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A sense of place.
I was reading a local rag in my local plaza, and came across an article that was an obituary for a local D.J. The quote that caught my attention ended with "[he had]...an undeniable L.A. based international swagger."
There's enough for anyone, anywhere, in everyone's daily life to never appreciate where their at - location wise - until you get to somewhere else, in which case you're instantly a representative of where you just came from.
It's not a matter of justification (altho sometimes it gets that way) tons of times "place" is just what works out thru circumstance. Having a "choice" of place is determined a lot more by economics than it is by personal desire or family gravity. (not to say those aren't super powerful attractions)
Still, every once in a while, it's nice to be reminded that there's something very important about the forces that bind you to a specific geographical location on a practically microscopic point on the planet. For some reason you're grounded right where you're at. Maybe it's cause you needed it, and maybe it's cause it needed you. Or maybe it's too complicated to answer. Either way, if you don't have a reason for being where you're at, find one. Since sooner or later, someone's going to ask, "Why are you there!?"
And most probly, the place that your at (in comparison with a bunch of others) doesn't really suck at all.
Happy Friday
Sat around looking for things to blogger on about, I was listening to the better local college radio station their programming slid into their "post 6 o'clock" stuff which usually offers none of the good stuff, 'cept on Wednesdays where there's a show called "The Jazz Journey" which I'd usually shut down, but they have a nice intro-tune, and then the fella' usually plays stuff that's agreeable. Anyhoo, it turn out they have a couple of women on the show tonight - and those women turn out to be the daughters of Henry Mancini.
So I'm listening to some pretty groovy cocktail music while I'm still looking for things to write about, when I hear something in the background about Tony Bennett performing down the street from the Casa Aloha, which perks up my ears a little. Suddenly, the D.J. says, "Allright, I've talked to the lovely Mancini daughters, and we've come up with a question, that, if you can answer, you'll get tickets to the 10th Anniversary Party of the Mancini Institute, where Tony Bennett will be performing." One of the daughters gets on the mike, and asks, "What was the name of the cat in "Breakfast at Tiffany's?"
So I quick dial the number, and sure enough, (it being college radio and all) I get thru as the first caller. "KXLU." The D.J. speaks, which comes thru my phone receiver, and my radio at the same time.
"Hi!" I say, turning down my voice blaring out of my radio. "Was it CAT!?" I finish, which breaks everyone in the studio up, (as I guess they through it was hard) and after a moment or two, I'm getting my tickets reserved at will-call. After giving all my pertinent information, I hang up the phone and shout..."KICKASS!" Loud enough so the Casa rings with my triumph.
I've always wanted to see Tony Bennett...he's the last of the golden age of crooners that mingled with the likes of Sinatra, and he's still got pipes. (at least four years ago I thought so when I saw him perform on some cable deal) The cheap seats at this event are $62 bucks - which is way more than I'd ever pay to see anyone, seriously. So I guess to conclude, I'd like to take a line from a W.B. Cartoon and say...
"After all this time, things are finally starting to go my way."
'Course, that only leaves me with 10 days to find a date to a gala extravaganza. I imagine there will be more than a few misadventures while I try and make that one happen. If any are worth repeating, I'll be sure and let you know.-Tsunami-
Isn't this exciting?!? Pictures, and now VIDEO? (trying to make up for writing slack-ittude, I'm sure.)From our pals at We-Make-Money-Not-Art...which you should visit a ton.
There was a massive event over the weekend I wanted to touch on...
A RACE OF CLONES!!!! It seems two clones from the same mule, ran a race...and both lost to a "normal." Which in my book is a good thing. I don't want rampant cloning going on, unless it's to provide my body with harvestable organs I'm rapidly killing with a hard living Hollywood lifestyle.
Shoulda' Seen it Coming.
Now it's pets?
Christ. That's gonna be a lot more mummies.Guess we should get a few more of these...
DAMN YOU MUMMY CATS! DAMN YOU TO HELL!
Anyone can destroy anything. Period.
