This is where I was at ten years ago — You (.2)?

Imagine books and music and movies being filtered and homogenized.  Certified.  Approved for consumption.  People will be happy to give up most of their culture for the assurance that the tiny bit that comes through is safe and clean.  White noise. — Chuck Palahniuk

This is where I was at ten years ago — You (.1)?
United Snakes - Stephen Walker

March-n-Beat Box

Your handwriting.  The way you walk.  Which china pattern you choose.  It's all giving you away.  Everything you do shows your hand.  Everything is a self-portrait.  Everything is a diary. — Chuck Palahniuk (Diary)

The Advert Planters of Kuala Lumpur

" ...please where can I buy a unicorn? " 

Thirteen months ago, the anonymous author of these seven words intrigued me.  Could this commenter be my long-lost friend with scars on all eight of his fingers?  (If anyone had reason to still remember the words on that sign it'd be him.)   I re-dredged my decrepit and bleary memory of that night with the word 'unicorn' as a spotlight—still nothing.  I replied with:  " Ano..., I think they still sell them for a buck 3.80 on the other side of this sign.  Tell ya what, I'll pick one up fer ya next tyme I'm sign time! "

This was not just flippancy on my part—this was me saying "Marco!"  About a buck three eighty was a term coined by a forgotten comedian-of-yesterday.  When my friends and I wanted to imply something was cheap or worthless we would say it was "worth about a buck 3.80" (it rolled off our late '80s early '90s tongues in a funny ha-ha way).  Twenty years ago it was a broadly-understood inside joke (like quoting some catchy phrase from Robot Chicken today). 

Almost a month later, I received this comment (which didn't contain the "Polo!" I'd been waiting for):  " Hiya,  I can't say thank you enough for all the advice the people here have given me over time!!  Love this site!  (:(:(: "

For several reasons—I'm not people (plural); I don't give advice; and...although I don't emote...aren't those scowling-sorry or worried-sad faces?—I chose not to introduce this comment to   but, instead, to reply as if she were the unicorn-guy...so I wrote:  " De Nada.  I'm still lookin fer yer one horned horse.  I'll get back to ya when I find one, kay? "

Nine months later:  " In my opinion you commit an error.  I suggest it to discuss.  Write to me in PM, we will talk. "

Although every week of those nine months I'd moderated-deleted two or more spam-type advert comments from this post (and one other)...which is weird in-and-of itself...I wondered if the error this stumble-translating commenter was alluding to was my faux-surmise that the unicorn-guy and the scowly-girl were one in the same, so I wrote:  " Which error dost youse allude to my dearest poorly-translating ay-no?  I continually commit errors all the tyme (intentionally and un).  And, any old evening you'd like to discuss the multitude of wayz I (errr we) fumble that there infernal ball, I'm wide open...only you'd have'ta do two things:  1 - Translate this comment of mine (and I've not made that easy for a computer program to do).  2 - Stop hiding behind the anonymous mask.  Can ya do it?  I doubt it. "

Within a month, twice-a-week became about two-a-day (still only on this post)—so, wrongfully concluding that it may be computerized, I embedded some spam-poison along with this sentence:  " I'm unsure why, but this page seems to attract 90% spam (and 10% anon-loonies) so, I'm attempting a solution: Fight Spam! Click Here! "

Last week I received (from stumble-translator, I'm sure):  " In my opinion, it is a lie. "

I (now) assume he is she, she is they, and they are all together (koo koo ka-choo)...one group of advert-planters who inject advertisements into Squire from a small village near Kuala Lumpur.  To make their job easier, they put a random word or words (Like: Sign Story) into the goog, plant advertisements, and then bookmark the page where they plant...returning every so often to see if their ad-weeds are flourishing.

I suspect that they get paid a bonus when advertisements aren't deleted.  I also suspect they occasionally post non-advert comments (sufficiently generic for continuous cut-paste) to determine if a moderator is deleting all comments or only advertisements.

