouted Tuesday.
Monday cracked up. "Man, welcome to Mindfucktown! Population you guys! Ha - HA! Heheheee!"
Then the lights went out.
Somebody said, "Fuck." (probly more than one.)
Moments passed in darkness. The sound of leathery wings fluttered past their ears. After a few minutes Monday said.
"Thursday? Wednesday? Tuesday?"
"Yeah." Said Thursday.
"Here." Said Weds.
"Still alive." Finished Tuesday.
"Okay, well, that's good." Monday said, and he sat down in the darkness, on the last step of a staircase.
Minutes and hours or seconds passed. Occasionally, one would say something to reassure himself that his companions were still there. Then, from far off, a small light appeared. They all watched it, since nothing else could be seen. Then it disappeared.
"Did you see that?" Asked Wednesday.
"Of course. We're in darkness, not blind." Huffed Monday.
"What was it?" Said Tuesday.
"A fucking light." Thursday replied testily.
The light reappeared, moving closer...then disappearing for another moment. Then it emerged behind a staircase, and moved up towards Monday. It was about fifteen feet away when Monday spoke out to his colleagues.
"Hey guys, if something happens to me, I've got some awesome steaks in my fridge at home. Hate to see them wasted." Then the light blinded him, he threw his arm up over his face, and was overcome.
After a few seconds, his eyes adjusted, and saw Friday - attired as a spelunker, with a powerful light on his hard-hat. He had already opened a flask, and shoved a bit of libation down his throat. Monday coughed, and backed away.
"Okay, okay! I get it. Geesh!" He said as he backed away. What's the plan?
Friday looked over, flashing his head-light on Monday's face again,
"Round up the rest of you mugs." And with that, moved off. Monday followed close, then tripped on a rope that was dragging from Friday's belt. He fell hard, but Friday didn't slow. He sprang back up, and raced after. By the time he had caught up, they were on Thursday's landing.
"Hi Thursday." Friday said. "Follow along."
Thursday and Monday were close at his heels, and in short order they collected Tuesday, and finally got to Wednesday's landing.
"Hey. what the fuck Friday?" Asked Wednesday, "What's the deal with this place? There's no up or down or left or right. It's confusing as hell!"
"Why is it so dark?" Said Tuesday.
"And what's the deal with the rope?!" Added Monday, still rubbing sore spots from his fall.
"Okay, look." Said Friday, casting his blindingly bright headlamp in each of the weekdays faces. "I'm only going to say this once. Sometimes you guys get going around in circles, and that's all you see. That's why I come along, to end this nonsense. It's dark, because when you're confused, sometimes you just have to shut some stimuli off, otherwise you'll just tire yourself out."
"You turned off the lights!?!" Shouted Tuesday.
"You bet. Otherwise rounding you all up would have been twice as hard. Now, I imagine you've all heard the legend of the labyrinth?"
"Yeah." They all answered sheepishly.
"Well, we follow this rope, and we'll shortly be where I tied the end of it."
"Where's that?" Asked Thursday.
"A bar-b-que I was invited to. Brats, beer, marshmallows...yaknow, good times. So, you wanna...?"
"Yeah, screw this - I'm up for grillin'!" Said Wednesday. The others enthusiastically agreed.
"Then, if there's nothing else...follow me."
Happy Friday.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
when staring into the Webmonster
remember - the webmonster stares back at you.
And it gets really unnerving when it starts I.M.-ing me with little missives like
"What are you really looking for?"
"Why don't you slip into something more comfjordable?"
"Ever thought of making it with a computer?"
"You know all your passwords suck?"
Whatever your take on what the internets are - ("Like an electronic magazine!" "The global database!" "The information super-duper-highway!" "Cyberspace!") The internet isn't a place - any more than a television show is a place...the internet is a signal, and nothing more. But like all signals, it has only one desire - to have a receiver at the other end...and the more receivers, the better. Like any other media, market share of receivers is the ultimate goal.