Making something from nothing is a tad more difficult than they make it out to be. Ripping something apart, hell, we all know there are enough forces out there to bring things down by themselves. Make a concentrated effort to do it, and you've got entropy on your side. (wait long enough and the Golden Gate, the Empire State, and the Hoover Dam will be gone without doing anything) I wonder if that's the strongest thing about humanity - that realizing how much the universe really wants to rip things apart into their molecular components, that we keep on making buildings, and societies, and teevee, and music, and videogames.
I had a dream, it was one of those recurring ones where the same scene gets played out over and over, but a little longer each time. The characters were me, and a very cute girl done up in a witches outfit. We went thru the motions that we'd gone thru for the last five nights of the dream, and then, over a boiling cauldron of witches brew, she said, "So, do you know what I'm doing?" And I replied, "Either your here to cast a spell..." To which she walked away from the cauldron, and looked at me with the kind of look that made me feel good about ending a sentence with "..." "Or you're not really here." To which she replied, "That's right. I'm a ghost. I'm not really here."
Now everyone knows a person in a dream isn't quite real, but a dream ghost? C'mon, what the hell is that?!? Is someone now haunting my dreams with ghosts!?? Most likely, I'd say, since more than a few things have been out of equilibrium over the last couple of weeks. However, since "anyone can destroy anything. Period." I'd also like to suggest that perhaps the most dangerous destroyer of anything, might be yourself.
Happy Friday
Blogger's been a little touchy over the last couple of days, so I started a project I've long been putting off. Transcribing my notes.
It's a long and tedious process, since my "notes" are actually small and medium sized scraps of paper - often with numerous other things on them like "pay phone bill" or "get girlfriend" or 100 other more practical things I was supposed to do on the day I also jotted down something clever. It's not made any easier that sometimes those notes are ON phone bills, or scribbled inexplicably over passwords, e-mail addresses, or pictures of myself.
Before I get back to that, I'll just type down a few that are better than average.
6) Fucking Mutual Bank
21) Cringer
27) Prawns
39)Hey! Don’t bite your claws!
42) Harnessing the cleaning power of ants!
46) IT’S THE B-S-H!! The Bulgarian Submission Hold.
79) I’d rather watch Toyotathon
84) Never underestimate the maraca player. Ever.
Soooo, that's how I'm spending my glamorous Thursday nite. Yep...livin' the dream.
Okay, the stove's clean, the pans are washed, and the new poster is up. Perhaps I can duplicate the eaten post.It goes something like this.1) The goat is the oldest domesticated food animal.2) The goat's young is called a kid.3) The kid bleats out a cry that sounds a hell of a lot like a human offspring (kid)4) "They" say you should play classical music for an unborn child, as it may make the child smarter.5) Obviously an unborn child can process and comprehend sounds from outside the womb.6) Since the goat has been with us since civilization started, obviously their sounds have been too. Which may have resulted in the vocal commonality between kids, and kids. (if you get my drift.) Anyone who's heard the goat bleating, and a human child crying, knows there is some commonality.7) Now, (human) kids today haven't been around (goat) kids for decades, if not longer, so it's likely that somehow the impressions are passed down thru genetic memory, spiritually, or by some other way we don't quite yet understand.8) Anyways, I was wondering what (human) kids might have sounded like, before we domesticated goats.9) Evidence of bee domestication is first found some 5000 years ago in Egypt. (mummies anyone)10) So what kind of impression have they (with their creepy insect society) have had on our development and evolution.11) And who named them bees?
I had a very clever post that I spent the last 2 hours on, and blogger ate it when I ran the spell check. Guess it serves me right for not saving it. If I get feisty later, I'll try and redo it. But at the moment, I'm just going to do a few things around the Casa, and try not to be furious.
You maybe thought I forgot? I know what Twenty-oh-Six is about.Fucking Mummies is what!
The train's gone down the track, and I dunno if it'll ever come back.
