Time is an illusion, lunchtime doubly so.

Status update: Trying to balance web design, cooking, writing music, and practicing guitar can be difficult. Maddening, at times. I use many services to sync calendars, task lists, and contacts; prioritize projects. But, I am only an Earth-baby. I need to socialize; live, laugh, get into adventures, tickle things, be slapped. It may be a fort-night before there are any lengthy posts or tutorials on any of the tutorial/template sites. If you have comments, questions, or bugfixes, still email me, of course. If only The Room of Spirit and Time were real…

Unicornia, Skittles

I’m eating skittles in bed, like an asshole. So what. There’s a part of my being that’ll forever be disgusted by that fact and countless others like it, but my mind harbors a robust counterpoint to this and nearly every other thought I have, especially regarding topics in some way related to processed foods. I have no idea what that paragraph means.

This other part, the ‘yang’ to the ‘yin’ of good sense, of healthy choices, is enamored by any shiny, edible objects; orders of magnitude more so when they are being consumed while I’m enjoying quality television programming. Why would I tell you this? Because, I enticed you into visiting this site because we have something forbidden, horrible, and sexy in common. We have the same great-great grandmother. That’s right, I’m talking about your great-great-grandmother.

You may be taking this time to point out to yourself that technically, I’m not talking, I’m typing – and you are only reading this webpage, and you can’t hear any sounds except the endless screams and melodic throbs of the music available on this site. If you took the time to point that out to yourself, you just wasted 4 seconds that you WILL NEVER GET BACK AGAIN – because I speak out every word I type very clearly – AS I type, and sometimes, AFTER I type, and I use the negative space in between each of the words to inject the mono-dictation with sultry, rhythmic breathing noises, or I flick my nose with my thumb as I smirk at the web browser window.

So let’s not play this game, because I just licked nacho cheese off of my monitor, and not because I accidentally spilled some. It’s 1972, and I’m Burt Reynolds eating spaghetti in a white tuxedo.

Fucking hell I need to go to sleep. I’m just going to keep typing word salad. Things will work out.

I have this thing I used to do, while in public. I don’t know why. I suspect it was due to my obnoxious optimism, or a then desperate desire to be loved by a human that isn’t obligated to do so by blood relation. Ultimately it is more likely caused by my incessant longing for some horrendous but entertaining response. I’m not saying I’m not an asshole.

I’ll often tell complete strangers that I love them. Passively, as you would to a family member on the way out of the house or at the close of a phone call with your spouse, but in this case, said to my server, or a clerk at a grocery store.

Today, Labor Day, or “El Dia De Poloma y Ojos De Vacas Verde” for our Australian friends, for the first time in I don’t know how many years, a stranger said it back to me. Not just “I love you” – but:

Oh my God I love you too – let’s move away together.

Unfortunately, I am what some would refer to as a “heterosexual male”, and the person that spoke this reply is what some would refer to as “a female that has blossomed into womanhood and having physical attributes greater than or equal to the culturally and socially-accepted mean-value of highly attractive features in regards to the perception of the average heterosexual males of said culture and/or society.”, so it really caught me off guard, in the same way that securing employment at a job interview for a position you know you’re severely under-qualified for – because every other person applying for it died in a horrible train accident that morning – because they all decided to save the Earth by parking at the park-n-ride and taking the train, and you drove your SUV there instead and felt like a real jerk taking it to an interview for the marketing team of the new Prius, until you heard about the deaths of all those younger, smarter, Ivy-League, clean-cut Stepford babies right before the manager said

Congratulations, son! I guess in light of this grisly tragedy, we have no choice but to give you a chance.

Fuck I just want to sleep. My reply to her was a big smile accompanied by “Man, you’re a breath of fresh air”, then I left the store. She gave me a really perplexed look just before I turned away, like I forgot to do or say something. It was weird. On the way home, I realized I can’t say ‘I love you’ to strangers so carelessly anymore. She may have just been confused, thinking I would ask for her phone number or something similar, getting ready to hit me with the “Sorry I’m a lesbian/have a boyfriend/get away from me, nerd/get away from me, musician” but there is the slim chance, by Todd, that this person really, truly was madly in love with me.

I can’t go gallivanting around town toying with a person’s emoticons like a delicious Halloween confection. With great power comes great responsibility – so now, instead of a potentially fatal “I love you”, I’ll do the socially responsible equivalent – “I love you. But, I really don’t, I’m saying it to be clever, in the hopes that one day someone, maybe someone like you, will say ‘let’s be friends’, and then I’ll have a real friend again, not like Tenglar.” Tenglars’ world only exists because I believe it exists.

YES TENGLAR I FINALLY KNOW

.


P.S. – TO all of you once mesmerizing, cuddly, and I thought loving creatures in Unicornia – I trusted you – all of youAND YOU NEVER TOLD ME. That one time Prince Ferzinzia died because of the nipplebird storm? Try to remember it TENGLAR. Remember it well you FUCK, because I do. I live the horror of that night every ‘waking’ second. It is in the waffles I eat, the air I breathe, the tires I rotate, the dogs I walk; even the waffles I eat. Deep, deep, deep inside my mind. I COULD HAVE SAVED HIM BY IMAGINING THE STORM BEING OVER, no danger of poisonous nipplebirds, and no destroyed Great Castle, and most importantly no DEAD Prince Ferzinzia. But NO.

No, all of you let me continue believing that this world, the one where I have alienated those closest to me in society because I don’t know I think my butt smells, isolated myself, and have become trapped in some Glurmea-forsaken abyss called “Baltimore” is the imagined world – a horrible nightmare in which the music I spend countless hours studying and writing every day never quite comes out the way I first hear it; merely an over-cooked custard of the recipe I tried to form. That’s always been a tough thing to accept about this place, and I rejected it as merely another reflection of another facet of yet another diamond in this fictional wasteland, a diamond made of poop. Poop I know NOW to be real.

This whole time – Instead of embracing all of you, dedicating expensive neuron activity and memory storage to your world – remembering Tenglar’s birthday for the past 412 years (eff you times , Tenglar) organizing the G.C.O.E.P.M.T.W.T.B.H.T.S.A.L.M.W.T.C.D. – Great Choir of Emancipated Promiscuous Mermaids That Want to be Human Through Singing and Love-Making with the Choir Director (for those of you that never cared enough to see one of our shows or even become familiar with our programs, I suspect many of you that attended were doing so just so I’d keep believing in Unicornia but it’s too bad since we put on some killer awesome shows with lasers that can’t be reproduced and yeah Tenglar put it on the Unicornia Internet but it’s not the same you had to be there to catch the nuance of each performer) – instead of spending all of my energy on that ‘world’, I could have been here, attending to the now unthinkably depressing horror-show and montage of humiliation and shame that humanity has degenerated into in recent centuries.

I realize I cannot go back, and that terrifies me. It terrifies me that I have to live here every day now. That I can’t escape. I have no choice but to fix what I can, and accept the rest. And I want all of you in Unicornia to know that I hate you for it.

Cheap Peanut Butter

An interesting thing just happened. On my way home, I began craving a simple-but-elegant peanut-butter sandwich on toasted potato bread. I entered the kitchen minutes later and began the process of penetrating the toaster with two slices – fine slices. After rapidly confirming that the toaster was toasting properly and was set to my all-time favorite potato-bread toasting strength, which is 4.5 out of a maximum strength of 9 S.T.P.V. (Super Toasting Power Vortex, my proprietary measuring system), I graduated myself to the familiar position of Peanut-Butter Location and Retrieval Specialist.



T
he peanut-butter is a brand-name I do not regularly buy unless I’m virtually broke, but cannot delete peanut-butter from my personal life, for whatever reason. ‘Hamilton Farms’ – a company that hides behind a bastardized deviation of an otherwise honorable handle. And when I claim honorable, I mean it. Today, in a town of Hamilton there have been less than one-hundred murders since the year 2000! Try that here in Baltimore. Go to the baltimoresun.com and check the year-to-date murder tally. All you have to do is refresh the page every 20 milliseconds or so and it’ll increase by more than one-hundred people every time.

Let us not forget to remember the most lovely Hamiltonian entity ever to live: Alexander Hamilton. One of our Founding Fathers, a staunch defender of the Whiskey Tax, and thwarting-drive of the 1794 Whiskey Rebellion.

So, yes, back to the peanut butter. With spreading knife in hand, I stared at the toaster in anticipation of its spring-loaded tray, and the release of my toast. Indeed, this occurred, but was accompanied by a telepathic announcement:

Here is your damn toast. Take it out of me.

I stood still in the kitchen a moment, trying to grasp the new and depressing fact that my toaster is not only articulate, but snide, smarmy, and seems to have a sense of entitlement to a better life for itself- something I will make certain it never knows – and decided the best thing to grant priority was upholding my composure, appearing aloof, and completion of my sandwichian agenda.

With one liquid-smooth motion acquired during a recent incarceration, I extracted the fresh toast and shrugged off the sentience of the appliance as hallucination or hyperbole on my part.

I spread the peanut butter quickly, and took it back to my desk to consume while communicating with various other persons. Persons that were themselves great distances away from me in the flesh, but by way of “Electrical Connections”, could interact with me in a number of ways, and I with them. Not two minutes into my consumption of the devil sandwich did I start to notice a very slight warming of my chest and upper abdomen. At the same time, A brownish, peanut-buttery color appeared in the lower-most quadrants of my vision.

I peered down and beheld the cherry-on-top of the toasters’ evil cake of smuggery: nearly all of the peanut-butter had spilled onto my shirt, squirting so readily and without notice that it rivaled even the most over-active periods of my ancient teenage libido. I set the sandwitch on my desk and smiled. I had been bested by a toaster once again.

The toaster is the Cuisinart PG-13592.

[box type=”info”]major hat-tips to the great SJ Perelman – this is in part a variation on a theme of his, written in the New Yorker in 1949. [/box]

Bruce Lee Fights Back From the Grave

Come, watch a fine, feature-length film with me, your host, uh, whatever.

I just went to the super-market to buy some dinner to cook so I can eat it or whatever. Near the checkout, there was a rack of DVD’s. Seeing a Bruce Lee movie I’ve never heard of, I grabbed it, put the DVD in the basket, and paid the most well-spent $4.99 ever. When I got to my apartment, I took a closer look at the DVD, and coudn’t find any actual mention of Bruce Lee, aside from the title on the cover of the DVD’s box. I’m just going to put it in – this Bruce Lee movie, for some entertainment while I cook. You don’t get surprises like this with Netflix or iTunes.

This film is called “Bruce Lee Fights Back from the Grave”, which I think in English roughly translates to (assuming they’re being truthful about the obvious implication that Bruce Lee has something to do with this movie):

Click here to watch the full movie on YouTube.
(If it’s still up. EDIT: As of 11/2012, it is.)

“Holy hell we’re out of ideas for Bruce Lee merchandise, and we already did the DVD editions of every movie he made, but we have all this lame footage laying around, and I’d like a yacht, and plus Bruce Lee’s son is dead, so we’ll get all the money, so buy this piece of crap, because after you buy it you can call up your friend, and somewhere in the conversation pretend to randomly be wondering:

‘What Bruce Lee movies do you have, man?’

Then he’ll list all the movies that Bruce Lee ever made, and you know that he owns all of them, just like you do, but he answers you anyway because the two of you haven’t talked about Bruce Lee in like 3 months, which is a really long time not to mention Bruce Lee, and when he’s done you can be like

‘Yeah, I have those, of course.’