Why is this important?
No reason at all. Just wanted to give you my take on things.
And to tell the webmonster to stop I.M.-ing me. It's getting creepy.
And it gets really unnerving when it starts I.M.-ing me with little missives like
"What are you really looking for?"
"Why don't you slip into something more comfjordable?"
"Ever thought of making it with a computer?"
"You know all your passwords suck?"
Whatever your take on what the internets are - ("Like an electronic magazine!" "The global database!" "The information super-duper-highway!" "Cyberspace!") The internet isn't a place - any more than a television show is a place...the internet is a signal, and nothing more. But like all signals, it has only one desire - to have a receiver at the other end...and the more receivers, the better. Like any other media, market share of receivers is the ultimate goal.
Why is this important?
No reason at all. Just wanted to give you my take on things.
And to tell the webmonster to stop I.M.-ing me. It's getting creepy.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
The internets to the rescue!
As per my previous post - "Non Blog-tastic - and totally uninspired"
(where we were feeling, err...non blog-tastic and totally uninspired)
Comes this gem! - Become 40 percent more clever in JUST SEVEN DAYS!
It's a godsend for this planet and my dull little mind. (author's aside - You'd probly get more takers if you offered a few of these free with your "get clever program")
And here's a super cute tune to make things better.
Better...
much better.
(where we were feeling, err...non blog-tastic and totally uninspired)
Comes this gem! - Become 40 percent more clever in JUST SEVEN DAYS!
It's a godsend for this planet and my dull little mind. (author's aside - You'd probly get more takers if you offered a few of these free with your "get clever program")
And here's a super cute tune to make things better.
Better...
much better.
Non blog-tastic!
Today - and totally uninspired.
Here's some pictures.
Here's some pictures.
Downtown during a rain.
Here's summore from the Casa Aloha
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
March 7th
This is pretty damn fun.
(you won't need to install language packs - it's pretty obvious what's up.)
I've got a ton of things on my list today - and only one itty-bitty one is your Fjord for today.
However, I do want to mention that TODAY is my 6-year anniversary of living in Los Angel-eeze! Hoooray for me! Hooooray for L.A.!!
Of course, I occasionally feel like this town doesn't appreciate me - but I know that's what everyone thinks, about wherever they are...even if it's a one-Ox village in Cambodia. But since I live in the entertainment capital of the universe, whenever I feel that way, I wonder "Where else am I going to go?"
And that question is answered with, "A place where you don't have rent control, where you don't have a job, and you'll most likely need a coat."
Figger I'll stay put for a while longer.
-Tusnami-
(you won't need to install language packs - it's pretty obvious what's up.)
I've got a ton of things on my list today - and only one itty-bitty one is your Fjord for today.
However, I do want to mention that TODAY is my 6-year anniversary of living in Los Angel-eeze! Hoooray for me! Hooooray for L.A.!!
Of course, I occasionally feel like this town doesn't appreciate me - but I know that's what everyone thinks, about wherever they are...even if it's a one-Ox village in Cambodia. But since I live in the entertainment capital of the universe, whenever I feel that way, I wonder "Where else am I going to go?"
And that question is answered with, "A place where you don't have rent control, where you don't have a job, and you'll most likely need a coat."
Figger I'll stay put for a while longer.
-Tusnami-
Monday, March 06, 2006
Start this thing up one more time.
Monday afternoon mummy news.
(I know I've been promising an in-depth mummy piece for a while now -- just a while more...I'm still gathering data, and trying to figure out how it all fits.)
For now, I'm not sure what to think of this kind of robot - but download the video and have a gander. It's kinda cool.
(another good one from Boing Boing.)
(I know I've been promising an in-depth mummy piece for a while now -- just a while more...I'm still gathering data, and trying to figure out how it all fits.)
For now, I'm not sure what to think of this kind of robot - but download the video and have a gander. It's kinda cool.