Your correspondent over at the West Coast Branch has been a little burned out as of late. I've been working like mad on the last draft of a script, been dealing with a mess of chaos down at the Fjord Corporate H.Q., and trying to keep the Casa Aloha Resort running at it's normal high level of efficiency. (and trying to have some sort of life watching sports, maintaining my skills at videogames, and occasionally stepping out on the town.)
It's not been easy.
At least the draft thing is done for now.
So, as a suitable reward, I'm going on vacation. I'll be in the great state of Oregon for the next few days (you might get a farewell post tomorrow if nothing loopy happens). Hopefully upon my return, there'll be a rejuvenate D.Tsunami, who can entertain you with his blogging prowess. (cause right now I'm just not that guy.)
Yers,
Tsunami
<- Where the magic happens...(click to enlarge!)P.S.Sometime in the next few/slightly more than few hours, we (your good pals at Fjord) are going to break the 10,000 unique visitors mark. I hope it's you.
That tonight has been fueled in part by...These Guys who are pretty damn good.
But I'm starting to get excited. Only 48 more hits, and Fjord will have been visited by 10,000 human beings. From a little DYI operation, that's a lot of humanids.Thanks.-Tsunami-
It was late - so late that the day had begun hours ago, and morning was already foreshadowed on the sky outside the penthouse windows. The man was tall, and had slicked-back dark hair. He stood smoking over a silver ashtray looking out at the city. The woman was blond, and lounged on a huge leather couch. She took a sip from a martini glass resting on a coffee table in front of her. They were both dressed to the nines, he in a tux, and she a rustling evening gown. They had just returned from a night of something, and each felt that particular buzzing energy that comes from a series of interesting social interactions. But in this more intimate setting, there was more happening between them besides a night on the town come-down.The man snuffed out his cigarette, blew out a stream of smoke and turned from the window."You know what I think?""What." She replied listlessly as she kicked off her shoes."You've been fucking around in poor town.""Why is it..." She answered in an unemotional statement, "That every time I'm with you, I feel....bleah."He walked slowly over to the coffee table in front of the couch, and kneeled with his arms outstretched."That's love baby!"The television screen went dark. The room, went totally black as Tuesday spoke, setting the remote down on the edge of his chair."Who writes the dialogue for this crap?""Don't be too hard on the writers," Thursday replied, "They're like everyone else doing a job. Sometimes you do great, sometimes you just phone it in, it's a job after all."Monday chimed in, "Yeah, but most people don't have jobs that broadcast their work to eight-hundred-million people."He's got a point." Said Wednesday, "I mean, when we do a crappy job, everyone knows. They feel it...and say to their friends, "Wednesday was awful." But we try, pretty damn hard, right?""Oh, like you've never phoned it in?" Asked Thursday. "Not once?""Well...""Yeah, well..." Thursday began, "There. You have, and I have, and Tuesday has, and Monday too. Sometimes you just can't give your all. Sometimes, you just do what you have to do - and no more. It doesn't make you bad, it doesn't make you evil, it just makes you mundane. Sometimes that's all we're capable of."The door to the room opened, flooding the room with a huge rectangle of blinding exterior light. In the middle was a dark form that cast a black shadow through the rectangle of white. Friday, (of course) stood in the open door and spoke,"That's all we're capable of? Who the fuck knows what they're capable of?""I think we kinda' know."Wednesday replied.Friday reached over and flicked a light switch, which turned on a small lamp, illuminating the room."To quote, I mean paraphrase, I mean...mashup...J. Lennon," Friday began, "life is what happens to you while you're finding out what your capable of. Now get off your asses, and lets go."Happy Friday
It's been a while no?
Not that you astonishingly handsome/beautiful Fjordlings aren't constantly on my mind (cause you are all soooooo worthy of thinking/fantasizing about...but (as I've mentioned) I've been devoting a lot of keyboard energy towards another project that might possibly shift my world from a common resort owner/operator to something much more fantastic! However, there's quite a bit more...I'd like to explain.
I've spent the first 5 months of this year trying to convince myself that this year was going to be different.
