Wednesday, August 30, 2006

My strategy for weed eradication

I have weeds. But I am brain people, not brawn people. And the bright sun tinges me scarlet. So, being of a certain intelligence, I have taken the only recourse legitimatly open to me. I have applied for a grant.

Specifically a MacArthur Fellowship, the "genius grant". Below is my application. Weeds, beware. You've got the power of some serious grant money coming down hard on your weedy asses.

In order to expedite the application process, it is important that following information is provided in your grant application.

Information regarding who will carry out the work

Someone, anyone, just not me. Note that a wide-brimmed hat will be provided to whomever you guys hook me up with.

Name of your organization (and acronym if commonly used)

757 Peralta Avenue. The green house on the corner with the weeds on the parking strips.

Name of parent organization, if any


Name of chief executive officer or person holding similar position

Me, Greg, though my wife Paula is sort of the eminence gris. Do yourself a favor by doing me a favor: send Paula a t-shirt or a hat or something.

Organization’s address (and courier address if different)

My god. For a organization for geniuses, you seem sort of thick. See above.

Organization’s phone number, fax number, and e-mail address, if any

Gregmills (is at) pacbell (smallish black point) net

Name and title of the principal contact person, if different from the above

Greg Mills. I am me.

Address (and courier address if different), phone number, and fax number of principal contact

Again, see above. (wtf?)

E-mail address of principal contact

I’m ignoring you now.

Web address, if any.

Name or topic of the proposed project or work to be done

My yard. (Weeding)

A brief statement (two or three sentences) of the purpose and nature of the proposed work

To remove weeds from my yard, so my neighbors might hate me less. In this sentence, my second, I would like to emphasize that we have a lot of fucking weeds, including these weird creeping Indiana Jones vines that give me the heebie jeebies.

The significance of the issue addressed by the project and how it relates to a stated MacArthur program strategy

I’m interested in the MacArthur Fellows Program, the one where you guys give money to geniuses to do whatever for five-years. In your program précis, you guys said something about exceptional merit and promise of continued creative work. In the creative vein, am willing to explore topiary or interesting creeping plants, though I’m not wild about trellises. Let’s have a dialogue about this, as I really want you guys to be comfortable about paying for my landscaping.

As for the merit of the work, I think having a nice yard that one can enjoy, a yard that minimizes the antagonism of the neighbors, is entirely merit worthy.

As far as the genius thing, I have read a sizable percentage of the Conan books, and I’m often asked to spell difficult words for coworkers. Good at Pictionary and Trivial Pursuit.

How the work will address the issue

Well, the work will address the issue by pulling a shitload of weeds. I see getting like three guys, giving ‘em gloves and telling ‘em to start pulling some fucking weeds. Then I’ll pay ‘em. If during the course of the weeding a natural leader emerges from those three, I’ll pay that guy to come back every week or so to keep the weeds in check. Maybe rip out some ivy while he’s at it. Ivy is a bitch.

How the issue relates to your organization, and why your organization is qualified to undertake the project

My organization is qualified, like, a lot. You should see the cattails! Looks a goddamn wheat field. Where the organization fails is in the area of will, as picking weeds sucks ass, and I’d rather read a book. That’s where you bastards come in.

Geographic area or country where the work will take place

Berkeley, California. Namely the parking strip facing Vicente avenue. The Beattius’ have had the patience of Job with us, and if it’s okay, I’d like to include a small gift for them, like a really nice bottle of wine. Something classy. You guys pick it. If it were up to me, I’d get them some kind of flavored vodka. Not so classy, you know?

Time period for which funding is requested

I’m guessing, I dunno, five years. Weeds are tenacious buggers. Unless we manage to unload the house on some other creeps. Then it’s not my problem.

Information about those who will be helped by and interested in the work and how you will communicate with them

The guys who’ll be picking the weeds will get a good hourly wage, (willing to go up to $15 an hour, depending on how forthcoming you are with the ducets) precisely so they’ll be interested in the work. Picking weeds sucks. I will be communicating with them through the dining room window, possibly via an electric megaphone.
The neighbors will hopefully get less angry overtime, though the weeds really are just the beginning. The engine block sitting in the driveway is also controversial, though out of the scope of this proposal.

Amount of funding requested from MacArthur and total cost (estimates are acceptable)

$2,000,000 and some rakes and gloves and hats and shit like that.