(another good one from Boing Boing.)
Friday, March 03, 2006
Friday's in the background
and its a stream of images and channels. Like the landscape seen in between the gaps in a passing train.
Channel 1:
It was black. Very very dark. Like being buried in a cave a hundred miles inside the earth dark. A sound, a pebble kicked, a stumbling footfall crunching earth and sand...and a man striking a rock wall with his face.
"ow. damn."
A strong voice calls out. (We know by now it's the voice of Wednesday)
"Who are you!?"
"Umm, I'm Mathew Storfield."
"Who do you serve?"
a long pause.
"Well, I serve the economic interests of the shareholders of the United
Alliance of Insurance Brokers."
Then frenzied scuffling.
"Hey, you can't do...damn! What is the meaning of - wait why am I...do I smell horses?"
Then hooves pounded away in the darkness - followed by strange popping noises, and the unmistakable sound of rending human flesh. After that there's a loud, meaty thunk. Probably best that this was shot in total darkness.
"Click"
Channel 2:
He was well put together - black suit - Italian, and expensive. A long black coat, and a pair of
nice black shoes. He had a white shirt with a black tie, and he carried a thin black briefcase with
chrome fittings. He also had the face of Tuesday, and approximately the same height and weight. The best thing about it was, he walked up to the circle of people, and just pushed his way in.
They were gathered around a square of cardboard, and a hip-hop kid, no more than 14, was dancing with standard moves to one of your common drumbeats. When he finished, he looked over to the rube in the suit and called him out. The being, looking like Tuesday walked out - took a moment to take off his jackets, and breathed deeply a few times - bringing the music inside him. Then he began a remarkable display of breakdancing on the dirty cardboard.
He did handstands, and headspins, and an array of kicks, punches, and glides - intercut with head, shoulder, arm, leg and torso swivels which, vaguely resembled robotics - however, the real
word would be "butter." Around him the circle - some thirty or forty people clapped and cheered like crazy - laughing at the unbelievable things this guy was pulling off. Then in a finale - he performed a one-handed handstand, and with the other slapped the insoles of both of his feet, then lowered himself to his head - spun about in a crazy fast headspin, and came to
a rest, laying on the cardboard looking casual with his legs crossed, and hands interlaced behind his head. The mob cheered like crazy.
Monday walked out of the crowd with a sawed off double-barreled shotgun, pointed it at the man, and pulled both triggers. The blast pretty much took away his head and his hands right behind it. From inside the hole of his head-stump, a massive wave of beetles and roaches rushed out. The crowd recoiled in fear. Either jumping away, or crushing the bugs with their shoes and boots.
"We don't take kindly to clones around here." Monday said in a slow drawl to the crowd - eying them over as if there might be more in the group, "No matter how good they can dance."
As the scene fades, we hear someone ask quietly, "How do we know that wasn't really Tuesday?"
"Click"
Channel 3:
"Reminds me of the time I slipped Queen Isabella a pastry laden with aphrodisiac." Began Thursday. He was reclining on a daybed, attired like a Roman, and drinking wine from a huge bronze cup. A lovely nymph plucked grapes from a vine, and dropped them into his mouth. He spoke while chewing, both his body language and chewing grew more animated as he talked.
"It was 1491, mind you, and love potion was not cheap to come by in those parts. However, I still had a few contacts in the Moorish areas - but unfortunately, while I was there, I had more than a few delicious lamb kabobs. Well - soon as the Queen had taken my offering, and set it to her dainty lips - I was seized by the most urgent need to, ah, um, well...relieve myself."
Thursday takes a moment to look around at his audience to see if they're still with him. (they are) He laughs loudly at himself, and gets fed a couple more grapes.
"Well -" He continues, "I slipped away for but a few moments, however, when I returned, Columbus was there explaining his whole trip to the West, and the Queen sat there completely enchanted. There was nothing I could do but chalk it up to bad lamb.