The lines of my conversation with myself in the shower for the last few months would begin with something disparaging, then a suitable answer would emerge like..."Yeah, well that's all in the past man, -stop thinking about that shit - it's Twenty-oh-Six! This year, it's different, it's going to happen! Things are going to change, I can feel it."
Well, last year isn't 2 or 3 months ago, last year is super clear, it was LAST YEAR.
This year is already so far along that 2007 is on the horizon, and is starting to close in...at a hell-of-a-lot faster pace than I'd like. It doesn't mean I don't believe. It might feel like '06 is bringing the creep of suck, but I don't buy it. I'm convinced that '06 has a lot of good in store, a lot more than anyone expects. As proof, I have a page of potential post titles that read:
1) THE BEST THING EVER!
2) MY NAME IS BARCO -
3) THE CHRONICLER OF NEBERLUNG
I merely ask, how could you not look forward to that? We're in the belly of '06 - please, don't let it eat you up, - it's not even half way thru. (and if it it does, well, go here for some ideas about how to get out)
P.S.
Whatever this year throws your way,
I'm on your side.
-Tsunami-
A master spammer has shut down an internet security company designed to defeat spam.
Blue Security CEO Eran Reshef told El Reg at the time. "My mistake was not anticipating he'd go berserk."
Blue reckons PharmaMaster hired a botnet to launch the assault. During an ICQ conversation, PharmaMaster told Blue Security that if he can't send spam, there will be no internet.
After the attack, Blue Security embarked on restoring its community-based anti-spam service to its members. But after working closely with its service providers and partners to help resolve the problems over the last two weeks, it has come to the conclusion that the risk of further attacks remains too great. Despite moving hosting providers and implementing security defences, Blue reckons it's unable to safely reintroduce its controversial service without exposing other members of the net community to potential attack.
"It's clear to us that [quitting] would be the only thing to prevent a full-scale cyber-war that we just don't have the authority to start," Reshef told washingtonpost.com. "Our users never signed up for this kind of thing."
Blue's decision to shut up shop is understandable but regrettable, because it represents a significant victory by a spammer in the fight to control the internet. In effect, PharmaMaster has succeeded in his main aim of getting Blue Security to dismantle. Wasn't I just saying something about how it couldn't happen here? Eh, probly not...
That we still find stuff, just lying around - remnants of once powerful and grand civilizations. It amazes me that for the most part we live oblivious that it could happen "here." Well, I guess there are a whole lot of folks from New Orleans that might whack ya upside the head and say, "Open your fjucking eyes!"Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to clean up the Casa - it's nearly Summer!
Not all of it, fortunately...but nearly half. What? You ask.Why, May is Masturbation Month - of course!And, now you're in the know too. (unless you already knew...which would beg the question, what were you doing that was so important, that you couldn't tell us?)
But I can't. This one's too big. I'm broke until Monday, but then, I'm cutting a check to the EFF. It seems they're the only folks who are actually ON THIS STUFF.
Mr. Frog sat on his haunches on the bar table - where numerous drinks had spilled and left large ring-spots of moisture. He looked up at Wednesday, who glowered down at him. Actually, thought Mr. Frog, it might just seem like Wednesday was glowering at him, since he was absorbing liquor through his skin, he might be a little tipsy.
"So I realized," He croaked out more of his narrative, (I've edited out the beginning 'cause it's boooooring) "That it was horribly sad, that the most important and ambitious plan I had ever acted out in real life, was a miserable failure. In fact, it took me most of four years to even begin to pick up the pieces." He looked pathetic, after finishing his tale of woe, he lapped up a tongue-full of spilled Tanqueray and tonic.
The Fall played in the back on a jukebox. They were mixed in with a soft burble of conversation and the clinking of glasses the bartender was washing, to fill in the silence.
"Ahh, that's not so bad." Said Wednesday, wishing someone else was around he could talk to besides this drunk, sulking frog.
"So how'd you get the hump?" Mr. Frog asked, clearly the liquor had taken away all inhibitions, like common courtesy. "Were you born with it?"