Sunday, August 27, 2006

I don't know the answer.

Three guys are sharing a hotel room that cost $30 a night.

After they check in, the manager of the hotel decides $30 is too much and lowers the roomrate to $25.

The bell hop is given the task of bring the men the $5 difference. However, being an enterprising man of little scruples, (and he can't figure out a way of breaking a fiver three ways) he keeps $2 and gives $1 to each of the men in room.

So the now the room cost each man $9. 9x3=27, plus the $2 the bellhop kept = $29. What happened to the extra dollar?

And no, I'm not high.

Going to LA tomorrow, will ask the concierge. Will also be stocking up on Immodium. Takes some of the annoyance about LA.


Thursday, August 24, 2006


Elizabeth II, Dei Gratia Britanniarum Regnorumque Suorum Ceterorum Regina, Consortionis Populorum Princeps, Fidei Defensor makes me think of hard candies, hotel soap, and "Murder She Wrote".

Elizabeth Regina, thinking about corgis.

Helen Mirren, uproariously upholstered actress of generous cut, makes me think about helping ladies remove their brasseries.

Ms. Mirren and her talented buppies.

Ms. Mirren, now of a certain age, is to appear in a feature film as Queen Elizabeth. I believe the film is called The Queen.

I'm at a loss. The woman who filled out the gossamar robes of Morgan Le Fey with such aplomb in Excalibur will now be carrying a handbag and clucking over prize roses.

Time sucks.

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My wife, the Latina.

My wife, the Latina. She’s half Italian, a quarter Maltese, a quarter Mexican and 100% Pachuca.

She tells people she’s Latina. Which I guess ¼ of her is.

She even has a t-shirt that reads “Latina”. Not "¼ Latina", or "My Dad is 1/2 Mexican and All I Got Was This T-Shirt". Nope, it just says Latina.

Thanks to Sesame Street and reading beer labels, I, Popi (1/2 Russian, ¼ Norwegian, ¼ Czech) speak a little bit more Spanish than she does. Our five year old daughter, who is 1/8th Latina, is the best Spanish speaker in the house.

So what’s it like, you ask, the Latina lifestyle? One I am so familiar with, living as I do with woman who is ¼ of the way to Charo?

Well, here’s what I’ve learned about la vida Latina, based on the one I live with.

*Latinas don’t like salsa or onions on their burritos.

* Latinas don't speak Spanish. Latinas speak Italian.

*Latinas are capable of listening to Matthew Sweet’s “Girlfriend” over and over and over.

*Latinas have a thing for inexpensive vases, many that look exactly the same. ¿Is is a whisper from across the ages, a imprinted memory of the no-nonsense utility of dwellers of the pueblo?

*At 37, she has expressed interest in having a quinceañera. Who am I to say no? That would be like putting a bridle on a unicorn, or insisting a chimp wear diapers!

*Is it her hot and spicy Latina blood that makes her make scrambled eggs for dinner? Is it the secret to making those gif animation really pop?

*My Latina raise the spectre of the entire family -- husband
(or el marido)included -- going to live with their parents WAY TOO MAS for this Popi’s comfort. This marido would rather eat a bum’s toenails than live in Danville, not because of the Latina population there, but because of the douchebag population there.

* If my Latina is any indicator of a broader Latina trend
(or Tendencia de Latina), Latinas often wake their maridos from sleep to go write notes for them. Usually something cryptic, like “pancakes” or “call”. Curiously, los maridos are never asked to write “marzipan skulls” which seems more in line with the Latina Culture. Or La Cultura De Latina.

*Latinas are an inherently carefree, devil-may-care bunch. Tomorrow may never come, so why bother filling the goddamn gas tank, even though El Marido has to catch un aeroplano to Los Angeles (or, Los Angeles) in the morning.

So these are the lessons I have learned from my Latina bride. But can one ever truly understand the Latina soul, el alma de Latina? Can one ever know the wind?

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Wednesday, August 23, 2006

She hates the new guy that sits next to her.

A lady has a new guy sitting next to her in her office. She hates him. This is her blog.

I like it because I sit next to people and I hate myself.

(Hat tip: Whitebelts)


Tuesday, August 22, 2006

Mea Culpa.

I used the phrase "YouTube zeitgeist" in a meeting recently.

I understand if you want to hate me.


Monday, August 21, 2006

Back to work. Productivity as as high, if not higher, as before the break.