"Click"
Channel Fjord:
Friday can feel it. It seeps from his pores like magic. Hell, it is magic. He can see it in the eyes of people he crosses. They know. In the window of the Acme Machine Company he catches his reflection. Dark jacket, dirty ripped hoodie, even a green workshirt won't be contained, and peaks out in places. All the right places. He might as well have been made up by a stylist - but he wasn't, and that's why he's feeling it. He looks like rock-n-roll, he smells like successful night on the town, and his feet make the sound of owning the piece of ground they fall upon.
Why couldn't his enemies decide to pick on him on a day like today? He wonders...
CUT TO:
Friday stands upon a sand dune. To the right - a German panzer division attacks! Shells fall about - whistling razors of hot metal shear through the air. Small arms fire blasts the hill he stands upon. With infinite time, he raises his hand, and moves it slowly across them. Wherever it passes, bullets, shells, mortars, tanks, rifles, machine-guns, howitzers, half-tracks, all rust instantaneously and fall to dust. Buckles on the stormtroopers belts fall away. Buttons and zippers on trousers explode in small puffs of rust-dust. Helmets and insignia of rank follow. The entire division falls into disarray, and slink off - holding their clothes up.
A nice fantasy, he agrees with himself. But of course, his enemies would never pick a day like today. They'd know - and give him a wide berth. Their spies would pick a day when he had less lethal mojo. He moves on until he reaches the nice looking pad he was seeking. He walks up the driveway past nicely polished old cars, and notices a few too many men in nice suits and sunglasses admiring the landscaping, or polishing off non-existent spots on the nicely polished cars. Two of the men open the front doors, and he enters.
Inside, music seeps into the scene. Someone is knocking the hell out of the ivories, and there is laughter along with it. Friday moves down a staircase, and opens a door - to full blast of "Come Fly With Me" Sammy's rockin' the piano, and Dean and Frank are working harmony off each other - belting out the ending "PACK UP - LET'S FLY AWWWWWWWWWWAY!" Then they crack each other up, and have huge gulps of scotch from huge low-ball glasses.
"Friday baby, glad you could make it kiddo." Says Sammy, (in only the way Sammy can say things like that and have it come out sincere-and cool) stepping up from the piano to give Friday a hug.
Dino looks over and smiles a loopy grin.
"Ring-a-ding-ding." He purrs. "It's the cat who put the fat back in Friday. Let me get you some gas, man." And he moved over to the bar - and began pouring a huge lowball to the rim.
"Yeah." Frank said, walking over to drop a hug, "If you ain't the original jet-setter, I don't know what one is. Pull up a stool, we're dropping some tunes to pass the time."
"Don't mind if I do." Says Friday, pulling up next to the piano as Dean hands him the drink, full to the point of overflowing. He takes a sip, and looks up at three smiling legendary faces. "So what's next?" He asks.
"Well, you see baby, " Starts Sammy, "We kinda thought, see, you'd hit us with one-a-yours."
Friday looked up and with no false modesty said, "I think it would be better if..."
"No way baby!" Said Dino moving in closer, "We know you're dizzy with the songs...so lay one on us!"
"But really I..." Friday got cut off by Frank.
"This party is nowhere 'til we hear a song." Says Frank with authority.
Friday managed a little grimace. He starts thinking, and comes up with very little. He takes a slow long sip of excellent scotch, and realizes, he might just have something.
He clears his throat with a loud, "Ahem."
And then sings out in a soft - but perfectly toned voice.
"I was workin' part time at the five-and-dime,
My boss was Mr. McGee."
Dean sauntered to the piano, and picked up the melody in a couple of bars. Friday kept it up.
"He told me many times that he didn't like my kind
'Cause I was a bit too leisurely.
It seemed I was busy doin' something next to nothin'
But different from the day before.
And that's when I saw her - oooh that's when I saw her
She walked in thru the out door - out door."
