No Longer at Large
Dave Allen passed away last night at age 68. I grew up watching his very old-school one-man show "Dave Allen at Large" late at night on PBS. When my parents would let me stay up late enough, that is.
Good night, thank you, and may your God go with you.
Some collected Dave Allen quotes
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
Music to Start a Cult To
You should be downloading Gram Rabbit mp3s.
Cool, kooky, hypnotic music from a little Joshua Tree band.
Also, bunny ears.
You should be downloading Gram Rabbit mp3s.
Cool, kooky, hypnotic music from a little Joshua Tree band.
Also, bunny ears.
Sunday, March 06, 2005
Physical Fits
Once again, we have begun to plunge healthward in the Kafkaesque household. Roughly every other day, we wake up at five thirty in the morning (or even earlier, depending on who we are trying to impress with the story) and go for a half-hour jog.
And we are not even being chased by bears or anything.
I've discovered something fantastic about jogging, and I think it's probably why most joggers jog: you can complain about it whenever you want. And any time is the right time to complain about jogging, I assure you. Any lull in the conversation is ideal to issue a low groan and say pathetically (yet impressively) "Ohhh. I woke up at five-thirty this morning to go jogging." [obviously, you may embellish with any time up to 3 am. Earlier than three may stretch plausibility.]
On the days we don't go jogging, I do exercises in the morning. These exercises consist entirely of pushups and crunches, ensuring a minimum of actual results. I call them "crunches" because it sounds really important and rough and tumble. "Situps" doesn't sound anywhere near impressive enough.
I do fifty of each in our guest room, choosing to perform the mighty crunches with my toes hooked under one of our Ikea Billy bookcases with really heavy glass doors. A couple of factors make this placement enjoyable:
1. Each time I struggle to a near-sitting position, I am eye-level with the philosophy and religion shelf, so my thought process is kind of like this: "Aaaaaaagh - oh, the Baghavad Gita As It Is - Aaaaaaagh - I should really finish Violence and the Sacred - Aaaaaaagh - I bet Joseph Campbell can't do fifty crunches - Aaaaaaagh - If he were alive I mean - Aaaaaaagh!" and so on.
2. Every crunch exerts a little more upward force on the heavy bookshelf, and makes me wonder if I correctly installed the little safety strap to the wall. By about crunch #43, I secretly wish for the sweet release of death, crushed under a weighty pile of New German Cinema texts and travel guides for places we haven't been yet.
All of this madcap exercising is occasioned by our desire to be slightly less flabby when we go to Maui next month. I feel confident I won't be much less flabby but at least, when I am gazing at the sunrise from Haleakala, I can groan and say "Ohhhh man. I was up at three am jogging," and put all the other tourists to shame.
Once again, we have begun to plunge healthward in the Kafkaesque household. Roughly every other day, we wake up at five thirty in the morning (or even earlier, depending on who we are trying to impress with the story) and go for a half-hour jog.
And we are not even being chased by bears or anything.
I've discovered something fantastic about jogging, and I think it's probably why most joggers jog: you can complain about it whenever you want. And any time is the right time to complain about jogging, I assure you. Any lull in the conversation is ideal to issue a low groan and say pathetically (yet impressively) "Ohhh. I woke up at five-thirty this morning to go jogging." [obviously, you may embellish with any time up to 3 am. Earlier than three may stretch plausibility.]
On the days we don't go jogging, I do exercises in the morning. These exercises consist entirely of pushups and crunches, ensuring a minimum of actual results. I call them "crunches" because it sounds really important and rough and tumble. "Situps" doesn't sound anywhere near impressive enough.
I do fifty of each in our guest room, choosing to perform the mighty crunches with my toes hooked under one of our Ikea Billy bookcases with really heavy glass doors. A couple of factors make this placement enjoyable:
1. Each time I struggle to a near-sitting position, I am eye-level with the philosophy and religion shelf, so my thought process is kind of like this: "Aaaaaaagh - oh, the Baghavad Gita As It Is - Aaaaaaagh - I should really finish Violence and the Sacred - Aaaaaaagh - I bet Joseph Campbell can't do fifty crunches - Aaaaaaagh - If he were alive I mean - Aaaaaaagh!" and so on.
2. Every crunch exerts a little more upward force on the heavy bookshelf, and makes me wonder if I correctly installed the little safety strap to the wall. By about crunch #43, I secretly wish for the sweet release of death, crushed under a weighty pile of New German Cinema texts and travel guides for places we haven't been yet.
All of this madcap exercising is occasioned by our desire to be slightly less flabby when we go to Maui next month. I feel confident I won't be much less flabby but at least, when I am gazing at the sunrise from Haleakala, I can groan and say "Ohhhh man. I was up at three am jogging," and put all the other tourists to shame.
Saturday, February 05, 2005
The Squeegee Incident
This weekend we drove down to Orange County for reasons which I assure you were perfectly valid, and I just wanted to share a small magical moment that occurred in a 76 gas station in the town of Grapevine: an elderly gentleman cringed before me.
Now I should begin by saying that I am not a particularly threatening looking kind of guy. Goofy and somewhat slow-witted, yes. Threatening, no.
While I was gassing up the car, I looked for a squeegee to shift some of the truly impressive weight of bug parts from my windshield. In the fine tradition of Interstate 5 gas stations, there was but one squeegee to be had, and it was not at my pump. So I grabbed the squeegee from the next row of pumps.
As I toted my squeegee carwards, an elderly gentleman and his wife pulled in to that row of pumps. I washed my windshield. Then, when the tank was full, I glanced over at the elderly guy, who was looking futilely for the squeegee.
Being the helpful sort that I am, I walked towards him, holding out the squeegee for him to use.
Now I don't know what this guy thought I was going to do with the squeegee, but he flinched and took a couple of steps back. In his mind, perhaps, he saw me standing over him, raining sanitary blows upon him, as his blood slowly mixed with Windex, running off into the drain. Perhaps he thought I would restrain him and squeegee his glasses against his will. I don't know.
Anyway, in the end I just kicked him in the shins and took his wallet, so he wouldn't feel he cringed for nothing.
That's all I have to say about that. I would like to close by saying "squeegee" a few more times.
Squeegee squeegee squeegee
squeegee
This weekend we drove down to Orange County for reasons which I assure you were perfectly valid, and I just wanted to share a small magical moment that occurred in a 76 gas station in the town of Grapevine: an elderly gentleman cringed before me.
Now I should begin by saying that I am not a particularly threatening looking kind of guy. Goofy and somewhat slow-witted, yes. Threatening, no.
While I was gassing up the car, I looked for a squeegee to shift some of the truly impressive weight of bug parts from my windshield. In the fine tradition of Interstate 5 gas stations, there was but one squeegee to be had, and it was not at my pump. So I grabbed the squeegee from the next row of pumps.
As I toted my squeegee carwards, an elderly gentleman and his wife pulled in to that row of pumps. I washed my windshield. Then, when the tank was full, I glanced over at the elderly guy, who was looking futilely for the squeegee.
Being the helpful sort that I am, I walked towards him, holding out the squeegee for him to use.
Now I don't know what this guy thought I was going to do with the squeegee, but he flinched and took a couple of steps back. In his mind, perhaps, he saw me standing over him, raining sanitary blows upon him, as his blood slowly mixed with Windex, running off into the drain. Perhaps he thought I would restrain him and squeegee his glasses against his will. I don't know.
Anyway, in the end I just kicked him in the shins and took his wallet, so he wouldn't feel he cringed for nothing.
That's all I have to say about that. I would like to close by saying "squeegee" a few more times.
Squeegee squeegee squeegee
squeegee
Saturday, January 29, 2005
Things Have Happened
So many dramatic things. I now have an actual job where I have to do actual work. And actually commute. So as a result I've been a little busy.
Gone are the halcyon days of Purgatory Inc, where I labored for so many years. I know I will always miss the excitement of working with people who sold Avon on the side and had Tupperware parties. And will I ever see Captain Porno again?
Maybe not.
Or the guy who liked to shove a handkerchief way, way into his nose while he was talking to you? So deep that you wondered if it would result in an exit wound? That guy? Ah well, things move on.
We've moved away from Orange County and are now up here on the San Francisco Bay Area Peninsula. It's coming home in a way, since the wifely friend and I are both from the Bay Area. Actually, we're from the South Bay, which looks a lot like Orange County these days anyway, but has maybe three less Jamba Juices per square mile. Now we live on a hill by the airport, and are surrounded by varying degrees of weirdness.
Some happy weirdness I can report is that we live a few blocks away from a Samurai. No, really.
Every time we drive to the grocery store, we pass a house whose front yard is just immaculate. Every last little blade of grass is clipped, just so. The house itself is painted a soothing grey, the trim just setting off the main color of the house. And there is nothing in this yard besides grass and a couple of perfectly shaped hedges.
I have a particular liking for complete absence of clutter, so I feel good every time I see this house. It stands out all the more in our neighborhood of relative weirdness, where some houses seem to be vomiting stuff like old sofas and small dogs into the street via their porches or garage doors. The house has a neat and tidy, very Japanese look about it, so pleasing and austere.
Then, one day recently, we were on the way to the grocery store, and we saw a Samurai on the corner, right by the house. He was sort of a middle-aged, balding, portly Samurai, smoking a cigarette, but other than that, he sure looked the part. He had a kimono on, and sported the requisite ponytail so popular in Kurosawa movies. I could almost picture him with a little flag on his back, sweeping down the plain to meet his almost certain death on the color-coded battlefield.
I wondered if this was what happened to Ronin when they don't commit seppuku. They come hang out on the peninsula, smoking cigarettes and looking down the hill to see if the neighbors' garage sale has anything they might be interested in, like maybe a breadmaker.
The wifely friend and I looked at each other in awe.
"He must live in that perfect house!" I said.
"Yeah," said the wifely friend "Or the house with tinfoil all over the windows."
Maybe it's better not to know.
So many dramatic things. I now have an actual job where I have to do actual work. And actually commute. So as a result I've been a little busy.
Gone are the halcyon days of Purgatory Inc, where I labored for so many years. I know I will always miss the excitement of working with people who sold Avon on the side and had Tupperware parties. And will I ever see Captain Porno again?
Maybe not.
Or the guy who liked to shove a handkerchief way, way into his nose while he was talking to you? So deep that you wondered if it would result in an exit wound? That guy? Ah well, things move on.
We've moved away from Orange County and are now up here on the San Francisco Bay Area Peninsula. It's coming home in a way, since the wifely friend and I are both from the Bay Area. Actually, we're from the South Bay, which looks a lot like Orange County these days anyway, but has maybe three less Jamba Juices per square mile. Now we live on a hill by the airport, and are surrounded by varying degrees of weirdness.
Some happy weirdness I can report is that we live a few blocks away from a Samurai. No, really.
Every time we drive to the grocery store, we pass a house whose front yard is just immaculate. Every last little blade of grass is clipped, just so. The house itself is painted a soothing grey, the trim just setting off the main color of the house. And there is nothing in this yard besides grass and a couple of perfectly shaped hedges.
I have a particular liking for complete absence of clutter, so I feel good every time I see this house. It stands out all the more in our neighborhood of relative weirdness, where some houses seem to be vomiting stuff like old sofas and small dogs into the street via their porches or garage doors. The house has a neat and tidy, very Japanese look about it, so pleasing and austere.
Then, one day recently, we were on the way to the grocery store, and we saw a Samurai on the corner, right by the house. He was sort of a middle-aged, balding, portly Samurai, smoking a cigarette, but other than that, he sure looked the part. He had a kimono on, and sported the requisite ponytail so popular in Kurosawa movies. I could almost picture him with a little flag on his back, sweeping down the plain to meet his almost certain death on the color-coded battlefield.
I wondered if this was what happened to Ronin when they don't commit seppuku. They come hang out on the peninsula, smoking cigarettes and looking down the hill to see if the neighbors' garage sale has anything they might be interested in, like maybe a breadmaker.
The wifely friend and I looked at each other in awe.
"He must live in that perfect house!" I said.
"Yeah," said the wifely friend "Or the house with tinfoil all over the windows."
Maybe it's better not to know.
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
Decorations of Doom
In years past, I was your average Christmas decoration kind of guy. I had a few strands of your garden variety yellow, red, blue, green lights with which humans have adorned their houses since man first began walking erect. Some of my lights looked a little the worse for wear, with the color beginning to scrape off in spots. I'd string them on the eaves of my house and revel in their somewhat kitschy charm. I employed a philosophy of elegant restraint.
I eschewed the blinking bulbs. I spurned the fad of those "icicle" lights which look really terrible when the sun is out.
Then, I moved to the community in which I now reside, and I was faced with some rather serious pressure in the Christmas-decoration arena. My neighbors have mechanical reindeer. There are Nativity scenes being acted out by plastic penguins. They have inflatable Santas and neon presents. Giant candy canes. The whole place looks like a seedy car lot.
That's when I decided to take the law into my own hands and vanquish this tawdry assemblage of cheer.
My robotic death-elves are, as we speak, massing in my yard, and will soon sweep over the yards and chimneys of San Bruno, bringing tears and valuable lessons to the Lowe's shoppers of the community. Lasers. There will be lasers.
Merry Christmas, and I will be on hiatus for a while.
In years past, I was your average Christmas decoration kind of guy. I had a few strands of your garden variety yellow, red, blue, green lights with which humans have adorned their houses since man first began walking erect. Some of my lights looked a little the worse for wear, with the color beginning to scrape off in spots. I'd string them on the eaves of my house and revel in their somewhat kitschy charm. I employed a philosophy of elegant restraint.
I eschewed the blinking bulbs. I spurned the fad of those "icicle" lights which look really terrible when the sun is out.
Then, I moved to the community in which I now reside, and I was faced with some rather serious pressure in the Christmas-decoration arena. My neighbors have mechanical reindeer. There are Nativity scenes being acted out by plastic penguins. They have inflatable Santas and neon presents. Giant candy canes. The whole place looks like a seedy car lot.
That's when I decided to take the law into my own hands and vanquish this tawdry assemblage of cheer.
My robotic death-elves are, as we speak, massing in my yard, and will soon sweep over the yards and chimneys of San Bruno, bringing tears and valuable lessons to the Lowe's shoppers of the community. Lasers. There will be lasers.
Merry Christmas, and I will be on hiatus for a while.
Monday, December 13, 2004
Christmas Carding
I am in charge of the majority of the Christmas card duties here at Team Kafka HQ. I know you may not call them Christmas cards. You may call them Holiday cards, or Solstice Missives or Death of Nature Fliers. I don't know. Anyway, some thoughts:
- The decay of enthusiasm
I always start out the Christmas cards with a great attitude. I compile the list of worthy recipients and go somewhere like Cost Plus and pick out the right cards for the wifely friend and I. We need cards that will adequately express our caring and artful sensibilities, and inspire the recipient to new levels of gratitude and potential guilt, if they haven't remembered us this year.
It's important to have a card that stands out, too, so you can act wounded if you visit the recipient's home and see that your card is in the B-team display, over behind one of the potted plants.
I start out with our overseas cards, and I'm writing letters in each card. I'm telling relatives things they probably don't need or want to know about trivial details of our personal lives. About our cat. About the newts I find in our back yard from time to time.
But inevitably, after this outpouring of card-filling, I am spent. The domestic cards cannot help but suffer, and end up getting only terse little Merry Christmas!es. After writing fifty Merry Christmas!es and Hope to see you soon!s I end up speaking that way for days.
"Going to store! Hope lunch good! Have run over pedestrian! Have malaria!"
- The baby card
Lately people we know have been reproducing at an alarming rate, so we've been getting those "here's a picture of us with the babies pretending we're not really annoyed and tired every single moment" cards. That is, of course, just fine. They're actually handy, in that I can't tell the difference between the gaggle of babies that are being produced, so the cards function as little flashcards, preventing awkwardness at social gatherings.
"Hello friends who have reproduced!"
"Hello, Kaf! Here is our baby!"
"Ah yes! Your baby! Whose name is...umm...give me a minute here"
And then I quickly rifle through my stack of baby-cards until I find the right one, and I am the champion of baby-name-remembering. It's small things like this that ensure a place in people's wills.
- The love question
I have a hard time saying I love you. Not to the wifely friend of course. I say that to her all the time, especially if I suspect she has become peeved with me in some small way.
I have a problem with the Christmas card love. I mean, do I put "love, kaf and wifely friend" on every card? I mean I like my friends plenty, but love may frankly be a little strong. I don't want to feel like I'm subjecting people to some sort of emotional blackmail with my signature. I don't want anyone thinking I'm going to want to spend the weekend at a hippie drum circle retreat with them or anything.
Maybe I should try Sociopathologically Yours?
I am in charge of the majority of the Christmas card duties here at Team Kafka HQ. I know you may not call them Christmas cards. You may call them Holiday cards, or Solstice Missives or Death of Nature Fliers. I don't know. Anyway, some thoughts:
- The decay of enthusiasm
I always start out the Christmas cards with a great attitude. I compile the list of worthy recipients and go somewhere like Cost Plus and pick out the right cards for the wifely friend and I. We need cards that will adequately express our caring and artful sensibilities, and inspire the recipient to new levels of gratitude and potential guilt, if they haven't remembered us this year.
It's important to have a card that stands out, too, so you can act wounded if you visit the recipient's home and see that your card is in the B-team display, over behind one of the potted plants.
I start out with our overseas cards, and I'm writing letters in each card. I'm telling relatives things they probably don't need or want to know about trivial details of our personal lives. About our cat. About the newts I find in our back yard from time to time.
But inevitably, after this outpouring of card-filling, I am spent. The domestic cards cannot help but suffer, and end up getting only terse little Merry Christmas!es. After writing fifty Merry Christmas!es and Hope to see you soon!s I end up speaking that way for days.
"Going to store! Hope lunch good! Have run over pedestrian! Have malaria!"
- The baby card
Lately people we know have been reproducing at an alarming rate, so we've been getting those "here's a picture of us with the babies pretending we're not really annoyed and tired every single moment" cards. That is, of course, just fine. They're actually handy, in that I can't tell the difference between the gaggle of babies that are being produced, so the cards function as little flashcards, preventing awkwardness at social gatherings.
"Hello friends who have reproduced!"
"Hello, Kaf! Here is our baby!"
"Ah yes! Your baby! Whose name is...umm...give me a minute here"
And then I quickly rifle through my stack of baby-cards until I find the right one, and I am the champion of baby-name-remembering. It's small things like this that ensure a place in people's wills.
- The love question
I have a hard time saying I love you. Not to the wifely friend of course. I say that to her all the time, especially if I suspect she has become peeved with me in some small way.
I have a problem with the Christmas card love. I mean, do I put "love, kaf and wifely friend" on every card? I mean I like my friends plenty, but love may frankly be a little strong. I don't want to feel like I'm subjecting people to some sort of emotional blackmail with my signature. I don't want anyone thinking I'm going to want to spend the weekend at a hippie drum circle retreat with them or anything.
Maybe I should try Sociopathologically Yours?
Monday, December 06, 2004
Fishing 101
Every year, I forget to buy a fishing license until about September. Then, all of a sudden, I feel a deep and abiding inner need to sit by a lake not catching any fish, so I spring into action. I race to the nearest sporting goods store, drop 40 dollars on a license, and buy a variety of shiny, smelly or otherwise disturbing items that will help ensure the safety of the fish in my chosen body of water.