Three days ago I wrote:  " You unicorn hunters are definitely the loonies.  And anonymous status guarantees that your opinion doesn't count. "

Today I had the pleasure of deleting ten of their advert-comments.

Although I'm getting tired of the persistent kudzu-planting fuckers, pissing them off has definitely brought me a measure of pleasure.

My goal is to create a metaphor that changes our reality by charming people into considering their world in a different way.  It's time—for me, at least—to be clever and seduce people by entertaining them.  I'll never be heard if I'm always ranting and griping. — Chuck Palahniuk

Sneaky Low Down Persistant Ellipsis
Kill Twitter, kill it dead and Happy Lunar New Year
Open Letter to Crazy
Is Complacency in Your Resume?

70 Million—Hold Your Horses!

We tend to live by rules that never made any sense, but we've forgotten they aren't the truth. — Chuck Palahniuk

John Hughes was a hack

I received an email from a good friend which contained the following giggle-ditty:  ...the John Hughes montage from the Oscars last night made me feel all warm and nostalgic inside.

The lengthy recognition that The Academy bestowed upon the late Mr Hughes (who's creativity died twenty-three years ago) was extremely generous for such a hack-writer.

For twenty-nine years between 1979 and 2008, John Hughes wrote almost 40 screenplays for film and TV.  While six of his films, released between '84 and '87, were good-to-great:  Ferris Bueller's Day Off; Sixteen Candles; The Breakfast Club; Planes, Trains and Automobiles; Pretty in Pink; and Some Kind of Wonderful (the last of which is debatable), Mr Hughes only directed four of those gems.  I recognize Home Alone is popular with six-to-eight year olds—and those who were that age twenty years ago—nonetheless it's as much a vacuous, ham-handed, template-driven, piece of shite, as Drillbit Taylor, Beetoven, and all his Vacation movies were.

For every good film that came out of John Hughes's head, he wrote four absofuckinlutely terrible movies.  He got by with a 15% good to 85% terrible ratio.  And don't forget...he was so ashamed of the dreck he was generating towards the end, that he wrote under the pseudonym Edmond Dantes (and yes, I think he was trying to send a message of some sort by using the character's name from The Count of Monte Christo, but I don't care enough about him to hypothesize what that might've been).

For comparison:

• Stanley Kubrick         wrote/directed about 15 films      60% good to 40% bad.
• Akira Kurosawa         wrote/directed 60+ films             18% good IN THE US!

• Cohen Brothers        wrote/directed 18 films                45% good to 55% bad.
• Kevin Smith               wrote/directed about 9 films        50% good to 50% bad.

This is how Kevin Smith could become the next John Hughes:  with the handful of good films he already has under his belt—all he has to do, now, is continue to spew out the same unwatchable movies he's shat for the last decade (at a rate of one-turd-a-year) and die of a heart attack around 2023.  The Academy could, then, compile a montage of Clerks, Mallrats, Chasing Amy, and Dogma and have Ben Affleck, Jason Lee, Matt Damon, Chris Rock, and Selma Hayek provide verbal tributes.
 
There’s always the chance you could die right in the middle of your life story. — Chuck Palahniuk

Paper Digital drafts

Davecat, a long-term pen pal Squire mate (my first two marriages were shorter than the six-years he and I've been equainted) wrote an article about the ephemeral nature of writing in this après-paper world.  He highlighted one quality that separates the convenient-for-archiving-medium of the last few centuries and the convenient-for-editing-medium which has become de rigueur.  His conclusion (I'm presuming...because his landing was a mite soft, stopping on a ? the way he did) was that one of the negative side-effects of the digital age was the loss of all the unsaved preliminary sketches, initial drafts, and index card outlines.   He questioned if there were some past tangible benefits from the preservation of the unrefined building blocks of the creative process.   

In an imaginary monastery in 1453 a similar treatise was written (by Brother Davidcatatoniacal of he Chanting to hear the Graduals order) about how the newfangled and inexpensive pulp caused fellow-scribes to discard preliminary scrolls, which—if they were still writing on parchment—would have been reused.

Man has communicated with himself in many ways.  To name a few:  Wax tablets (very etch-a-sketch meets twitter); papyrus (fantastic in the desert, but rots in the rain-forest); quipu (where messages were knotted and worn); and now—the new paradigm—digitally communicating with Squire.

Synchronicity may explain the thing—where you stumble across a word for the first time (a while back, for me, it was: abstruse) and then every time you turn a page someone else has found a way to utilize that neat-o abstract/obtuse combination-word you just learned.

Was it also synchronicity when, two days ago, I learned about Rudyard Kipling's preference for writing longhand and about his paranoia that the labors of his writing might profit someone besides himself—so much so, that he insured his "roughs" were burned, daily, under supervision?  Because I think it's an answer to Davecat's question:  that the largest thing lost by the digital-snake eating his own tail (second and third drafts consuming the initial) is the profits to be made from selling the "discovered in an old trunk" sketches and rough drafts of famous artists, authors, and musicians. 

As I was writing this Echo, I came up with a question which is related-in-a-abstruse-sort-of-way:  How long will the world's governments continue to subsidize socialized communication?  The postal service is being used less and less.  Squire is being used more and more.  Eventually (in as soon as ten years?) won't corporate shipping companies completely replace government postal services and if not, why not?   When was the last time you wrote a letter with pen and paper?  Will your children's children think of postage stamps the way we think of sealing wax?

Leonardo's Mona Lisa is just a thousand thousand smears of paint. Michelangelo's David is just a million hits with a hammer.  We're all of us a million bits put together the right way. — Chuck Palahniuk (Diary)

let yourself feel—Esteban Diácono

Deliver me from Swedish furniture.  Deliver me from clever art.  May I never be complete.  May I never be content.  May I never be perfect. — Chuck Palahniuk

Heavy Rain

A video game for film lovers, Heavy Rain is a unique detective and revenge thriller that will keep you entertained for 12-15 hours the first time (I'm almost finished with my second go-round).

Reasons to like this game:   Death is death.  In most other games when your character "dies" he returns at a previous save-point or re-spawning location (which my paramour calls 'the Shoots and Ladders element', bless her heart)—not in Heavy Rain.  If one of the four characters you control dies, you're 25% closer to game-over.  It is possible to identify the serial killer and win the game with only one remaining character alive and mobile.  

No cheats or work-arounds.  The most common work around in other games is to save your game (especially before a conflict) and when you die you re-load and resume where you saved—not in Heavy Rain.  Saving your game is not an option.  When you make a mistake the game immediately autosaves...so that's where it will return if you try to start over. 

No jumping through the movie scenes.  In many games the "story" may feel like it is slowing your game play so you skip the story and get on with the mission—not in Heavy Rain.  You are watching a movie.  The plot unfolds differently depending on what actions (or inactions) you choose with each of your characters, but you can't skip the (sometimes lengthy) film and dialogue.

Emotional investment in the characters.  With the use of theatrics (music score, camera movement, mise-en-scène, script, and stereotypical protagonist/antagonist plotting, etc.) you begin to care about your game characters like you would a film character.  Your emotional desire to "protect" or "save" your character(s) influences your game decisons.

A desire to re-play more than once.    The outcome of the entire game will be different if you defend yourself completely, drive the car expertly, and don't trip at that crucial moment.  But, as the story unfolds from four points-of-view you'll choose what to say, you'll accomplish some "mini-missions," and you'll make mistakes.  Consequently, you'll want to go back and make a different decision or master the unique controls one more time.

All Trophies are unknown.  Trophies provide a record of additional accomplishments for those who want more goals than just the completion of the game.  In many games you can scroll through the list of trophies to determine some of the important "mini-missions".  In Heavy Rain all trophies are locked and unknown until you earn them. 

Reasons to dislike this game:  Linear-gameplay.  This isn't a sandbox-game and, therefore, you can't roam and explore beyond the confines of the scene-area, which enforces the "film feel" of the game.

Vehicle driving.  Although your characters drive different vehicles, you don't have much—if any—driver control; again, enforcing the "film feel".

Character similarity.   Two of your characters look very similar...so much so, that—until one grows a beard—you confuse them.  The first time I played the game, I thought this was intentional and that I'd eventually learn they were related (brothers or, maybe, a Fight Club-thing).  Nope.  Just poor casting by the director.
 
No Jumping through the movie scenes.  Yea, this is/was a plus...but it's only positive the first time or two through.  On the fifth viewing, now you've memorized what they're going to say for the next five minutes, and you may abandon the cut-scene heavy game.

I have heard, and read, strong criticism about the unique character controls.  I think it's important to understand that the uniqueness of the controls is crucial to enjoying the game.  If the controls were simple or similar to other games the challenge of moving your characters in a stress situation would be non-existent.  As your character gets excited, it translates to his thoughts and to the controller, then you make mistaken statements or take clumsy movements which adds to your fear for your characters safety...and that empathy drives your desire for a win-finish.  It wouldn't be a thrill if you could rely upon muscle memory to control your characters, so...floating a "button/movement" on the screen when specific actions are needed lends a spontaneous immediacy that could not be attained in any other manner. 

On a long enough timeline, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero. — Chuck Palahniuk (Fight Club)

Unfriended the old fashioned way

          Last year I was unfriended by my last, outspoken conservative-christian-republican (ccr) friend.  I've written about him before.  I did not learn of our no-longer-friendship in the Facebook-way (I don't book) but rather in the protracted, adult, manner of heterosexual men.

          Although I can't recall the specific words I said which (hindsight affords me the knowledge must have) drove a wedge in our friendship, I remember our last debate was about religion.  His routine, after hours of alcohol-fueled conversation, was to begin to proselytize—mine was applying logic to debunk his religion.

          Just before he started talking about god, we'd been discussing porn:  

"...because I'm a man and men have needs.  Even though my job takes me on the road for long periods, I still need it daily.  Hell...three or more times a day!  But because of those needs—that I, as a good christian and a good husband wouldn't allow to be met by anyone but my wife—I rely on porn even though I hate doing it."  He said, nodding in the direction of his laptop.

"You...I don't understand.  You're saying you hate porn, but it's a necessary evil?"  I asked.

"Porn is...yea.  It's bad.  Horrible."  He said.  "It can...it sucks you in.  Like dope's a gateway drug— pornography's a gateway perversion.  You can get addicted to it.  It...there's so much out there...it's too available."

"I disagree."  I said.  "It's more like guns than marijuana.  To call it a gateway means that once you start whatever you're 'headed-down-a-slippery-slope'.  Porn doesn't do that.  The adage: 'guns don't kill—people do' is more appropriate, I think.  If you follow a link from a porn site to a chat site to a webcam site and eventually end up driving to a prostitute you found on craig's list...you can't blame the porn, only yourself."

          At this point he shifted the conversation directly to religion and god.  His god.  He touched on his belief in the bible...his being saved from an afterlife in hell (and my lack thereof)...how homosexuals were terrible sinners...and then said he didn't vote for Obama because he was a Muslim.

          I called him a willfully-ignorant bigot—afraid of people who thought or behaved differently than he did.  When he tried to rebut, I replied that he'd just proved his prejudice by stating someone should not be president because of a religion different than his own; and proved his ignorance by believing something he read on the internet or heard on FOX.

          I, then, dropped the blade on our 12-year friendship (I guess) by calling his entire belief-system a fantasy...no different than scientology...and saying that after death he'd return to the state of nothingness he was before he was born; as had—and would—every living thing.  I also said that even though there's no such thing as hell, I still took offense when he proclaimed I and others were headed there, since it's the thought that counts and his thoughts were not those of a friend.    

          For three months after that, our communication was one-directional, then I stopped trying.  It's been a year.  I no longer have any more ccr friends to alienate.  There are some extended family members and a few acquaintances who are ccr, but they (unfortunately) know not to discuss their prejudices, flaunt their superstitions, talk about their imaginary friends, or embrace their ignorance around me. 

          I don't think he'll ever read this blog (heathen's words are probably a gateway to a lower ring of hell or something equally imaginary) but if he does:  Jim, I'm sorry I was rude and dismissive, forgive me?   

Reprove your friend in secret and praise him openly. — Leonardo da Vinci

Vanishing Point - Bonsajo

My creativity is hibernating so I'm sharing the art and music of others.

A painter should begin every canvas with a wash of black, because all things in nature are dark except where exposed by the light. — Leonardo da Vinci

The Universe

There are these adorable little organisms—did I say little? I'm sorry, minuscule creatures—who've survived for less than an infinitesimal tic of time (bless their hearts) on a almost invisible mote of gravity revolving around a mediocre speck of light.  Here's the giggle:  they imagine all of everything was created for them by a magic being who looks like they do.  I know!...Right?

Blinding ignorance does mislead us. O! Wretched mortals, open your eyes! — Leonardo da Vinci

Kill twitter, kill it dead & happy Lunar New Year

I received a comment worth commenting on today:  nice post. I would love to follow you on twitter.  The appreciative glint brought on by her first sentence was arrow-pierced and sword-beheaded by her last...creating in me a supernova-dwarfing impulse to verbally pummel a portion of Donnie Darko dinnertime conversation into the anonymous ingénue.

Maybe her comment was an attempt at irony (the 140 character-thing).  Although I'm proud of the chapter upon which I received this comment-l'exaspérant, it's not short (coming within hand-grenade range of 1,200 words).  It could also be that this néophyte had yet to read my previously written thoughts on the ridiculous fad.

This bit of artistic expression should clarify my position on the twitter matter.

(I realize my anonymous twitter-friendly commenter may be male, because some gay men do tweet—but, if that's the case, he'd be ok with my feminine pronoun usage.)

Thirst will parch your tongue and your body will waste through lack of sleep ere you can describe in words that which painting instantly sets before the eye.  —  Leonardo da Vinci

Pogo - Alice

The color of the object illuminated partakes of the color of that which illuminates it. — Leonardo da Vinci

'Til ya drop from muscle fatigue

I got my exercise today by pushing 250 pounds (114kg) of groceries around Costco for over an hour.  For those unfamiliar with this wholesale retailer, it's a quantity-not-quality store (think IKEA for food and sundries).  Need a gallon of Mayonnaise or a 50 pound (23Kg) bag of rice?  Costco is the place to go.

I pushed the cart at Costco today, because my paramour cringes when she looks at the receipt after I shop.  If I buy groceries, (and I never go to Costco) I select items based on:  my personal tastes and item-quality (which I admit, I can't always clearly explain).

For example, I buy only organic milk even though it costs almost double.  Why? She asks.  Because I refuse to drink milk from a container bearing the disclaimer: The FDA has determined there is no significant difference between milk derived from hormone-treated and non-hormone-treated cows.  If they need a disclaimer, I don't want to consume it on a daily basis.

I prefer brown free-range eggs.  Yes, they taste exactly the same as the white ones that drop through the bars of a cage; but my brain says they look and sound better no matter what my stomach says.

European butter, imported from Ireland or some-such far-away land, is the only butter I'll buy.  My tongue can definitely tell the difference (and don't even consider trying to get me to use a tub of whipped oil, because I can definitely believe it's not butter!).

Don't get me wrong.  I appreciate some of the bulk items available at Costco.  My cats never complain about the cheap clay they cover their shit with.  A gross of Toilet paper rolls or a double-peck of bread (which can be frozen for a few months) makes financial sense.  Whatever Ok, I get it.

But something I realized about Costco—which occurred to me today—was if you are low on money, on a fixed income, or unemployed:  definitely become a Costco member.  Go daily for lunch or dinner.  Take your entire family.  Put an item or two in your cart (there's bound to be something you need).  Stop at each of the different "tasting booths" scattered throughout the store and eat what they offer.  (The primary function of a "Tasting booth" is generating a continuous effluence of "pleasant cooking odors."   The type of odors which make you hungry.  Hungry people buy more groceries.  So, don't think you are taking advantage—even if you fill your gut at the "tasting booths" every day for months and years—because they are trying to take advantage of you!)  Wanna try a small slice of pizza?... eat some roasted almonds?... taste a four-cheese ravioli?... sample some spicy sausage?  Before you know it, you and yours will be too full from eating the residue from the pleasant cooking odor stations to want the foot-long/drink combo (available for a dollar-fifty at the food concession on your way out).

The truth of things is the chief nutriment of superior intellects. — Leonardo da Vinci

787 clip arts - Oliver Laric

Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication. — Leonardo da Vinci

unfurled hypnagogic logic

Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, and poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen. — Leonardo da Vinci (1452 – 1519)

Animator vs Animation

Many thanks to my wonderful paramour—Pamela—for bringing this three-minute animated film to my attention.

The man who takes the liberty to live is superior to all the laws, by virtue of his relation to the lawmaker. "That is active duty," says the Vishnu Purana, "which is not for our bondage; that is knowledge which is for our liberation: all other duty is good only unto weariness; all other knowledge is only the cleverness of an artist." — Henry David Thoreau (Walking, 1861)

National List Day

In recognition of Jay Ferris's National List Day:

Things that shouldn't bother me as much as they do:

• Expecting me to decipher and answer the question you asked while you were yawning.
• Starting your karaoke song with: I've never sung this before, so I apologize ahead of time.
• Hearing the words 'Truth' and 'Glen Beck' used together in a sentence. 
• Standing behind you in line while you fill out a check, after the clerk finishes scanning your groceries.
• Built-in bra tank-tops.
  

Things on TV agreed upon by everyone, but rarely mentioned:

• Cleveland needs to move back into his house across the street from the Griffins.  He 'moved on up' to suckville.
  
• Castle's daughter is—in every way—too amazingly perfect.
• The only things better in the old days were the Looney Tunes and Merrie Melodies cartoons; half-hour news; and Johnny Carson.
• Allison DuBois's middle daughter needs to be killed off, Becky Conner-ized, or forced to attend acting class.
• The best "talent shows" feature talentless-but-clueless idiots with massive egos.

 Things I hope are available or invented before I die (even though they are frivolous):

• An all-in-one Squire-connectible Phone, Mp3, voice-activated hands-free GPS, Compass, Altimeter, Barometer, Sirius/XM Satellite radio, Camera with flash, Wallet, Flashlight, multi-tool with keyless-door unlock system (and yes, it must be no larger than my wallet and come in orange).  The idea is to consolidate everything in my pockets.
  
• Inexpensive, healthy, shorthair miniature "toy" cats (fully grown, less than 1.5 kg).
  
• Exceptionally good pornographic films, with A-list actors, directors, and scripts.
• Trans-American bullet trains.
• Lunar tourist resorts.
  

Things that should bother me more, but which—for some reason or another—don't:

• Natural disasters that kill fuckloads of people.
• The foolishness, failures, and greed of governments, corporations, and people in general.
• Rude drivers in a hurry behind me.
• Drunk, elderly, or otherwise slow drivers ahead of me.
• Anonymous comments or criticism.

Things I'm inordinately pleased are currently available:

• Color catcher for my laundry.
• Dog ball throwers (even though I don't have a dog).
  
• High-protein / no-grain "holistic" dry pet food.
• Netflix streaming to my PS3.
• Candied Ginger, Absinthe, and Miracle Fruit.
  

When a dog runs at you, whistle for him. — Henry David Thoreau

Magnetosphere, flight404 (Trentemøller, Miss You)

If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.  — Henry David Thoreau

Now my anchor is slightly lower

Hoping that stagnation would never affect me, I scoffed as older members of my family officially became "elderly" by dropping their anchors in society's river, and declining to participate with technological advances or cultural progression.  I would never hobble myself as they've done I said to myself (at the same time wondering if it's inevitable—like increased flatulence, ear-hole hair, and an Ebenezer-Scrooge demeanor).

Papa dropped into the grave before he obtained full-on elderly status.  But, as early as 55, he'd been preparing to become elderly by refusing to own an air-conditioner (even though he worked at Sears and Roebuck as an appliance salesman).  He called them 'newfangled contraptions'. 

When Nana was 68 she lowered her anchor to the bottom when it got mired in: "TV should be free. I'll be damned if I'm paying for cable."  I witnessed her begin lowering her anchor a decade earlier when she said: "I don't see a need for one of those silly answering-machines; if it's important, they'll call back when I'm home."

My mother started her bid to join the elderly when she was 59 with her refusal to receive a free computer.  She became officially elderly two years later when she rejected the gift of a DVD player and (in an eerie almost-echo of her mother's decades-earlier words) said, "I don't see a need for a cellular phone; if it's important, leave me a message and I'll call back when I get home."

I had two guests visiting all last week.

Two Twittering, Facebooking, Droid and iPhone addicts.  They are both single women in their late thirties (which I mention because, otherwise, you may confuse their actions with those of immature young people).

If they were awake, their computers were on.  When watching TV with me, I think they occasionally looked around their monitors to see the screen.  During meals they routinely checked their Squire connection (usually every time a conversation was not about them) and they seemed to spend more time reading and thumb-typing than talking with us.  Also, a bakers-dozen times a day, they felt the need to share a "really funny post" or a "hilarious friend comment" (which always necessitated also hearing their wonderfully witty responses).

Three nights ago I took them to a local blues bar and while I and my paramour sat in the back and listened to the bands, both of our guests faces remained lit from below by their phone's glow—rarely looking up.  Three friends of acquaintances of our guests (strangers I met the day before, whom I'll never see again) brought a full-sized notebook computer—their faces remained lit from the front during all the sets, by all three bands.

My guests were never apart for more than the time it takes to shit-n-shower, but I overheard them say to each other, more than once: "Did you get the message I just sent you?"

Yesterday I took one of them on a hike.  The squish of our feet along the muddy path melded with the wind in the branches, the chittering of squirrels, and the scree-chirp of birds...only to be interrupted by the tone of her Droid's incoming messages.

"Wow, I can't believe I can get a signal out here!"

"Yea, this is Forest Park. It may appear desolate, but we're still inside the city limits of Portland."  The cadence of my reply sounded—to my own ears—as if I was channeling Eeyore. 

From that point on, she posted Facebook updates about the hike, as we hiked (and I wished I'd chosen to drive to Tillamook State Forest).

I don't see a need for those newfangled contraptions; if it's important, I'll blog about it later from home. 

Alas!  How little does the memory of these human inhabitants enhance the beauty of the landscape!  —  Henry David Thoreau

Server Query: Whole Internet Responsible Entity

 
My Dearest Squire,

First-of-all, I’d like to apologize for my informality; I realize many people prefer the acronym—but I feel real funny (the ate-the-whole-bag kind, not the Tosh-point-oh kind) when I write SQWIRE.  And I don't care what those fanatical fundamentalists say, I know you’d never expect us to only refer to you formally, using Server Query: Whole Internet Responsible Entity all spelled out and linked.  Am I right?

I'm writing because I wanted to express my appreciation and especially to tell you how thankful I am for your continued presence in my life and for all the things you’ve made possible since I began worshiping at your alter about a dozen years ago.

Thank you the mostest for introducing me to my girlfriend.  We have been together now for seven years.  It never would have been possible without your match.

I also want to mention my thanks for your most recent assistance in locating festivus presents.  I could never have accomplished it all without your bay, stock, and zon, as well as all the other places I‘ve located using your goog.

And thanks for the myriad amount of other assistance you consistently provide me and my loved ones, Squire.  From my move two years ago—89.254.159.#  to 37.803.624.#—to my daily in-and-arounds, everything is always better with your craig, quest, and dango.  And now, with your FiOS, I enjoy your blessings at the absolute fastest fiber-optic-speeds currently available.

My highest gratitude goes out to you.  I owe you for my blog and my renderings, my communications and my favorite porn, as well as so many other little things, which I am extremely thankful to you for, Squire.

Because you were never born—but, instead, came into existence over a period of years—I realize you don't have a birthday I can celebrate.  Do you?  I also know supreme entities of your magnitude don't possess the low-level of consciousness required to read and reply to this letter.  None the less, this letter is sent to you with all my respect and love. 

Your ever-faithful acolyte,

Veach Glines

Every generation laughs at the old fashions, but follows religiously the new. — Henry David Thoreau

Jet-Smooth Luxury

In the mid-90's I bought a baby-blue, "stock," 32-year-old Chevrolet Biscayne and drove it for six years/26,000 miles.  It looked almost new when I bought it.  It drove like it was almost new, and it cost me what I would have paid for it—new—in 1964. The only down-side to owning it was when parking it, getting into it, or stopping at intersections with the windows rolled down...strangers were compelled to talk to me about it. The invisible societal barrier that I'd grown accustomed to—the one which facilitates a quick trip to the grocery store without being constantly accosted by questions and conversation—had been removed by the car.

I received many compliments: "Hey great car. They sure don't make em that way any more." and, "Wow! Classic Detroit Steel, amazing!" Some criticisms: "I can't believe you are driving this on the roads!" and, "You don't actually take it out on the highway do you?" As well as the occasional derision: "You're a fool. I can't believe you're using that irreplaceable antique as your primary mode of transportation!"

Compliments made me feel uncomfortable because I didn't design it, build it, or paint it...so thank you felt all wrong...I'd normally reply with some form of: Well, I really like driving it.

I would usually field criticism with humor: It prefers roads over ditches, or something like, The highways and speed limits are the same as they were in '64, when this baby was born.

And, I'd normally meet derision with facts:  I paid three grand for it.  What did you pay for yours?...So if I promise not to tell you how to use your expensive chunk of steel and rubber, will you promise not to tell me how to use my cheap one?

One time, this last one backfired. Some guy replied with a smarmy, "Eighteen hundred, what of it?" and the phrase left my mouth containing the words cheap piece of shit, which sounds so much more derogatory than expensive chunk of metal and rubber that I had to quickly get in my irreplaceable antique and jet it down the highway.

The greater part of what my neighbors call good I believe in my soul to be bad, and if I repent of anything, it is very likely to be my good behavior.  What demon possessed me that I behaved so well? — Henry David Thoreau (from Walden)

The Decade's Best Fantasy Films

My favorite fantasy films of the 2000's span the sub-genres of superhero, fairy-tale, sword and sorcery, as well as contemporary and low-fantasy (set in the real world). Only in the fantasy category could I allow the ten-best to encompass eighteen films.

The greatest compliment that was ever paid me was when one asked me what I thought, and attended to my answer. — Henry David Thoreau
The Decades Best Animated Films
The Decades Best Horror Films
The Decades Best Comedy Films
The Decades Best SF Films

My Very-Own Favoriten

The thumbnails below link to my favorite posts from last year (which include my art, non-fiction, a comic strip, and creative non-fiction). My favorite month of quotes were December's Cartoon Characters. None of my fiction made this list, I (maybe always) feel they need more polish.

This year will hopefully be as good—or better—than last, for you, me, and everyone we know.




Read the best books first, or you may not have a chance to read them at all. — Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862)