And if in a movie - the Rat Pack and Friday hit the chorus with abandon.
"She wore a raspberry beret, the kind you find in a second hand store!
A raspberry beret - I think I love her..."
Fade out
(End Transmission)
Happy Friday
Channel 1:
It was black. Very very dark. Like being buried in a cave a hundred miles inside the earth dark. A sound, a pebble kicked, a stumbling footfall crunching earth and sand...and a man striking a rock wall with his face.
"ow. damn."
A strong voice calls out. (We know by now it's the voice of Wednesday)
"Who are you!?"
"Umm, I'm Mathew Storfield."
"Who do you serve?"
a long pause.
"Well, I serve the economic interests of the shareholders of the United
Alliance of Insurance Brokers."
Then frenzied scuffling.
"Hey, you can't do...damn! What is the meaning of - wait why am I...do I smell horses?"
Then hooves pounded away in the darkness - followed by strange popping noises, and the unmistakable sound of rending human flesh. After that there's a loud, meaty thunk. Probably best that this was shot in total darkness.
"Click"
Channel 2:
He was well put together - black suit - Italian, and expensive. A long black coat, and a pair of
nice black shoes. He had a white shirt with a black tie, and he carried a thin black briefcase with
chrome fittings. He also had the face of Tuesday, and approximately the same height and weight. The best thing about it was, he walked up to the circle of people, and just pushed his way in.
They were gathered around a square of cardboard, and a hip-hop kid, no more than 14, was dancing with standard moves to one of your common drumbeats. When he finished, he looked over to the rube in the suit and called him out. The being, looking like Tuesday walked out - took a moment to take off his jackets, and breathed deeply a few times - bringing the music inside him. Then he began a remarkable display of breakdancing on the dirty cardboard.
He did handstands, and headspins, and an array of kicks, punches, and glides - intercut with head, shoulder, arm, leg and torso swivels which, vaguely resembled robotics - however, the real
word would be "butter." Around him the circle - some thirty or forty people clapped and cheered like crazy - laughing at the unbelievable things this guy was pulling off. Then in a finale - he performed a one-handed handstand, and with the other slapped the insoles of both of his feet, then lowered himself to his head - spun about in a crazy fast headspin, and came to
a rest, laying on the cardboard looking casual with his legs crossed, and hands interlaced behind his head. The mob cheered like crazy.
Monday walked out of the crowd with a sawed off double-barreled shotgun, pointed it at the man, and pulled both triggers. The blast pretty much took away his head and his hands right behind it. From inside the hole of his head-stump, a massive wave of beetles and roaches rushed out. The crowd recoiled in fear. Either jumping away, or crushing the bugs with their shoes and boots.
"We don't take kindly to clones around here." Monday said in a slow drawl to the crowd - eying them over as if there might be more in the group, "No matter how good they can dance."
As the scene fades, we hear someone ask quietly, "How do we know that wasn't really Tuesday?"
"Click"
Channel 3:
"Reminds me of the time I slipped Queen Isabella a pastry laden with aphrodisiac." Began Thursday. He was reclining on a daybed, attired like a Roman, and drinking wine from a huge bronze cup. A lovely nymph plucked grapes from a vine, and dropped them into his mouth. He spoke while chewing, both his body language and chewing grew more animated as he talked.
"It was 1491, mind you, and love potion was not cheap to come by in those parts. However, I still had a few contacts in the Moorish areas - but unfortunately, while I was there, I had more than a few delicious lamb kabobs. Well - soon as the Queen had taken my offering, and set it to her dainty lips - I was seized by the most urgent need to, ah, um, well...relieve myself."
Thursday takes a moment to look around at his audience to see if they're still with him. (they are) He laughs loudly at himself, and gets fed a couple more grapes.
"Well -" He continues, "I slipped away for but a few moments, however, when I returned, Columbus was there explaining his whole trip to the West, and the Queen sat there completely enchanted. There was nothing I could do but chalk it up to bad lamb.
"Click"
Channel Fjord:
Friday can feel it. It seeps from his pores like magic. Hell, it is magic. He can see it in the eyes of people he crosses. They know. In the window of the Acme Machine Company he catches his reflection. Dark jacket, dirty ripped hoodie, even a green workshirt won't be contained, and peaks out in places. All the right places. He might as well have been made up by a stylist - but he wasn't, and that's why he's feeling it. He looks like rock-n-roll, he smells like successful night on the town, and his feet make the sound of owning the piece of ground they fall upon.
Why couldn't his enemies decide to pick on him on a day like today? He wonders...
CUT TO:
Friday stands upon a sand dune. To the right - a German panzer division attacks! Shells fall about - whistling razors of hot metal shear through the air. Small arms fire blasts the hill he stands upon. With infinite time, he raises his hand, and moves it slowly across them. Wherever it passes, bullets, shells, mortars, tanks, rifles, machine-guns, howitzers, half-tracks, all rust instantaneously and fall to dust. Buckles on the stormtroopers belts fall away. Buttons and zippers on trousers explode in small puffs of rust-dust. Helmets and insignia of rank follow. The entire division falls into disarray, and slink off - holding their clothes up.
A nice fantasy, he agrees with himself. But of course, his enemies would never pick a day like today. They'd know - and give him a wide berth. Their spies would pick a day when he had less lethal mojo. He moves on until he reaches the nice looking pad he was seeking. He walks up the driveway past nicely polished old cars, and notices a few too many men in nice suits and sunglasses admiring the landscaping, or polishing off non-existent spots on the nicely polished cars. Two of the men open the front doors, and he enters.
Inside, music seeps into the scene. Someone is knocking the hell out of the ivories, and there is laughter along with it. Friday moves down a staircase, and opens a door - to full blast of "Come Fly With Me" Sammy's rockin' the piano, and Dean and Frank are working harmony off each other - belting out the ending "PACK UP - LET'S FLY AWWWWWWWWWWAY!" Then they crack each other up, and have huge gulps of scotch from huge low-ball glasses.
"Friday baby, glad you could make it kiddo." Says Sammy, (in only the way Sammy can say things like that and have it come out sincere-and cool) stepping up from the piano to give Friday a hug.
Dino looks over and smiles a loopy grin.
"Ring-a-ding-ding." He purrs. "It's the cat who put the fat back in Friday. Let me get you some gas, man." And he moved over to the bar - and began pouring a huge lowball to the rim.
"Yeah." Frank said, walking over to drop a hug, "If you ain't the original jet-setter, I don't know what one is. Pull up a stool, we're dropping some tunes to pass the time."
"Don't mind if I do." Says Friday, pulling up next to the piano as Dean hands him the drink, full to the point of overflowing. He takes a sip, and looks up at three smiling legendary faces. "So what's next?" He asks.
"Well, you see baby, " Starts Sammy, "We kinda thought, see, you'd hit us with one-a-yours."
Friday looked up and with no false modesty said, "I think it would be better if..."
"No way baby!" Said Dino moving in closer, "We know you're dizzy with the songs...so lay one on us!"
"But really I..." Friday got cut off by Frank.
"This party is nowhere 'til we hear a song." Says Frank with authority.
Friday managed a little grimace. He starts thinking, and comes up with very little. He takes a slow long sip of excellent scotch, and realizes, he might just have something.
He clears his throat with a loud, "Ahem."
And then sings out in a soft - but perfectly toned voice.
"I was workin' part time at the five-and-dime,
My boss was Mr. McGee."
Dean sauntered to the piano, and picked up the melody in a couple of bars. Friday kept it up.
"He told me many times that he didn't like my kind
'Cause I was a bit too leisurely.
It seemed I was busy doin' something next to nothin'
But different from the day before.
And that's when I saw her - oooh that's when I saw her
She walked in thru the out door - out door."
And if in a movie - the Rat Pack and Friday hit the chorus with abandon.
"She wore a raspberry beret, the kind you find in a second hand store!
A raspberry beret - I think I love her..."
Fade out
(End Transmission)
Happy Friday
Thursday, March 02, 2006
I seem to be writing full-circle this month...
Why, it was only last week I was writing about a cat brain-parasite that changed its hoast animal's brain chemistry - and I was worried, because it was (through a long and tangled explanation) was getting into sharks...and I was pretty concerned about what the parasite intended to do with their zombie shark vehicles.
I don't think its been said enough here at Fjord (actually, I don't think its ever been said once...but anyways) Thank God For the U.S. Defence Department!
They've obviously known about our impending threat, and are taking counter-measures.
"They want to remotely control the sharks by implanting electrodes in their brains, The New Scientist says."
I say - bravo! What better way to fight a zombie shark - than with a robo-shark!
Well, I guess this just about wraps this one up in a neat little package.
If only this mummy business would wrap up so nicely.
Kinda doubt it tho.
I don't think its been said enough here at Fjord (actually, I don't think its ever been said once...but anyways) Thank God For the U.S. Defence Department!
They've obviously known about our impending threat, and are taking counter-measures.
"They want to remotely control the sharks by implanting electrodes in their brains, The New Scientist says."
I say - bravo! What better way to fight a zombie shark - than with a robo-shark!
Well, I guess this just about wraps this one up in a neat little package.
If only this mummy business would wrap up so nicely.
Kinda doubt it tho.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Happy Hunchbacking!
(Your friendly minor league media demon's mood today is: Nearly Happy/Almost Energetic)
I figured out why I was in such a nasty mood last night -
it was Fat Tuesday
and I didn't have any plans.
Which luckily, got resolved before Fat Tuesday was over.
So by default - today's Ash Wednesday. Which, according to traditions handed down from generations of blacksmiths, er...maybe chimneysweeps, (but anyways...) people are required to have a smudge of ash wiped on their forehead. Earlier, I sent an email to a pal, titled, "Smudge Weds." This brought forth the question - "What's Smudge Weds?" Whereupon I replied like this...
Subject: RE: smudge weds.
it's ash Wednesday...where you get a smudge on your forehead of
ash. I don't know why.
I wrote a song title for "expansive pad" (Apt. Rock's double
album) called
"I wrote your phone number on my hand, and later that night I
met someone way hotter than you
and my hands started sweating, and now all I have is a smudge."
It was shortened later to: "all I have is a smudge."
smudge is a great word.
(End Transmission)
So perhaps in a few years, with a bit of pop-culture invasive, society changing efforts from your pals at Fjord, we might just get this whole "ash" thing off the books...and henceforth it will be called "Smudging Day."
Smudge
I figured out why I was in such a nasty mood last night -
it was Fat Tuesday
and I didn't have any plans.
Which luckily, got resolved before Fat Tuesday was over.
So by default - today's Ash Wednesday. Which, according to traditions handed down from generations of blacksmiths, er...maybe chimneysweeps, (but anyways...) people are required to have a smudge of ash wiped on their forehead. Earlier, I sent an email to a pal, titled, "Smudge Weds." This brought forth the question - "What's Smudge Weds?" Whereupon I replied like this...
Subject: RE: smudge weds.
it's ash Wednesday...where you get a smudge on your forehead of
ash. I don't know why.
I wrote a song title for "expansive pad" (Apt. Rock's double
album) called
"I wrote your phone number on my hand, and later that night I
met someone way hotter than you
and my hands started sweating, and now all I have is a smudge."
It was shortened later to: "all I have is a smudge."
smudge is a great word.
(End Transmission)
So perhaps in a few years, with a bit of pop-culture invasive, society changing efforts from your pals at Fjord, we might just get this whole "ash" thing off the books...and henceforth it will be called "Smudging Day."
Smudge
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