Wednesday had a split second thought of his fist, moving like a swift hammer, smashing the frog, but it quickly passed. Wednesday would unleash his wrath on many creatures, but making a pile of goo out of a drunk frog would be more trouble than it was worth. The waitress would have to wipe the table, he'd have to get up and wash his hands.
"A catastrophic packaging failure." He said with a straight face, as if that would explain everything, and as far as he was concerned, it did. At that moment, the door to the dive swung open blinding everyone with the light from outside. Friday and his entourage of Weekdays walked in like...well, like a King and his entourage. Friday spied Wednesday holding down a booth, and shouted over the Fall.
"Two pitchers!" And pointed his index finger in a roundhouse point that stopped at Wednesday's table. Then they rolled over to the booth and flopped in.
"Hey Wed! Thanks for holding down the booth!" Said Friday happily.
"No problem." Wednesday replied back - faking it.
"So what are we going to do tonight Friday?" Asked Tuesday.
"This again..." Friday sighed. "Why is it...hey BEER!"
The waitress appeared holding two pitchers in her right hand, five glasses held in a pinch in her left, and set the pitchers down squarely on Mr. Frog, who was too drunk to even squeak a death cry. Wednesday smiled, and poured a glass.
"I got something." He said.
"What?!?" The others asked incredulously. Wednesday with an idea - when was the last time that happened?
"something I saw on the internets a couple of days ago." Wednesday said.
"What?" Asked Thursday, "Robots!?"
"Video Boobs!?" Shouted Monday.
A guy in the next booth leaned over, put his arm up on the edge and said,
"World of Warcraft?!"
"Nothing like that." Wednesday said, as he watched Thursday pick up a pitcher, and while he filled a glass, frog guts leaked off the bottom. "Tonight, let's live out of our imagination...not our history."
"That," said Friday, "sounds like exactly the plan we need."
Happy Friday
by Husker Du played out of a ghetto blaster that had a slice of duct tape holding the cassette door closed. It sat on the stonework that lead from the brownstone apartment stairs, down to the street. Various shady characters lounged on the steps in wife-beaters.Friday sauntered by, in a white linen suit, followed by the Weekdays. It was one of those warm kinda' evenings - made for sauntering.Monday said, "I've always loved the words "ghetto blaster."Tuesday said, "Owning something is really only proximity to an object in space."Wednesday said, "Elvis is King."Thursday said, "My bank account always looks bad in April."Friday finished, "It seems like weeks since I've heard an original line.""We could all grow moustaches!" Says Wednesday hopefully."Or...we could have a bicept building competition!" Helps Monday, flexing his arm."Disguise-off?" Adds Tuesday."Why not just see who can bake the best pie..." Thursday adds snidely.Friday turned around and barged through the Weekdays, and back down the street. At the stoop of the brownstone (the ghetto blaster was now playing Cellophane by Knapsack.) Friday spoke in a rich baritone to the shady stoop-dwellers."If I might ask, what are you doing tonight?"One stood up, and fished out a switchblade from his pocket. He flicked the blade out, and held it near Friday's cheek."What's it to you man!" He said as defensively as a man with a threatening switchblade might possibly say it."I was just wondering." Said Friday. The weekdays, having turned and followed, stood aghast, afraid any action might actually endanger the life of the King of All Weekdays."Who told you - you could fucking wonder about us!" "Nobody." Said Friday with calm and humility. "I'm just tired of hearing the same old thing, and wanted something new. I thought you might possibly have something along those lines."The ghetto blaster began playing Lali Puna, and the shady guy with the switchblade relaxed a little."It's Cinco De Mayo, we're going to make margaritas, and drink 'em out of Atlas Mason jars." The shady guy realized he'd slipped into Friday's charm for a moment, and exclaimed, "So what's it to ya!?"Friday responded evenly. "If I got a mess of tequila, could we join you? Sounds like fun."The shady character dropped the knife a bit, and made small quotation marks with his hands when he said,"How much is a "mess?""How much do you want it to be." Said Friday, "A case? Four cases? A truck?"The shady character looked back to his companions on the stoop. They shot unfathomable looks back at him."Yeah, okay...a truck's cool.""All right then. Let's make that happen. Allow me to introduce myself...I'm Friday."Happy Friday
This one's cause I really like you...BUDAPEST (Reuters) - Hungarian builders who drank their way to the bottom of a huge barrel of rum while renovating a house got a nasty surprise when a pickled corpse tumbled out of the empty barrel, a police magazine website reported.