It's not as though I've never caught a fish. I should make that clear. There was even a time my friend Chimichanga and I went pier-fishing and caught 30 or so mackerel. That doesn't really count, though. Those fish were suicidal. We would drop a baited hook into the drink, and they would be falling all over for the chance to get killed. What really transpired was that we happened to be right in the middle of a passing school. This was evident when every single other fisherman descended on our location when they spied us bringing up four mackerel at once. In the ensuing frenzy of hooks, reminiscent of a cross between Bassmasters and Hellraiser, five men lost eyes.
So I have in fact caught fish in the past. But usually, I sit there by the side of a lake, contemplating the fact that I got 3 hours of sleep and have consumed too much coffee, and do a really inspiring job of not catching any fish. This time, I decided things would be different. My friends set up a trip to the delta ("the delta" in case you are wondering, is the Sacramento River delta) to not catch some impressive prey: Striped Bass or "stripers". Clearly this is the big time. This is the fish to not catch, if you want to not catch a really impressive fish.
Stripers of thirty pounds or more are caught every season in the delta. I have been told that, at least. On our fishing trip, only one of the six of us who went actually caught a fish, and I have no photographic evidence that even happened. Routinely, in the days leading up to a fishing trip, my friends and I will banter back and forth, firing email salvos proclaiming our illusory fishing prowess.
"Thirty pound striper, huh? I guess that'd be ok."
"Maybe I'll go for sturgeon."
"I am planning on catching an eight foot striped bass and riding him like a dolphin around the delta, waving at you poor saps on the shore."
In reality, I'd be at a loss what to do if I ever reeled a thirty pound striper in. I am confident this will never happen, though.
As I said, I assembled a truly astonishing array of lures for this trip. I had shads. I had Rebel Runners. I had Spinners With Vibrax Action, Rapalas, Hula Poppers, ridiculously large spoon lures, even a tiny rubber diplodocus I picked up in case anything Paleozoic was lurking in the deeps. I should mention that I stopped short of buying a bait that advertised "sex scent". Frankly, I don't want to encourage that sort of thing and wouldn't want to not catch the kind of fish that would respond to such perversion.
We made it out to the delta pretty early in the morning. Early for me, anyway: around seven o'clock. (Of course no matter what time you start fishing, it will be marginally "too late". After the first forty-five minutes or so with no-one so much as tugging your Spinner with Vibrax Action, you will probably get the idea that you should have been there at 5 am. Realistically, if you had gotten there at 5am, you'd just be colder and grumpier, but it is nice to comfort yourself with this sort of self-loathing.)
To summarize the results of the trip, I managed to not catch some really frighteningly large fish. Not that they were ever on my line, you understand. My fishing tactics included casting out a fair distance, and then reeling in my lure with the nagging feeling that I should probably switch to something else. Something more expensive. Then, about ten yards from shore, the lure would get caught on some hazard beneath the surface. Rocks, weeds, logs, dumped bodies. I don't know what. Then I would spend the next five minutes tugging pathetically at the line, trying to free it.
I managed to lose about five lures that day.
The most spectacular lure loss of the day came as we were getting ready to leave. I had decided that what I really needed to do was make a leap of faith. So I reached into my tackle box and pulled out a lure I'd had sitting in there for a good ten years: The Krokodile. The Krokodile is a ridiculously large lure that is advertised as good for stripers. I don't know why I bought the lure in the first place, but it's been with me so long, it's like an old friend. I'd be fishing at some lake, not catching some small trout or blue gill, and I'd see the Krokodile there in the box, and be reminded that one day I'd go for the big game.
I joked to my friend Bindlestick Billy as I tied the lure on my line that I'd probably cast it out and instantly get it snagged.
So, I don't have my Krokodile anymore.
Oh well, maybe I should have used the Sex Scent.
epilogue: The day was not a complete loss, as we stopped at Foster's Big Horn on the way home. Foster's Big Horn has a huge collection of slowly decaying game heads on the walls. The sight of a mounted Dik-Dik really makes you hungry for a patty melt was apparently the owner's business philosophy. So, we may not have caught fish, but we sure ate lunch in a place that had dead animals all over the walls. That's showing those stripers.
Every year, I forget to buy a fishing license until about September. Then, all of a sudden, I feel a deep and abiding inner need to sit by a lake not catching any fish, so I spring into action. I race to the nearest sporting goods store, drop 40 dollars on a license, and buy a variety of shiny, smelly or otherwise disturbing items that will help ensure the safety of the fish in my chosen body of water.
It's not as though I've never caught a fish. I should make that clear. There was even a time my friend Chimichanga and I went pier-fishing and caught 30 or so mackerel. That doesn't really count, though. Those fish were suicidal. We would drop a baited hook into the drink, and they would be falling all over for the chance to get killed. What really transpired was that we happened to be right in the middle of a passing school. This was evident when every single other fisherman descended on our location when they spied us bringing up four mackerel at once. In the ensuing frenzy of hooks, reminiscent of a cross between Bassmasters and Hellraiser, five men lost eyes.
So I have in fact caught fish in the past. But usually, I sit there by the side of a lake, contemplating the fact that I got 3 hours of sleep and have consumed too much coffee, and do a really inspiring job of not catching any fish. This time, I decided things would be different. My friends set up a trip to the delta ("the delta" in case you are wondering, is the Sacramento River delta) to not catch some impressive prey: Striped Bass or "stripers". Clearly this is the big time. This is the fish to not catch, if you want to not catch a really impressive fish.
Stripers of thirty pounds or more are caught every season in the delta. I have been told that, at least. On our fishing trip, only one of the six of us who went actually caught a fish, and I have no photographic evidence that even happened. Routinely, in the days leading up to a fishing trip, my friends and I will banter back and forth, firing email salvos proclaiming our illusory fishing prowess.
"Thirty pound striper, huh? I guess that'd be ok."
"Maybe I'll go for sturgeon."
"I am planning on catching an eight foot striped bass and riding him like a dolphin around the delta, waving at you poor saps on the shore."
In reality, I'd be at a loss what to do if I ever reeled a thirty pound striper in. I am confident this will never happen, though.
As I said, I assembled a truly astonishing array of lures for this trip. I had shads. I had Rebel Runners. I had Spinners With Vibrax Action, Rapalas, Hula Poppers, ridiculously large spoon lures, even a tiny rubber diplodocus I picked up in case anything Paleozoic was lurking in the deeps. I should mention that I stopped short of buying a bait that advertised "sex scent". Frankly, I don't want to encourage that sort of thing and wouldn't want to not catch the kind of fish that would respond to such perversion.