Friday, August 18, 2006

Been quiet. I know.

I've been home with the moppets all week. Towering paternal triumphs, sub-terreanean moments related to loose diapers and highly efficient young GI tracts. The usual.

One of the highlights was introducing the kids to the film Yellow Submarine, which the y were mesmerized by and a walk around a little lake near our house where we saw many little turtles sunning themselves and a huge Great Blue Heron looking for frogs along the bank. Beats the office, to be sure.

I'm also reading a series of dull books for my moonlighting job. Maybe not dull, but not a hell of a lot of laughs. The kind of books where you occaisionally find yourself reading the jacket copy or the index to inspire you to continue. Or to look at the author photo and ask: "Dude, WHAT THE FUCK."

Anyway, I have a question. I've noticed I've a regular visitor from Australia. I'd love it if that person give a shout out in the comments. Or not. Glad you're visiting, whoever you are.

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Wednesday, August 09, 2006

Work output.

This is a lot like what my life is like, although I don't like to talk about it.

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

Blogging for cab fare.

Well, my winky little blog moonlighting program is slowly unfolding. Here are some "practice" reviews I did for the soon-to-be revealed mystery magazine. These won't be appearing online, but don't you worry, I already have my next assignments. Bwa-ha.

Here are my reviews (be gentle):

Ren & Stimpy: The Lost Episodes
Paramount Home Video
Not Rated
169 minutes


Skeevy is a powerful word. It could describe a date in
a rest-stop men’s toilet, or a used mattress, or
Newark. Heretofore, skeevy hasn’t been used to
describe the entire run of an animated TV series, even
one that appeared on Spike TV. The 2 DVD set “Ren &
Stimpy: The Lost Episodes” rectifies this by
collecting nearly the entire run of Spike TV’s “Ren &
Stimpy: Adult Party Cartoon”. Very adult. Very skeevy.
If your only experience with Ren & Stimpy is the
relatively tame, if booger-centric, Nickelodeon show
of the early ’90, you’re in for a shock or a pleasant
surprise with this collection, depending on your
tolerance for sodomy jokes. With anal auto-eroticism,
abortion jokes, boobies and a cameo of animation
pioneer Ralph Bakshi wrestling with epic constipation,
this is not for the kiddies. Still, lots of laffs for
the brave hearted. Proceed with caution.


Christ Illusion
American Recordings

*** 1/2

"Religion is rape. Religion is obscene. Religion's
a whore!" So says Slayer on the track "Cult"
from their new album "Christ Illusion". Of course,
Mr. Ainsworth told us pretty much the same thing one
Spring morning on the way to a Peewee Soccer game. But
Mr. Ainsworth was driving a station wagon, he smoked
Mores, and had a scalp-showing-flat-top. His delivery
lacked frisson. Slayer, god bless 'em, has built a
career on god-hating frisson. Of course, at this point
the guys could be Mr. Ainsworth, all beefy men in
their mid-forties. But they haven't reached their
"Hello, Cleveland" moment yet. Monster cuts like
"Supremist" and "Jihad" deliver old school
mayhem like a kick to the yarbles -- thanks in no
small part to the return of the double-bass fury of
original drummer Dave Lombardo. So, up with Satan! We
have a solid, if predictable, Slayer product.

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Gay blog horseshit

Ripped off from Stephanie.

Don't like it? Then take the gas pipe.

Rapper Name?
Big Head Wally Tha Hydrocephalic Kid

Alternative Rock Band Name?
Leather Meteor. Instrumental metal. Heavy as fuck.

Name your pain?
Existence. As in, "It only hurts when I exist."

1 True Word That Symbolizes God?

1 True Love or 1 Million Dollars?
The latter would lead to the former. Okay, I'm cynical.

Live Free or Die Stupid?
live free

Purist, happiest moment ever? (8 words or less)
New born screeches #1, #2. No poop yet.

Most Influential Life Lesson?
Being a weirdo really is the best way to go, for a lot of practical reasons.

Most Successful Person You Least Admire?
George Bush

Where we go when we die? (1 word)

Worst TV Show of the Past Decade?

Best TV Show of the Past Decade?
The Wire

Burning Building - baby or dog?
baby, albeit on a case by case basis

Still with me, yes or no?
I am on top of you.

Who runs the world? (2 words or less)
dainty nuns

Worst Idea You Ever Had?
That pretty lights and hugs would make all the jaw grinding worth it.