According to online magazine www.zsaru.hu, workers in Szeged in the south of Hungary tried to move the barrel after they had drained it, only to find it was surprisingly heavy and were shocked when the body of a naked man fell out.
The website said that the body of the man had been shipped back from Jamaica 20 years ago by his wife in the barrel of rum in order to avoid the cost and paperwork of an official return.
According to the website, workers said the rum in the 300-litre barrel had a "special taste" so they even decanted a few bottles of the liquor to take home.
The wife has since died and the man was buried in a proper grave.Thanks to J. Nitro for the breaking news.
I have something written down on a piece of paper that I don't understand.
It's not that I don't understand my own handwriting, or get what the words say...it's just the context...I'm just not sure what I was shooting for. The words (on a small post-it note, which appears to be reasonably "fresh" - so it was written not so long ago) read simply,
"I chainsaw Frankenstein"
I'm not about to suggest that Frankenstein didn't have it coming - I mean, while the movies play him up as a misunderstood monster who just wants to be loved, or left alone, or...allowed in arm-wrestling tournaments - that's the movies.
In real life, if you were to turn around a corner and end up face-to-face with Frankenstein, he'd probably rip off your arms, and proceed to eat your children. He's an inhuman monster made up of cobbled together re-animated corpse-parts! He's not just inhuman, he's like...reheated-un-life. I bet he doesn't even like bunnies! Cute little bunnies.
So, faced with this unpleasant reality, I'm under the impression that coming face-to-face with Frankenstein, the most effective weapon might just be a chainsaw. Certainly a pistol wouldn't really help, an assault rifle might (if you're lucky) take off a leg before you ran out of ammo - giving you time to escape. I doubt an axe would be much use against him, since you'd have to get really close to use it, and he could certainly take a blow or two, before grabbing it out of your hands. Maybe, just maybe, a harpoon gun could affix Frankenstein to a handy nearby telephone pole, but it wouldn't stop him for long. But a chainsaw would do some serious damage if he tried to grab it out of your hands. Lop off a hand here, an arm there, and pretty soon, you've got yourself a (watch out for that slooooow kick - he's got hobnailed boots!) reasonably harmless Frankenstein that you can carve up at your leisure.
Well, all this speculation has opened up a few windows (for me) into my mentality for writing those words. And, at the moment my best bet is...
I was jealous of the title of the movie/book, "I shot Andy Warhol" Which is not only a great title, but an amazing boast. I mean, top that one? Not sure if I could. But, right after those words were spoken/bragged, someone said, "Yeah? I chainsawed Frankenstein."
Might be enough to make a crowd wonder, "what's a more dangerous foe to your mortal life, Andy Warhol or Frankenstein."
pillaging, raping, looting, killing...
Then this comes along
If you kill someone in the virtual world, in order to take his virtual money, which you then convert into real life money...are you a real criminal?
And if not, we should probably get on this...(there's a space station we can take over!)
Once again Tsunami's ducking under the radar. I'll try and bring you back something nice.
Over at our pals BoingBoing.
gathering today in Los Angel-eeze for May day.
"I've seen a lot of things." Begins Friday. "I've seen storms that have wiped cities off the map. I've seen armies clash with such force it has scarred the world for a hundred years. I've seen ships sink, and planes crash, and cities burn to the ground."
He leans back on a huge couch, looking about at the gathered weekdays, who are in various states of repose in a lavish room, which appeared to be in some sort of palace. He reached over and grabbed a large stuffed teddy-bear, and ran his hand over the soft fur on it's head.
"I've seen liars lie, cheaters cheat, and men in flying machines spew death upon the lands below. I've seen women so beautiful they befuddle a room. I've seen acrobats, magicians, jugglers and sharp-shooters perform feats of astonishment. I've seen musicians powerful enough to enthrall a nation, and beggars so pitiful as to evoke emotions stronger than any art ever conceived."
Friday picks up the bear, and looks at it's beady button eyes, and he speaks more, looking right at the cute little face, staring back at him.
"I've seen a dog make a human friend at first sight. I've seen a child comfjorted by a stuffed animal. I've seen a hamster cuddle in a hand, and melt a room. I've seen tigers playing with a giant ball like a housecat. I've seen children at the zoo try and pet a lion through a glass partition."
Tuesday looks over, picking up a large goblet, and having a sip.
"Not to interrupt, or anything..." He says, looking at Friday, who is lost in repose, staring at the eyes of the bear. "But what, exactly are you getting at?"
Friday takes one last look at the bear, and sets it down on the floor.
"Every bear is a teddy bear, until it starts to eat you."
Happy Friday
Someone who played guitar at a level that will be impossible for me to ever reach, once told me,
"Words are slippery."
I never thought once, in the lengthening time between the moment when those words were spoken, and now, that he was wrong.
Words are horribly slippery, even when there's nothing of importance to relate. And it's a hell of a lot harder to communicate any words effectively (whether thu voice, paper, or email) when there's something really at stake. Sometimes that's the nicest thing about being a correspondent for Fjord, I can type out a post that reeks of stench, and you, my forgiving (and most attractive of all audiences...man you look good right now! I could just...OOooooh!) readers will chalk it up to a "bad day at the keyboard."
Anyways, outside of Fjord, I've been working on a script (fer...oh, about a year now) that's getting to the almost nearly polished phase. And for the last month or so, I've been devoting a ton more time to it, cause I can feel it getting close. (Which is why my head hasn't been quite so much stuck in the Fjord as of late.)
I don't mean to say that concocting something over here is easy (as those of you with blogs/webzines of your own, know) there's got to be a beginning, and middle, and end...and if you want to be entertaining, a nice twist in there somewhere. Now, apart from that, it's also supposed to make sense. Words have a value, that adds up logically...and unlike numbers (or maybe just like numbers) replacing one (or a string of them) with another, will change a lot of meaning. I guess what I'm trying to get at, is words are slippery.
And at the moment I have a humungus 115 page word equation that I've been working on for a year. It's going to take me another month before it'll be close to being right, (and it'll be good, don't kid yourself) but that doesn't mean that, once done, it'll change the world (like E=MC2), or make me a rich man (like, those guys who wrote the Matrix). Words are slippery. I might actually say something so profound it could change your life for years. And if you don't like what I say, I'm not even a thought you consider after you realize you have to do the dishes.
weird, huh?
PEEKING (hah! Peking!) INTO THE DARK CORNERS OF THE INTERNETS FOR THE NEWS YOU NEED!
Fjord brings you this glorious headline.
Chinese women 'need bigger bras'
I don't know about you, but this makes me feel...well...really, really wonderful.
Actual Story.
It's not that I'm cold or callus (err, well, not in this instance anyhoo) since at the moment, my heart is literally crying out in sympathy for those poor (Chinese) members of the fairer sex who can't get the support they need without chafing, binding, and general uncomfjortableness that comes with a too small-a-bra. I can only hope that, until this issue of supply and demand is met, that they remove said chafing, binding and uncomfjordable garments without shame! (and may I add a hearty "posthaste!")
Of course, (knowing the crack nejws team here at Fjord - there's always more context below the headline) there was a small matter of a trade dispute back in Sept. of twenty-oh-five, that might make it difficult for the global markets to help.
US places curbs on Chinese bras It seems that Chinese labor practices in the garment industry were destroying jobs in the good 'ole U-S-of-A, and in Europe. The very people it seems, who had the industry and the know-how, to make, and supply larger bras, in a time of Chinese large-bra shortages.