And then drop the bomb:

‘…and the new one, obviously.’

Then pretend it’s such old news that you don’t even care and change the topic to something that’ll just piss him off, like ‘Oh, dude, my date with your sister was great last night, we played Dungeons and Dragons…and had intercourse repeatedly.

Lol, just kidding Ted.


At five minutes in, this is worthy of MST3k. Nothing has really happened yet. Maybe Bruce Lee sort of comes back from the dead as a ghost that kicks everyone’s ass. Except it’s probably not really him, it’s a guy named Bruce Li or Leigh. The moral of the story is undoubtedly the same as any Bruce Lee movie, however: Bruce Lee will eventually kick everyone’s ass, even if he doesn’t want to. If you go after him, he’ll kill you and absorb residual affection from your girlfriend. A tower of bad guys, a room of mirrors, you can’t beat him with any fancy crap like that.

Happening now – ten minutes in or so, there are these two guys studying in a dojo, Ryu and Ken style, and one of them says (paraphrasing) “Screw the master’s teachings, I want money and power. I am leaving the dojo right now, going to America, and I’ll be back in three years with mad money and power, and I’m gonna ask you to join me, but you’ll see that I’ve become evil, so you’ll say no because you love our Sensei and the way of Buddha, and the last fight scene will be me and you fighting to the death, except by then I can kick your ass, so the ghost of Bruce Lee helps you and your guys kill me, but in between now and then you’ll have a love interest, and Bruce Lee will teach you some philosophical stuff, and you’ll have to beat up like ten thousand bad-guy pawns. But it’s cool, they’ll only attack one at a time, and none of them believe in using a firearm, even though they sell heroin and kill helpless girls, and trash Chinese-food restaurants for a living. ”

Ah – the guy that leaves the dojo for riches gets killed while in America, from a gambling debt or dysentery or something. This movie must have had a horribly low budget, something like ten billion dollars. But Hong Kong dollars, which is like three cents in World War II-era German Marks U.S. currency and a super-mega-ultra-stoned director with one eye and no ears and leprosy.

There’s this scene where the good guy is depressed, and he’s at a bar drinking shots of “rum”. To illustrate that he is taking shot after shot after shot, they show footage of him taking the shot, then footage of a slimy, greasy anorexic stripper on the stage twirling around on a pole (likely wondering if she’ll have the time to go apply to be a real stripper somewhere in downtown Hong Kong, after they have finished filming her for this scene), then they show the same footage of him taking the shot, then the stripper again, then the same footage again. Four times. Ah – Now he’s at home. A bald black man jumps out of his closet, as bald black men love to do in the apartments of easily excitable Chinese men. The intruder – I kid you not – is wearing big white underwear, leather boots, a huge black cape with the Dracula collar, and is carrying a tiny little tomahawk, I guess a Village People prop.

Nice, another flashback. Wow – this one is unbeatable: The sensei of these two guys, earlier in his life – (this is seriously in the movie; they did a flashback, and some lady, presumably the love interest,is telling the good guy about it) – he ran a different, highly successful dojo. One day, during a lesson, a student of his decided to try to break a brick with his forehead, but hurt his stupid head instead. The parents of the student sued the sensei and took “every penny he had, millions and millions of dollars, and he was ruined, so he moved away and started over.” Umm…o…kaaay…now there’s a cowboy on the screen for some reason. They did a slow-pan close-shot of him, starting at the feet, and going up to his beady black eyes, creamy and jello-like in appearance. Ok, Bruce Lee is actually not in this movie at all, nor did he have anything to do with it. Maybe it is a guy named Bruce Li. It is.

P.S. – On the back of the box, in the credits, the Art department reads exactly like this:
[Art Director: WONG KIM FATT DICK STEVENSON CARLO VENI]
On IMDB

Edit, 2011: I forgot this was published, amazingly, on a movie review site. Yep.