Shittiest Job You Ever Had?
Vacuuming a department store @ 4 am. My boss was mentally handicapped.

Best Job You've Ever Had?
Lazy bookstore clerk

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Monday, August 07, 2006

The Strangest Night of My Life.

I’ve had strange nights. We all have. The nights you’re forced to converse with someone on coke who threatens to shoot you with a pellet gun if you take the LP of Jim Morrison reciting poetry off the turntable, or getting into a conversation at a diner with a drag queen with bleary raccoon mascara, eating pancakes at 3:30 in the morning.

These things will happen if you’re a reasonably adventurous person willing to go with the flow.

The strangest night of my life, however, happened recently, long after I have dropped from the flow into the back bay where the fish all go to bed at 10 pm without fail.

Like all things, some back story is needed. Here in San Francisco we had an amusement park called “Playland-at-the-Beach”. Playland at the Beach was an amusement park that opened in 1927 and closed in 1972. The park was modeled after New York City's Coney Island, which contained roller coasters, ferris wheels, merry go-rounds, fun house and a carnival midway. I was all of three when it shut down, but my older brother has memories of it, particularly of the evil Laffing Sal, a mechanical clown with a satanic laugh that greeted you as you entered the park. (I’ve seen a Laffing Sal in action at a museum, and yes indeed, she is evil. See image below and prepare for fever dreams.)

The whole caboodle shut down in ’72 as it attracted junkies and the like. Bay Area baby boomers get misty eyed about the whole thing, but like I said, I missed the whole thing. I’m sure the smell of sawdust and vomit and the sight of rats scampering over a passed-out merchant marine under the boardwalk must have been charming.

Anyway, ffwd to a few weeks ago. My boomer brother calls me on a Wednesday night “What are you doing this Saturday? Want to go to a film festival? It’s at a guy’s house.”

First phrase that pops into my head: Snuff film. Second: Donkey show.

“What sort of ‘film festival’”

My brother explains: in an auction to raise money for a museum celebrating Playland at the Beach, a coworker won a private film festival at the house of the museum director, a man who is some sort of film instructor who owns 10,000+ films.

The topic is the Hayes Code, and censorship in film. My brother says “We’re going to watch parts of Song of the South.”

That’s a film Disney will not distribute in the United States. So, what the hell?
Too weird. Have to go.

Saturday arrives, my brother, his girlfriend, me and few other guests have dinner at the guy-who-won-the-film-festival’s house. There we learn that the host of the evening’s entertainment has actually named his house “It‘s a Magic Place”. A house with a name does not bode well.

We arrive at a middling bungalow, not one you’d suspect that a MAD MAN makes his home in, and we’re greeted by a portly fellow with respiratory problems. Seems nice.

We enter, and the living room presents no indication of the horrors contained below, other than a miniature alpine village spread out across the entire mantel, replete with cotton batting for not very convincing show. Film professors, one would think, would have Cahiers du Cinema lying around, but it was somehow more…dowdy.

Our host notice our collective looks of horror and registered them as interest. “This village of ours has been featured in various hobby magazines.”

Hobby magazines. Huh.

The reference to us was to himself, his roommate/assistant/life’s chum – a goateed, quiet man in tight jeans, tight t-shirt, and a third “very shy” roommate. Apparently the three work on the house together. I hope it’s voluntary.

He went to explain they had 3,000 visitors a year. I would soon learn that if I had asked “And how many have successfully left” it would have been entirely pertinent.

“Come on down to the home theater!” We follow him down a dark, dingy hallway to a staircase filled… with wizards.

“Magic is sort of our theme here.”

Down we go, above us are velvet lined shadow boxes underlit and filled with the cheesiest dungeons and dragons looking jive-ass wizard figurines in severe tableaux-du-fromage. Magic!

We are pooted out into the theater, four blueberry-colored satin love seats with a giant video projector mounted to the ceiling. The walls are SMOTHERED IN CHEESIE MOVIE SHIT.

In hushed tones: “On the right you’ll see our Disney memorabilia case.”

Hmmm…. Maybe a Technical Oscar picked up a Christies, or a screenplay, animation frames… Disney is not my thing, but hell… Oh, wait. It’s all shit you bought at the fucking Disney store. Lots of figurines. More figurines. Brand New Fucking Figurines. Uh, neat.