I'm not sure if the right word is "ironic," but it's certainly a conundrum of hilariously epic proportions. If you get my drift.-Tsunami-
With some calculations, it's...err, X + B...divided by pie...subtract the number of years in the 100 years war, umm...carry the one...multiply by the weight of ants in my bathroom, (of course, subtracting the mass of fruit-flies hovering around my trash can/head) and Voila!
After the short span of 460 days, Fjord now boasts 600 frikken posts.
(Might I get a Hell Yeah? ... Thanks!)
*****
Anyways, the real reason I was back again tonite was just to give you all some info on where-else I can be found on the internets.
Myspace
Apartment Rock And you can send me a note at ruggs03@yahoo.com Methinks there'll be another big internet project happening in the next few months. I'll keep ya posted, right here.-Tsunami-
how this will end.
In my case, I'm almost positive it'll end in a nap. Not too rock-star, I'll agree, but sometimes a guy's just tired.
Now, we all know there are various degrees of tired. Most depend on the amount of sleep from the day/night before, diet, fitness, mental and physical stress recently endured, and a host of other issues best taken up with a sleep therapist.
As for me, I can't remember a night in the last three weeks where I didn't wake up screaming, grabbing for my flame-thrower, feeling the dead, dry hands of a mummy around my neck. I'm concerned that they might be using my dreams against me, in order to get me off my game before they strike.
Of course, (more proof, if you need it) I'll bring your attention to this little nicety.
Mmmm...anyone else wondering if a mummy just "somehow" got in amongst your possessions?Well, if you're like me: love of robots/hate mummies, before you go cleaning the attic, closet or cellar...might I recommend one of these? Haven't been tested against mummies in combat, but I think they'd do an excellent job.
"TALON robots can be configured with M240 or M249 machine guns or Barrett 50-caliber rifles for armed reconnaissance missions...Alternative weapons, including 40 mm grenade launchers and anti-tank rocket launchers, continue to be evaluated by the U.S. Army."
Might be a bit hard on the attic or cellar, but come on...is a mummy really going to go easy on you?
actually, it was a string of 'em. Some people call it a 'power outage,' but I sure like the word "Blackout" a whole lot better. The big one was timed perfectly, in order to interrupt the second half of a playoff basketball game.
Anyways, I was pretty much un-aware of how much I liked electricity, until it went away. No teevee, no coffee-maker, no internet, no light, no electric guitar, no caller I.D. (tho the phone still worked) luckily I had a couple of extra flashlights.
Anyhoo - I left the Casa Aloha (as it was a small, and localized um, utility-outage) went to see Inside Man, which was a nice afternoon caper movie. I thought the story was kinda' dull, and the dialogue had flashes, but wasn't amazing. But the cast did quite a lot with what they had to work with, and it turned out to be kind of fun.
Upon coming back, I realized that all the fire-doors in the building are held open with electro-magnets. This means that if anything happens to the power supply, all the fire doors close automatically. Not a bad safety feature, I figgered. However, I did some speculating, and came up with the idea that if there are electro-magnets holding open the doors on all the floors, I might just be able to turn the whole building into a particle-accelerator.
And that...just might be my new summer project.
Most of you are already all over this, but if you haven't heard the Melismatics, go here, and listen to Waves of Sound.
I only wish radio sounded this good.
-Tsunami-
Static.Over the snow on the screen, a line of text appears in red. It reads:STEREO <- ON AIRSAP <- ON AIRHD <- ON AIRWhite numbers appear in the corner. Someone must be using a remote.976338331285CHANNEL FJORDA 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!
Taking a couple-day hiatus. Check back say...oooh...Friday.-Tsunami-
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.
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!
"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.
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.
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-
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-
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.
Seriously...are you not?
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
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.
Happy Thursday!If you like the looks of this.Then check out these.
I didn't know how good this was until I watched this.And it's a puzzle.Figger it out and make yourself happy.
A sense of place.