We made it out to the delta pretty early in the morning. Early for me, anyway: around seven o'clock. (Of course no matter what time you start fishing, it will be marginally "too late". After the first forty-five minutes or so with no-one so much as tugging your Spinner with Vibrax Action, you will probably get the idea that you should have been there at 5 am. Realistically, if you had gotten there at 5am, you'd just be colder and grumpier, but it is nice to comfort yourself with this sort of self-loathing.)
To summarize the results of the trip, I managed to not catch some really frighteningly large fish. Not that they were ever on my line, you understand. My fishing tactics included casting out a fair distance, and then reeling in my lure with the nagging feeling that I should probably switch to something else. Something more expensive. Then, about ten yards from shore, the lure would get caught on some hazard beneath the surface. Rocks, weeds, logs, dumped bodies. I don't know what. Then I would spend the next five minutes tugging pathetically at the line, trying to free it.
I managed to lose about five lures that day.
The most spectacular lure loss of the day came as we were getting ready to leave. I had decided that what I really needed to do was make a leap of faith. So I reached into my tackle box and pulled out a lure I'd had sitting in there for a good ten years: The Krokodile. The Krokodile is a ridiculously large lure that is advertised as good for stripers. I don't know why I bought the lure in the first place, but it's been with me so long, it's like an old friend. I'd be fishing at some lake, not catching some small trout or blue gill, and I'd see the Krokodile there in the box, and be reminded that one day I'd go for the big game.
I joked to my friend Bindlestick Billy as I tied the lure on my line that I'd probably cast it out and instantly get it snagged.
So, I don't have my Krokodile anymore.
Oh well, maybe I should have used the Sex Scent.
epilogue: The day was not a complete loss, as we stopped at Foster's Big Horn on the way home. Foster's Big Horn has a huge collection of slowly decaying game heads on the walls. The sight of a mounted Dik-Dik really makes you hungry for a patty melt was apparently the owner's business philosophy. So, we may not have caught fish, but we sure ate lunch in a place that had dead animals all over the walls. That's showing those stripers.
Friday, December 03, 2004
Mess Update
Yes, I deleted the links. But they will be back again one day, kind of like Frosty the Snowman. What the hell was the idea there? Look, kids, snowmen melt. It's unrealistic to expect them to stick around forever, and no way can they procreate. I know that's harsh, but I'm all about the tough love.
Anyway, the links will one day return, so don't despair.
Also, I got a kind of bad haircut today, which was made worse by an old guy sitting next to me while we were waiting, who was watching a Viking movie with Lloyd Bridges and Anthony Quinn on the teevee. Now, normally, I am all in favor of weirdness, especially technicolor weirdness that features flabby actors covered in fake tan, but this guy had THE VOLUME TURNED WAY UP! Way, way up. And the guy gave me this look when I walked in that said either "You got a problem with my incredibly loud Viking movie?!" or "You cannot possibly appreciate the subtleties of this film and I will not deign to educate you." Either way, not good, old guy.
Also also, I stopped by the Golden Gate National Cemetery to take some pictures today and had an internal fight with myself about whether I was trying to Make a Statement by taking pictures of a military cemetery. I am not sure who won.
Yes, I deleted the links. But they will be back again one day, kind of like Frosty the Snowman. What the hell was the idea there? Look, kids, snowmen melt. It's unrealistic to expect them to stick around forever, and no way can they procreate. I know that's harsh, but I'm all about the tough love.
Anyway, the links will one day return, so don't despair.
Also, I got a kind of bad haircut today, which was made worse by an old guy sitting next to me while we were waiting, who was watching a Viking movie with Lloyd Bridges and Anthony Quinn on the teevee. Now, normally, I am all in favor of weirdness, especially technicolor weirdness that features flabby actors covered in fake tan, but this guy had THE VOLUME TURNED WAY UP! Way, way up. And the guy gave me this look when I walked in that said either "You got a problem with my incredibly loud Viking movie?!" or "You cannot possibly appreciate the subtleties of this film and I will not deign to educate you." Either way, not good, old guy.
Also also, I stopped by the Golden Gate National Cemetery to take some pictures today and had an internal fight with myself about whether I was trying to Make a Statement by taking pictures of a military cemetery. I am not sure who won.
God Bless This Mess
As you can see, the sixth seal has been broken. The lion is laying down with the lamb, the guinea pig is consorting with the hermit crab unabashedly, and I have changed the layout of this site. My efforts so far involve randomly deleting things and seeing what happens, so you'll just have to bear with me. This may lead to an extremely minimalist look. So minimalist, in fact, that this site may just disappear. Wink out like Roy Batty turning four.
If so, tell my wife I love her very much.
As you can see, the sixth seal has been broken. The lion is laying down with the lamb, the guinea pig is consorting with the hermit crab unabashedly, and I have changed the layout of this site. My efforts so far involve randomly deleting things and seeing what happens, so you'll just have to bear with me. This may lead to an extremely minimalist look. So minimalist, in fact, that this site may just disappear. Wink out like Roy Batty turning four.
If so, tell my wife I love her very much.
Tuesday, November 30, 2004
What Part Is This Again?
This is the part where I get all contrite about the not-posting-to-the-blog for days and days. Please. I am on my knees here. I beg and beseech. Sometimes at the same time. Let's not pretend this isn't going to happen again. Because we know that it will. Weeks will go by with no sign of me, and then suddenly, here I am again, back in your life and expecting a nutritious, though not too filling, breakfast.
Well, the hell with me.
This time, you should break it off. Tell me that you can't handle this sort of neglect anymore. You should get on your 1982 Puch moped and putt your butt right on out of here. You will have to ask me for a push though.
And that's all it will take.
I will gaze into your eyes and promise you I will never again leave you gazing at the back door as I travel the country, following my dream of eating pie in all of the contiguous states. And Guam. And you will take me back, like you always do, thinking that this time, just maybe, it'll be different.
It's all lies, baby. Lies.
This is the part where I get all contrite about the not-posting-to-the-blog for days and days. Please. I am on my knees here. I beg and beseech. Sometimes at the same time. Let's not pretend this isn't going to happen again. Because we know that it will. Weeks will go by with no sign of me, and then suddenly, here I am again, back in your life and expecting a nutritious, though not too filling, breakfast.
Well, the hell with me.
This time, you should break it off. Tell me that you can't handle this sort of neglect anymore. You should get on your 1982 Puch moped and putt your butt right on out of here. You will have to ask me for a push though.
And that's all it will take.
I will gaze into your eyes and promise you I will never again leave you gazing at the back door as I travel the country, following my dream of eating pie in all of the contiguous states. And Guam. And you will take me back, like you always do, thinking that this time, just maybe, it'll be different.
It's all lies, baby. Lies.
Tuesday, November 23, 2004
Eary
Something deeply troubling happened yesterday. I noticed that I am developing long and luxurious -- I would even say Fu Manchu-esque -- ear hair.
For those of you who haven't already clicked away, let me just say that this isn't the "growing out of the earhole" sort of ear hair. That, while disgusting and disconcerting in a very real way, is to be expected. This is the "growing off the sides of my ears" ear hair.
I don't know what this means, but the really deeply frightening thought I had yesterday, as I stared at this new development in the mirror, with roughly the same expression as the guy had when he had just torn his face off in Poltergeist, was that I will never have less ear hair than at this precise moment in time.
I wonder if Hallmark makes a card for that?
To my darling husband
On our anniversary
The leaves have blown across our lives
We have weathered many storms
And your ear hair is creeping me out.
or
Happy birthday
Please keep your
demented ear hair
contained within a hat
Or perhaps muffs.
Something deeply troubling happened yesterday. I noticed that I am developing long and luxurious -- I would even say Fu Manchu-esque -- ear hair.
For those of you who haven't already clicked away, let me just say that this isn't the "growing out of the earhole" sort of ear hair. That, while disgusting and disconcerting in a very real way, is to be expected. This is the "growing off the sides of my ears" ear hair.
I don't know what this means, but the really deeply frightening thought I had yesterday, as I stared at this new development in the mirror, with roughly the same expression as the guy had when he had just torn his face off in Poltergeist, was that I will never have less ear hair than at this precise moment in time.
I wonder if Hallmark makes a card for that?
To my darling husband
On our anniversary
The leaves have blown across our lives
We have weathered many storms
And your ear hair is creeping me out.
or
Happy birthday
Please keep your
demented ear hair
contained within a hat
Or perhaps muffs.
Thursday, November 18, 2004
Here, Have Some Links
I don't do this very often, because frankly there are a million other places where you can get your RDA of Wacky Linkage. But a voice told me out of nowhere that I needed to put some links on my site. I looked at the cat and asked pointedly "Was that you just then? About the links?"
He ignored me.
AFI's 100 Years, 100 Movie Quotes - Read their list of 400 nominees! Argue with your friends that Buckaroo Bonzai should be included! Take a nice warm bath and reconsider! Use exclamation points where none are really needed!
Hermits around the Web - I was reading this page for no good reason. Hermits seem charming when you read about them on the net. They might be a little smelly in real life, though.
Alien v. Predator v. Mario - Face sucking.
Perry Bible Fellowship Archive - Consistently amusing web comic. Read that and Achewood, and you are probably done with all the sometimes funny stuff for a while.
I don't do this very often, because frankly there are a million other places where you can get your RDA of Wacky Linkage. But a voice told me out of nowhere that I needed to put some links on my site. I looked at the cat and asked pointedly "Was that you just then? About the links?"
He ignored me.
AFI's 100 Years, 100 Movie Quotes - Read their list of 400 nominees! Argue with your friends that Buckaroo Bonzai should be included! Take a nice warm bath and reconsider! Use exclamation points where none are really needed!
Hermits around the Web - I was reading this page for no good reason. Hermits seem charming when you read about them on the net. They might be a little smelly in real life, though.
Alien v. Predator v. Mario - Face sucking.
Perry Bible Fellowship Archive - Consistently amusing web comic. Read that and Achewood, and you are probably done with all the sometimes funny stuff for a while.
Friday, November 12, 2004
Blatant Self-Interest
Today is the day. The day when Neil Young was born, and Booker T of Booker T and the MGs fame. And me, too. I am thirty-three today. As far as our contributions to society and art in general go, I would probably come in third on that particular list. But no matter!
Today I will venture, as I did in my youth, to the Hundred Acre Wood, where the happy animals will caper and cavort, and bring me vodka-tonics. The birds will sing merrily. Perhaps they will break into Green Onions or The Needle and The Damage Done, just to keep continuity. Piglet will perform a duet with Eddie Vedder, but will grow disenchanted with his monotony, and attack him mid-song. Eddie will lie bleeding on the loamy earth as the animated toys dance around his cooling body.
Sorry. Getting a little weird there.
Thirty-three is nice in a numerological sense. It's nice to be divisible by eleven, I have to say.
Also, Jesus was allegedly crucified when he was thirty-three, so I'd better 1. get busy, and 2.be on my guard for Romans.
Today is the day. The day when Neil Young was born, and Booker T of Booker T and the MGs fame. And me, too. I am thirty-three today. As far as our contributions to society and art in general go, I would probably come in third on that particular list. But no matter!
Today I will venture, as I did in my youth, to the Hundred Acre Wood, where the happy animals will caper and cavort, and bring me vodka-tonics. The birds will sing merrily. Perhaps they will break into Green Onions or The Needle and The Damage Done, just to keep continuity. Piglet will perform a duet with Eddie Vedder, but will grow disenchanted with his monotony, and attack him mid-song. Eddie will lie bleeding on the loamy earth as the animated toys dance around his cooling body.
Sorry. Getting a little weird there.
Thirty-three is nice in a numerological sense. It's nice to be divisible by eleven, I have to say.
Also, Jesus was allegedly crucified when he was thirty-three, so I'd better 1. get busy, and 2.be on my guard for Romans.
Thursday, November 11, 2004
Brain Hurt
Please go and have a look at this very pleasing and brain-painful Dragon Illusion. Best viewed on the video, so make with the downloading. Also, print out your own!
[thanks Johnny13]
Please go and have a look at this very pleasing and brain-painful Dragon Illusion. Best viewed on the video, so make with the downloading. Also, print out your own!
[thanks Johnny13]
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
I Am Running
Not for office. No. I am running from the Dog Police. You've got to help me.
I have the song Dog Police stuck in my head, and I only know the line "You've got me running from the Dog Police!"
I guess that's enough.
The only cure known to mankind.
Also, as an addendum to that last fancy post with all the pictures, the wifely friend wanted me to share that I did, in fact, fall off a ladder while working on our guest room. I was scraping the acoustic off the ceiling and standing on one of those little metal folding stepstools. I was leaning out over one of the bookcases to get the last bit of acoustic off the corner, when the things just collapsed under me.
But the strangest thing happened.
I was totally uninjured. I went down instantly, from perching on the stool to flat on my stomach, my chin lightly settling on the hardwood floor. I remember as I fell that I was sure the really heavy bookcase would topple over on me and maim me for life. But somehow, not even a bruise.
Also, the wifely friend was filled with sympathy, when she stopped laughing. And she was quick to point out that it only happened because I managed, in my expert fashion, to assemble the stepstool wrong.
There. I hope you're happy.
Not for office. No. I am running from the Dog Police. You've got to help me.
I have the song Dog Police stuck in my head, and I only know the line "You've got me running from the Dog Police!"
I guess that's enough.
The only cure known to mankind.
Also, as an addendum to that last fancy post with all the pictures, the wifely friend wanted me to share that I did, in fact, fall off a ladder while working on our guest room. I was scraping the acoustic off the ceiling and standing on one of those little metal folding stepstools. I was leaning out over one of the bookcases to get the last bit of acoustic off the corner, when the things just collapsed under me.
But the strangest thing happened.
I was totally uninjured. I went down instantly, from perching on the stool to flat on my stomach, my chin lightly settling on the hardwood floor. I remember as I fell that I was sure the really heavy bookcase would topple over on me and maim me for life. But somehow, not even a bruise.
Also, the wifely friend was filled with sympathy, when she stopped laughing. And she was quick to point out that it only happened because I managed, in my expert fashion, to assemble the stepstool wrong.
There. I hope you're happy.
Monday, November 08, 2004
Expert-ese
"I am an expert." It's the phrase I use to allay my wife's concerns that I am about to hurt myself really badly in an act of home improvement. I am not what is known in the common parlance as "handy". And yet I must soldier on, because in spite of the fact that I will probably knock myself unconscious at least once during my chosen task, I must not let my fellow experts down.
Exchanges like this are fairly commonplace:
*WHAM!*
Wifely friend: Are you OK in there?
Kafkaesque: I--I am fine.
WF: What was that WHAM! sound?
K: What do you mean? I heard nothing, and I am an expert so I should know.
WF: OK then. Don't make any holes in the wall or in your extremities.
K: Ha. Very funny. Being an expert, I am unconcerned with my own personal safet--
....
K:
WF: Husband?
K: Ahg.
WF: Husband?
K: I will be fine. Where is the tourniquet?
This sort of high-level experting is best exhibited when working with either really heavy things, like particle board furniture or really dangerous things, like your larger saws. My friend Chimichanga proved himself a lifetime expert a few years back when he cut his thumb almost entirely off in an inspired run-in with a table saw (and was heard to say later: "I had the situation under control. I am, after all, an expert.") *
I recently managed to put my expert skills to work, peeling multiple layers of wood paneling off the walls in our guest bedroom. One of the previous owners of our new house was obviously a paneling enthusiast. Such a paneling enthusiast, in fact, that he would not settle for just one layer of ugly, crappy paneling. No! He had two layers of paneling!
This is the same guy that put rock walls everywhere in our house. The rock hearth he made around the fireplace is great. I have to give him that. The rock wall he put up in the living room? OK. Not one of the features I was actively seeking when shopping for real estate, but OK.
But the rock wall in the bathroom? The line should have been drawn is what I'm saying. Sure, sometimes after one of those really big bran muffins and three cups of coffee on a lazy Sunday, I'm in the mood for a little rock climbing target practice in the lavatory, but not every day.
Anyway, back to the paneling.
I had to get this paneling off the walls. It was mocking me. Also, I couldn't unpack any of our 8,000 books (approximately 60% of which seem to be copies of Black Elk Speaks and Crime and Punishment -- I blame liberal arts degrees) until the walls were freed from their paneling bondage. So I began prying the paneling off the walls with a small scraping knife. Or putty knife. I am too much of an expert to bother knowing the accurate names of the myriad tools I have at my disposal, so vast is my arsenal. Let's call it a scraper.
I started prying the first panel off, which was not easy. To begin with, the installer of the paneling had used lots of nails. Lots and lots. There were so many nails in my wall that frankly I began to suspect the paneling guy had an eye to this eventual return to sanity when he installed it in the first place. BAM! BAM! BAM! Yep BAM! BAM! BAM! They may BAM! BAM! BAM! take off BAM! BAM! BAM! my paneling BAM! BAM! BAM! but not BAM! BAM! BAM! without BAM! a BAM! BAM! fight.
Incidentally, all that BAM! stuff was supposed to be the guy hammering.
I finally pried off the first panel. I accomplished this by prying a small section off the wall and then pulling the panel really, really hard, until it came off the wall with a pop. This resulted in me staggering around the room, which was now covered in dust and nails, with about a 4 foot by eight foot wood panel with nails sticking out of it. Opportunities for injury abounded, needless to say. But, oddly, and despite my expert status, I remained unharmed. Apart stepping on a few nails, but I figure that is par for the course.
When the first layer came off, I was of course very happy to see the second layer. The second layer was heavier, and yes, uglier, wood than the first.
But I persevered and kept tearing the paneling down, revealing big holes in the wall, and some creative wiring.
It turned out there was also some creative writing. Paneling man had written his esoteric and enigmatic calculations on the wall before he began installation.
I was starting to hate the installer of the paneling. But I needed a name. A target for my wrath. Who had knocked holes in my wall? As I pulled off the last panel, I found my answer.
So. Steve. I don't know what to say to you, Steve, except that you were sick. A sick, putting-up-two-layers-of-paneling, writing-on-the-wall, day-glo-sticker-sticking freak. But I salute you, Steve, because I know, deep down, you were an expert too.
To wrap up this overly long tale, I finally finished the room. This included not just fun with paneling, but acoustic ceiling scraping and ceiling fan removal. My injuries, surprisingly, were only slight. And now, I can look at my guest bedroom, feast my eyes on my inadequate spackling job, and know that I will forever be an expert.
* This is not to say that particle board furniture is not inherently dangerous in and of itself. Especially when one considers those pointy little allen wrenches supplied with your IKEA furniture by crafty IKEA Swedes who secretly want to kill America with the slow poison of modular storage and funny looking lamps.
"I am an expert." It's the phrase I use to allay my wife's concerns that I am about to hurt myself really badly in an act of home improvement. I am not what is known in the common parlance as "handy". And yet I must soldier on, because in spite of the fact that I will probably knock myself unconscious at least once during my chosen task, I must not let my fellow experts down.
Exchanges like this are fairly commonplace:
*WHAM!*
Wifely friend: Are you OK in there?
Kafkaesque: I--I am fine.
WF: What was that WHAM! sound?
K: What do you mean? I heard nothing, and I am an expert so I should know.
WF: OK then. Don't make any holes in the wall or in your extremities.
K: Ha. Very funny. Being an expert, I am unconcerned with my own personal safet--
....
K:
WF: Husband?
K: Ahg.
WF: Husband?
K: I will be fine. Where is the tourniquet?
This sort of high-level experting is best exhibited when working with either really heavy things, like particle board furniture or really dangerous things, like your larger saws. My friend Chimichanga proved himself a lifetime expert a few years back when he cut his thumb almost entirely off in an inspired run-in with a table saw (and was heard to say later: "I had the situation under control. I am, after all, an expert.") *
I recently managed to put my expert skills to work, peeling multiple layers of wood paneling off the walls in our guest bedroom. One of the previous owners of our new house was obviously a paneling enthusiast. Such a paneling enthusiast, in fact, that he would not settle for just one layer of ugly, crappy paneling. No! He had two layers of paneling!
This is the same guy that put rock walls everywhere in our house. The rock hearth he made around the fireplace is great. I have to give him that. The rock wall he put up in the living room? OK. Not one of the features I was actively seeking when shopping for real estate, but OK.
But the rock wall in the bathroom? The line should have been drawn is what I'm saying. Sure, sometimes after one of those really big bran muffins and three cups of coffee on a lazy Sunday, I'm in the mood for a little rock climbing target practice in the lavatory, but not every day.
Anyway, back to the paneling.
I had to get this paneling off the walls. It was mocking me. Also, I couldn't unpack any of our 8,000 books (approximately 60% of which seem to be copies of Black Elk Speaks and Crime and Punishment -- I blame liberal arts degrees) until the walls were freed from their paneling bondage. So I began prying the paneling off the walls with a small scraping knife. Or putty knife. I am too much of an expert to bother knowing the accurate names of the myriad tools I have at my disposal, so vast is my arsenal. Let's call it a scraper.
I started prying the first panel off, which was not easy. To begin with, the installer of the paneling had used lots of nails. Lots and lots. There were so many nails in my wall that frankly I began to suspect the paneling guy had an eye to this eventual return to sanity when he installed it in the first place. BAM! BAM! BAM! Yep BAM! BAM! BAM! They may BAM! BAM! BAM! take off BAM! BAM! BAM! my paneling BAM! BAM! BAM! but not BAM! BAM! BAM! without BAM! a BAM! BAM! fight.
Incidentally, all that BAM! stuff was supposed to be the guy hammering.
I finally pried off the first panel. I accomplished this by prying a small section off the wall and then pulling the panel really, really hard, until it came off the wall with a pop. This resulted in me staggering around the room, which was now covered in dust and nails, with about a 4 foot by eight foot wood panel with nails sticking out of it. Opportunities for injury abounded, needless to say. But, oddly, and despite my expert status, I remained unharmed. Apart stepping on a few nails, but I figure that is par for the course.
When the first layer came off, I was of course very happy to see the second layer. The second layer was heavier, and yes, uglier, wood than the first.
But I persevered and kept tearing the paneling down, revealing big holes in the wall, and some creative wiring.
It turned out there was also some creative writing. Paneling man had written his esoteric and enigmatic calculations on the wall before he began installation.
I was starting to hate the installer of the paneling. But I needed a name. A target for my wrath. Who had knocked holes in my wall? As I pulled off the last panel, I found my answer.
So. Steve. I don't know what to say to you, Steve, except that you were sick. A sick, putting-up-two-layers-of-paneling, writing-on-the-wall, day-glo-sticker-sticking freak. But I salute you, Steve, because I know, deep down, you were an expert too.
To wrap up this overly long tale, I finally finished the room. This included not just fun with paneling, but acoustic ceiling scraping and ceiling fan removal. My injuries, surprisingly, were only slight. And now, I can look at my guest bedroom, feast my eyes on my inadequate spackling job, and know that I will forever be an expert.
* This is not to say that particle board furniture is not inherently dangerous in and of itself. Especially when one considers those pointy little allen wrenches supplied with your IKEA furniture by crafty IKEA Swedes who secretly want to kill America with the slow poison of modular storage and funny looking lamps.
Wednesday, November 03, 2004
Despair
So, it seems to be over, and Bush will continue as our nation's puppet for four more years. Though, with the electronic voting machines now so widespread, who really knows if he won? It occurred to me as we watched Dan Rather call the election "Closer than two hickory sticks stuck together with ground-up earthworms", or something to that effect, that the republicans might just have learned to cheat better.
Also, Bush won because MORAL VALUES were so important to voters? It's nice to know that moral values are defined by fear and hatred. That moral values include the invasion of a woman's womb, and the hateful oppression of gay people in this country.
I can't help but think the wool is still being pulled over our eyes. How is it possible that middle America is voting for the administration that is killing their children for no reason? Can we as a nation tolerate the evil done in our name over this whole planet? I hope everyone who voted for Bush feels some sense of responsibility the next time he or she sees a flag draped coffin (if they let the pictures out, that is), or a journalist being beheaded or a gay person beaten or killed in the name of hatred, ignorance and fear.
Time for a dandelion break.
So, it seems to be over, and Bush will continue as our nation's puppet for four more years. Though, with the electronic voting machines now so widespread, who really knows if he won? It occurred to me as we watched Dan Rather call the election "Closer than two hickory sticks stuck together with ground-up earthworms", or something to that effect, that the republicans might just have learned to cheat better.
Also, Bush won because MORAL VALUES were so important to voters? It's nice to know that moral values are defined by fear and hatred. That moral values include the invasion of a woman's womb, and the hateful oppression of gay people in this country.
I can't help but think the wool is still being pulled over our eyes. How is it possible that middle America is voting for the administration that is killing their children for no reason? Can we as a nation tolerate the evil done in our name over this whole planet? I hope everyone who voted for Bush feels some sense of responsibility the next time he or she sees a flag draped coffin (if they let the pictures out, that is), or a journalist being beheaded or a gay person beaten or killed in the name of hatred, ignorance and fear.
Time for a dandelion break.
Monday, November 01, 2004
Vote, Ye Mighty
Hi again. It seems that there is going to be an election tomorrow. We will come together as a nation (those of us that can be bothered, I guess), and appoint a new Grand High Poobah. I hope against hope that Bush loses. Anyway, like everyone else, I'm advising you to vote.
Michael Moore's Election Eve Note Sure, he can be kind of an annoying turd, but sometimes he hits the right note.
Hi again. It seems that there is going to be an election tomorrow. We will come together as a nation (those of us that can be bothered, I guess), and appoint a new Grand High Poobah. I hope against hope that Bush loses. Anyway, like everyone else, I'm advising you to vote.
Michael Moore's Election Eve Note Sure, he can be kind of an annoying turd, but sometimes he hits the right note.
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