“I was in Disneyland last week and Disneyworld three weeks ago.”

I was surprised he’d admit to that.

The mysterious goateed man goes and mans the Carnival popcorn popper.

The host: “So if anyone needs to use the toilet, be sure to head into the “Rollercoaster”.

He points to the bathroom. I avail myself.

The light goes on… and the hellish audio track of someone screaming on a rollercoaster kicks in. The place is done up in circus shit and if one were to sit down, one would be treated to an animated diorama of a circus scene. Does one really need phastasmagoric entertainments when one does one’s business?

“I actually own a small circus.”

Yeah, I bet you do. Creep.

So, back to love seats. The show commences. We see scenes from
Freaks, a hellish blackface musical number from an Al Jolson films, the aforementioned Song of the South and the entirety of Baby Face, a pretty good early Barbara Stanwyck film. That gal had Moxie!

The guy kind of gave a lackluster sort of presentation. Hoo boy. When “Baby Face” ends, I am rarin’ to get the fuck out of there. But I was only at the first ring of hell.

“There’s a lot more to “It’s a Magic Place.””

Oh, no.

The screen rises along with the curtain behind it. And the nightmare got cranked up to 15.

For behind it was the HIDDEN MAGIC ROOM, filled with the sort of fakie crap that makes people hate magicians. Just. SHIT.

“We have over 2,000 magic tricks!” You fucking DICK.

He takes us further back, past A FALSE BOOKSHELF to the Dickens room. The Dickens room is essentially a walk-in closet where two wingback chairs face another FUCKING DIORAMA, this time of a small Victorian village. Neat! And if sitting in a closet looking at pre-fab nastolgia for something that never existed gets dull, you can make your way up to the OBSERVATION ALCOVE by way of a hidden staircase (of three steps) that provides you a view of the self-same Victorian village albeit from three feet higher than you were before. Not only are you creepy, you are also pointless.

Finally, after a brief tour of the “vault” where the DVD and LaserDisks are kept, we get a glimpse into the Majordomo’s room. He has not one, but TWO dioramas, one of a seaside hamlet (replete with fiber-optic fireworks and canned seagull cries) and another snowy scene behind a false window, now at night. Oh, and a throw pillow on his bed that bared the legend “Chocolate is like Men. The Richer, the Better.”

It was then that I decided I wanted to pull my eyes from my head and burn them.

The evening ended with a few more alarming facts: He owns a circus, he is going to install a rollercoaster (!) in his backyard, he really loves circus movies, he entertains disadvantaged youth (!!!), there is an entire lower level filled with more "memorabilia" his chum loves, LOVES Mizz Eartha Kitt. There may be more, but I’ve probably purged it.

As we walked out into the fog round about midnight, I started to say something to my brother.

He, through gritted teeth: “Shut. Up. Do. Not. Say. Anything. Until. We. Get. To. The. Car.”

Five minutes later, we were pulled over, shrieking with pent-up horror. My brother was unable to drive for about ten minutes. He was laughing too hard.

I wish I could say we had more generosity toward others' eccentricities, but I can't. That's not how we were raised.

And that was the strangest night of my life.


Friday, August 04, 2006

My Google Biography

From what I've managed to piece together from Google, I've led a rich and varied life. Here's the Official Google Biography of Mr. Greg Mills.

Greg joined Australia's Young Talent Time in 1971 and was a member until 1975. He auditioned to be part of the original team and was unsuccessful, but did appear as a contestant on the second episode. Following this, Greg then returned for the semi finals, where the producers approached his Mum and he made his way into the team.

Through hard work and dedication Greg became the Associate Musical Director for around five years and then became the Musical Director at just 23 years of age.

From there, Greg became a firefighter with the South Australian Metropolitan Fire Service, as well as a columnist for, a gay social network for dating, work and travel.

Between his duties of putting out fires in billabongs and reviewing assless leather chaps, Greg somehow managed to find the time to knock out The wired model: South Africa, foreign policy, and globalization.

Fresh off the treatise writing gig, Greg began looking for something different. He turned his attentions to a field that always interested him: electronic thermostat controls. He joined Control Contractors Anchorage team, starting as a warehouse assistant. Thanks to Greg’s unquenchable interest in learning more about Control Contractors’ full range of controls, Greg moved quickly into a Systems Technician position.

During the day, he gave himself wholly to Control Contractors, but at night, well, at night HE GAVE HIMSELF OVER TO THE THROBBING BEAT, getting his freak on as the bassist for the Possum Holler Band, as well keeping kids from getting their freak in his role as a Youth Pastor .

But still, he missed the Antipodes, and so he became COO for Cincom Australia and New Zealand, where he introduced new policies and procedures to more effectively support customers.

But soon Mills realized something was missing – the culturing influence of higher education. Sure, his background in entertainment, policy work, firefighting, pastoral leadership, business management and writing about homo stuff toughed his grain, but he knew education would give him the leavening to bring his maturation to full rise. So it was off to the Groves of Academe, and so in short order, he collect Bachelors degrees from the University of Sydney, Harvard, the University of Cape Town,John Brown University, Pomona College, Calvary Bible College, and Orange Coast Community College, then went on to collect higher degrees from the University of Lancaster, Santa Clara University and the Kennedy School of Government at Harvard University.

But even after all this, Greg still counted his Certificates in Surface Coatings, E-Commerce, and Inventory Management as his most profound achievements.

With this ferocious academic pedigree, it is no wonder that the League of Women Voters brought Greg on as consultant, investigating the efficacy of food stamp programs and techniques for monetizing video game downloads.

But, even all this, was Greg happy? Maybe not. Consider the evidence: one morning he called his wife Carmen and his two wonderful daughters, Angel (7) and Hannah (2) into his oak-lined library.

He spoke one word: “Hollyfuckingwood” and flipped his stunned family the bird.

Foregoing a screen name, Greg appeared as himself in the film Caravan Holiday.
But acting wasn’t big enough hold the gargantuan appetites of someone like Greg. He saw things on the otherside of the camera that had to be improved if film was to last as a medium. He started a one-man renaissance as a
Foley artist, most notably for his masterful work in Joey Travolta’s Waitin’ to Live.

All was going well for Greg. He’d thought he’d left all that Sturm-und-Drang behind him. He shared a condo in Malibu with Joey, he dabbled in building materials on the side, managing to pick up 8 US patents. He thought peace had finally caught up with him. Until, the phone call… from the MOTHERFUCKING QUEEN OF ENGLAND. He found himself set up an Associate Fellow at Royal United Services Institute for Defense and Security Studies, working directly with Elizabeth Regina on security issues of the utmost sensitivity. To be sure, he made some enemies… something that would soon have tragic results.
After saving the Free World, Greg returned to the familiar womb of Academia, this time walking the pine as the Boy’s Varsity basketball coach at Hughes High School. After leading Hughes to an 18-4 record during regular season play, an assassin’s bullet served up a cold vengeance as Coach Mills stood on the sideline during the State quarterfinals.

He was replaced by College of Mount St. Joseph assistant coach Eddie Dreyer (second item).

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Thursday, August 03, 2006

It just, like, evaporated and shit.

A blog friend has slipped into obscurity, with a return to sender, address unknown-type missive standing in for the blog in question at the approriate URL. I appreciated this blogger because this person appreciates rocking the fuck out in the quiet way that we do it, here in the quiet 21st century. The blog was/is also a frequent weigh-station on long, mindless days at work.

One hopes that this is merely a hiccup, and one hopes one's friends, blog or corporate, are not suffering distress.

Optimism shines eternal in Berkeley. I'm sure whatever it is will work out in a valuable way in the longrun, if maybe hugely suckass now.

Or it could be that Blogger sucks balls.


Wednesday, August 02, 2006

The quote that makes the most sense, most of the time, in Anno Domini 2006

"Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin to slit throats." HL Mencken US editor (1880 - 1956)

Here's why.

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Am silent. Am gathering energy for the push.

I've got all this crazy crap happening at work, as well as some side projects in various stages of explosion and implosion, so bear with me. I will refund any costs you may have incurred this week because of the lessening of my diarrhea-like output. (Note: I prefer handling it as a like trade in items of approximate worth, rajhter than cash -- probably single socks, some tins of kidney beans and an old plastic wading pool in the shape of a frog. Prepare a detailed claimed and forward it on.)

I had one of strangest nights of my goddamn life this past weekend, and I am waiting for the images to coalesce into a coherent, uh, thing. Really, a look into the abyss, only the abyss was filled with porcelain figurines and Eartha Kitt memorabilia.

Anyway, stay tuned, and soon there will be a post about....The Film Festival. Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha.