How's '06 been? A big, fat, steaming, fetid, worthless pile of Experience, that's how! And that's the year in review!
Why make resolutions you can't keep?
If you could want one thing for yourself in 7 what would it be? Nothing for the world at large, or even something for someone close to you; what do you want?
If you could ask one person you know for something what would it be? It could be an object, or maybe just something emotional or intellectual...
If you could give someone you know something what would you want them to have?
Let's hope I get better at this blogging thing this coming year.
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Your Christmas Gift -- The Death Scene from Romeo & Juliet (abridged!)
Romeo: And never from this palace of dim night
Depart again: here, here will I remain
With worms that are thy chamber-maids; O, here
Will I set up my everlasting rest,
And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars
From this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last!
Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you
The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss
A dateless bargain to engrossing death!
Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide!
Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on
The dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark!
Here's to my love!
Juliet:Yea, noise? then I'll be brief. O happy dagger!
[Snatching ROMEO's dagger]
This is thy sheath;
[Stabs herself]
there rust, and let me die.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
How to become an Illuminatus in one easy lesson
Mind now, this happened quite awhile ago, before that darn Interweb became ubiquitous, and the Earth was still cooling. In fact, had this situation come up today, the bubble would have been burst immediately, and a great yarn would would not be able to spun as I will spin it now. But for a brief time I was a hidden master of the world!
My close friend Rob, (we shall call him) was just entering his first year of Harvard grad school, and he invited me by to see Cambridge and Boston for the first time. One evening, he asked me if I wanted to go to a 'meet the profs and fellow grad students' party, and I said, sure, free food, why not? Walking on the way there Rob, totally out of character for him!, challenged me to come not as myself, but as a 'visiting professor in Information History.' These being the days before Library Science schools started calling themselves Schools of Information, I asked "What the hell is Information History?" To which he replied, "I don't know... make it up!" Even then I was quite the blarney stone kisser, and he thinks, what, I can't?
Within 20 minutes of entering the party, I had persuaded people that:
1.) I had an MIT Media Lab grant,
2.) My book on Information History would be published by Oxford in the spring,
3.) I had already discussed it on The Today Show.
My thesis? "The Pony Express from 1870-1920 as proto-network."
I had to patiently explain the differences between Information History and History of Ideas, and even some aspects of Material Culture study, but it was a lot easier than I thought. If anything, the grad students were the ones who asked the tough questions.
And I thought that's it, a good lark, and when we left we both got a kick out of it! But later in the week, when they apparently couldn't find my number in the MIT phone book, Rob got a call asking if I would give a lecture at an American Culture class on Info History! 'I didn't need to write anything new, just read from the galleys of the book', Rob was told to tell me! I really wanted to do it, as I could have talked about my belly button lint for an hour, but Rob was afraid that things had already spun out of control. He didn't want to get the boot! I tried to say that if they tried to boot him, we could could go to the NYT and say 'Bum walks in off street, teaches at Ivy League class,' but I couldn't give Rob any anxiety about things, so we dropped it, and I thought that was it!
A year later I had come back for another visit, and was hanging out with a group of people including Rob's future spouse, when someone from the party the year before spotted me, came over, and started asking Info History questions! Hey, I was up for it, so I played along and created even more nonsense, enough to placate him into leaving with learning anything! I now had to lay it out for everyone, and the delicious grins I got were, well, sublime...
Another year went by, and I had come back again. That particular morning I had gone out for breakfast by myself when I ran into someone from that same evening who had a group of students with him! This time, he started telling me things that I had been doing! I nodded in tired agreement. When I went back to Rob, I found that some of the group of people who had been with us last year had been making up stuff about me, just to flesh out the whole narative. For example, I had been publishing, but not under my own name, as an experiment in Information Flow vs. Celebrity Status, just a case study for future books! I must have "written" 10 books in three years!
And with that I let it lapse, having gone off into some sort of scholastic valhalla. Or, of course, I could still be out there running the world...hmmm...do I want the credit?
My close friend Rob, (we shall call him) was just entering his first year of Harvard grad school, and he invited me by to see Cambridge and Boston for the first time. One evening, he asked me if I wanted to go to a 'meet the profs and fellow grad students' party, and I said, sure, free food, why not? Walking on the way there Rob, totally out of character for him!, challenged me to come not as myself, but as a 'visiting professor in Information History.' These being the days before Library Science schools started calling themselves Schools of Information, I asked "What the hell is Information History?" To which he replied, "I don't know... make it up!" Even then I was quite the blarney stone kisser, and he thinks, what, I can't?
Within 20 minutes of entering the party, I had persuaded people that:
1.) I had an MIT Media Lab grant,
2.) My book on Information History would be published by Oxford in the spring,
3.) I had already discussed it on The Today Show.
My thesis? "The Pony Express from 1870-1920 as proto-network."
I had to patiently explain the differences between Information History and History of Ideas, and even some aspects of Material Culture study, but it was a lot easier than I thought. If anything, the grad students were the ones who asked the tough questions.
And I thought that's it, a good lark, and when we left we both got a kick out of it! But later in the week, when they apparently couldn't find my number in the MIT phone book, Rob got a call asking if I would give a lecture at an American Culture class on Info History! 'I didn't need to write anything new, just read from the galleys of the book', Rob was told to tell me! I really wanted to do it, as I could have talked about my belly button lint for an hour, but Rob was afraid that things had already spun out of control. He didn't want to get the boot! I tried to say that if they tried to boot him, we could could go to the NYT and say 'Bum walks in off street, teaches at Ivy League class,' but I couldn't give Rob any anxiety about things, so we dropped it, and I thought that was it!
A year later I had come back for another visit, and was hanging out with a group of people including Rob's future spouse, when someone from the party the year before spotted me, came over, and started asking Info History questions! Hey, I was up for it, so I played along and created even more nonsense, enough to placate him into leaving with learning anything! I now had to lay it out for everyone, and the delicious grins I got were, well, sublime...
Another year went by, and I had come back again. That particular morning I had gone out for breakfast by myself when I ran into someone from that same evening who had a group of students with him! This time, he started telling me things that I had been doing! I nodded in tired agreement. When I went back to Rob, I found that some of the group of people who had been with us last year had been making up stuff about me, just to flesh out the whole narative. For example, I had been publishing, but not under my own name, as an experiment in Information Flow vs. Celebrity Status, just a case study for future books! I must have "written" 10 books in three years!
And with that I let it lapse, having gone off into some sort of scholastic valhalla. Or, of course, I could still be out there running the world...hmmm...do I want the credit?
Monday, December 18, 2006
A Tag from Cynnie
Here it comes!
* Rules for this tag game are:
-Grab the closest book to you
-Open Page 123
-Scroll down to the 5th sentence
-Post the next 3 sentences on your blog
-Name the book and author
-Tag 3 people
* Rules for this tag game are:
-Grab the closest book to you
-Open Page 123
-Scroll down to the 5th sentence
-Post the next 3 sentences on your blog
-Name the book and author
-Tag 3 people
Chan's star began to shine in the late 70s though he had been a movie actor since the beginning of that decade. In the mid-70's, he was signed by director Luo Wei, who had directed Bruce Lee's first two films in Hong Kong. Luo featured him as a Bruce Lee clone in New Fist of Fury/Xin Jinguru Men (1976), The Killer Meteors/Fengyu Shuangliu Xing(1978), To Kill With Intrigue/Jianhua Yanyu Jiangnam(1977), The Magnificent Bodyguard/Feidu Juanyun Shan(1978), Spiritual Kung Fu/Quan Jing(1978) and Dragon Fist/Long Quan(1979).
Hong Kong Cinema: The Extra Dimensions
Stephen Teo
I tag Ack/Nak
Sundries
and Old Panther
Stephen Teo
I tag Ack/Nak
Sundries
and Old Panther
Friday, December 15, 2006
Pant. Gasp. Wheez.
[Takes deep breath]...Ok, I'm here. Wow, are things just a cosmic fireball of suckage at the moment! I...I don't even want to write about it. I can't seem to do a single damn thing right, even my emotional capacity to deal with things has imploded. There's even an evil weird smell in the kitchen -- but only in certain places! -- and, and.... to hell with it! The only thing that sounds good is that I'm going to the Xmas party at Mighty Kim's tomorrow, which I will try and get some bloggy photos for you lot to enjoy.
Hey, Little Man, you good? Sending good thoughts to you...
I'm working on a better story, so watch this space! Tomorrow I may experiment in drunk posting....
Hey, Little Man, you good? Sending good thoughts to you...
I'm working on a better story, so watch this space! Tomorrow I may experiment in drunk posting....
Saturday, December 09, 2006
A day and a half ago...
...I met up with my friend Kim K in the mall. She called last minute, just because we hadn't seen each other in a tic, and so to the mall I went. We had fun singing Christmas carols in German while we pushed her 1-year old daughter around She invited me to her Xmas party next week, and I will try and take pictures! Kim will trick herself out, undoubtedly!
Made my cheesy macaroni, and had some for breakfast this morning, with nice strong coffee!
Chased a number of small things down, but the big things remain elusive!
As I sent bloggy support to Camie, so do we at the House of Fluff send our care to 4Dinners for all that he needs. He is one of the best on the web, if you don't know that! Go check him out.
I love the fact that all kinds of people find this blog through searching for 'stuffin young muffins', (ahem) and that crazy pic of the single of Jimmy Spiderman Allen!
Watched a good Pistons win the last two nights!
I'd like to think Ack/Nak has moved on to being a bumbershoot repairman, but, at any rate, he's moved on!
Check him out as well.
Sundries writes with her usual aplomb; it was as if she never took a break! More worthy reading.
My novel characters are talking to me in my head this evening. Should I post more of The Wendy Story or are all y'all bored with it?
Does anyone have a spare white icicle light strand? We need here, as such lights are part of my 'fireplace' of lights....
Peace Out
Made my cheesy macaroni, and had some for breakfast this morning, with nice strong coffee!
Chased a number of small things down, but the big things remain elusive!
As I sent bloggy support to Camie, so do we at the House of Fluff send our care to 4Dinners for all that he needs. He is one of the best on the web, if you don't know that! Go check him out.
I love the fact that all kinds of people find this blog through searching for 'stuffin young muffins', (ahem) and that crazy pic of the single of Jimmy Spiderman Allen!
Watched a good Pistons win the last two nights!
I'd like to think Ack/Nak has moved on to being a bumbershoot repairman, but, at any rate, he's moved on!
Check him out as well.
Sundries writes with her usual aplomb; it was as if she never took a break! More worthy reading.
My novel characters are talking to me in my head this evening. Should I post more of The Wendy Story or are all y'all bored with it?
Does anyone have a spare white icicle light strand? We need here, as such lights are part of my 'fireplace' of lights....
Peace Out
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Soldats! Je suis content de vous!
Damn it! I forgot to celebrate Austerlitz Day on Dec 2! There are so few Great Victories in Life, we must celebrate the greatest triumph of Napoleon, as a kind of signpost for what Victories we have in our own personal lives, both past and present. A few days late, but here we are!
What is your greatest triumph over the Grand Coalition of Mediocrity that has threatened to make your life less fantastic than it is? Discuss!
Thinkin about Thinkin
I actually think about the process of thinking a lot. I know, I know, don’t do it, go from the gut, blah blah blah. Well, I just can’t go there, my own rational nature won’t let me. At some level I feel I can figure out some way of improving the very process of my thoughts, through self-understanding and think better than I do now. This may be crazy, but I really do believe it. But I also know how quickly you can get into ‘paralysis by analysis,’ which is a disaster as well.
So I’ve been thinking about the thinking I do about thinking. Got that? Good!
Two things have come out which are workin’ on my cabbage about it. I remember a quote from Herder (I think!) where he compared the emotional and rational worlds to the difference between colors, shapes, scents and textures and the geometric world of lines, angles,circles, etc. For him the later represented the rational part of our minds. If we had to, you could exist in this world of lines better than you could in a land of undifferentiated colors, scents, etc. The latter would be too confusing; the former at least is defined enough that you could navigate through it. But the world is both. Why stress one at the expense of the other? I’m strongly drawn to this analogy, and have been chewing on it a lot.
The other refers to my older post about hitting a baseball. I’ve come to see the process of thought is a lot like that as well. Timing, execution, observation, just the whole gestalt of smacking line drives, for a while at a time, but every day, without exception. I’ve been working that way quite a bit lately.
The fusing of these two conceptual approaches has had a terrific effect lately. All of the objects in my mind lately, especially the emotionally tinged ones, feel “bigger”, more substantial, fuller, happier, just….just more than they have before. I wish I were a better writer than I am, I’d let you feel/think these things as they spill out of my fevered mind. There are tons of them now; it’s part of why I have trouble sleeping. I don’t want to sleep, it slows down the thinking/feeling process.
I wish I were in a hellfire passionate relationship right now. My significant other would get the full rush of all this energy, in about twenty dimensions. But it’s hard to share even with friends. Even Camie, with whom I think I have had the most beautiful, strongest friendship I’ve ever had, sees just the tip of the iceberg, and as Mama Vog has quite a full life herself, plus The Little Man, and PeaPod Vog to worry over, I just don’t think that Fate will gives us the chance for me to share that. Such is Life, I’m not complaining!
Perhaps this blog will get some of that heat, as I’m choosing even to share just this with you all. Sorry for going on here about myself; I promise that I’m going to try to turn this energy into things that are good for you, my bloggy readers, not just the echo chamber of my mind. Stay tuned.
So I’ve been thinking about the thinking I do about thinking. Got that? Good!
Two things have come out which are workin’ on my cabbage about it. I remember a quote from Herder (I think!) where he compared the emotional and rational worlds to the difference between colors, shapes, scents and textures and the geometric world of lines, angles,circles, etc. For him the later represented the rational part of our minds. If we had to, you could exist in this world of lines better than you could in a land of undifferentiated colors, scents, etc. The latter would be too confusing; the former at least is defined enough that you could navigate through it. But the world is both. Why stress one at the expense of the other? I’m strongly drawn to this analogy, and have been chewing on it a lot.
The other refers to my older post about hitting a baseball. I’ve come to see the process of thought is a lot like that as well. Timing, execution, observation, just the whole gestalt of smacking line drives, for a while at a time, but every day, without exception. I’ve been working that way quite a bit lately.
The fusing of these two conceptual approaches has had a terrific effect lately. All of the objects in my mind lately, especially the emotionally tinged ones, feel “bigger”, more substantial, fuller, happier, just….just more than they have before. I wish I were a better writer than I am, I’d let you feel/think these things as they spill out of my fevered mind. There are tons of them now; it’s part of why I have trouble sleeping. I don’t want to sleep, it slows down the thinking/feeling process.
I wish I were in a hellfire passionate relationship right now. My significant other would get the full rush of all this energy, in about twenty dimensions. But it’s hard to share even with friends. Even Camie, with whom I think I have had the most beautiful, strongest friendship I’ve ever had, sees just the tip of the iceberg, and as Mama Vog has quite a full life herself, plus The Little Man, and PeaPod Vog to worry over, I just don’t think that Fate will gives us the chance for me to share that. Such is Life, I’m not complaining!
Perhaps this blog will get some of that heat, as I’m choosing even to share just this with you all. Sorry for going on here about myself; I promise that I’m going to try to turn this energy into things that are good for you, my bloggy readers, not just the echo chamber of my mind. Stay tuned.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Camie knows how much Fluffy Loves and Cares
Please go over to PerfectBlueBuildings and send your bloggy support to Camie, while her mom is wrestling health issues...
We are all with you, Vog!
We are all with you, Vog!
Monday, November 27, 2006
Fluffy see, Fluffy do
Ok, why not? I'm stealing the Tarot theme from Perfect Blue Buildings and Camie just to see what I come up!
You are The Sun
Happiness, Content, Joy.
The meanings for the Sun are fairly simple and consistent.
Young, healthy, new, fresh. The brain is working, things that were muddled come clear, everything falls into place, and everything seems to go your way.
The Sun is ruled by the Sun, of course. This is the light that comes after the long dark night, Apollo to the Moon's Diana. A positive card, it promises you your day in the sun. Glory, gain, triumph, pleasure, truth, success. As the moon symbolized inspiration from the unconscious, from dreams, this card symbolizes discoveries made fully consciousness and wide awake. You have an understanding and enjoyment of science and math, beautifully constructed music, carefully reasoned philosophy. It is a card of intellect, clarity of mind, and feelings of youthful energy.
What Tarot Card are You?
Take the Test to Find Out.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Monday, November 20, 2006
Gooooong!
It's late. I'm tired but I can't sleep. I feel sort of hollow, sort of like I'm made of glass or some kind of vibrating metal. Not that that's bad; maybe I'm more honest now. I've been going from item to item, thing to thing, just trying to get by. The end of the month will let me know if I've been bullshitting myself, which is what I feel is so. I wish I could feel something about it, but if I stop to feel, I think I'll fall over. So I vibrate and ring. What to give thanks for? I'm not sure now, and please, no platitudes or cliches, or I'll give thanks less. Maybe we should use the word "blame" to mean the opposite of "thank." For those we feel grateful to we say "thank you;" maybe those feel ungrateful to we should say, "blame you very much!" Perhaps a sub-language which would allow us to give form to all our evil notions, form like cloth, like an evil velvet that feels really good but is just too impractical to wear for long. Maybe we should take some words and purposely strip them of any subtle meanings. Have some way of belittling people who "oversubtle" their words. Let's see what language we get then.
Maybe I'm just tired and without any ...thing at all, and should just stay sleepin'.
Yawn.
Maybe I'm just tired and without any ...thing at all, and should just stay sleepin'.
Yawn.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Ladies, you gots ta work it out!
I do a bit of singing on this blog, and now it's time for the zaftig contingent to re-cip-ro-cate! Go ahead, play this number and try not to sing along, I dare you!
If you are feeling especially brave put up your own rendition on YouTube!
If you are feeling especially brave put up your own rendition on YouTube!
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Monday, November 13, 2006
Speaking of both Vog and food.
Hey, Camille come pick up your Lime Cilantro Shrimp! (plus others) I had to stand 6 hours on my bad feet to get it, and I still have no feeling in some of my toes...
Given my profile picture...
Who here would want to see Vog and I play Guitar Hero 2 with two controllers on a YouTube video?
Henry Rollins, anybody?
Henry Rollins, anybody?
Speaking of food.
I seem to have haunted steak knives. My friends Bob and Sally gave me a small set for Xmas, and they're good and sharp, but the handles are much lighter than my regular knives. One night, while washing dishes, I misjudged where I had one of these speedy beasties and I wound up stabbing the palm of my hand somewhat badly! I still occasionally have pain in it! Tonight I whacked a thumb! Damn it! (fortunately not my "miniature golf" thumb!)
Good thing I don't have a blender ...
Good thing I don't have a blender ...
Foods I ain't eatin!
Pickled Pigs Feet
"Cracklin'"
Any fish. Especially if they still have the head attached! They look too much like relatives that way.
Any fancy pantsy term for some kinda baked/broiled/fried animal genitality.
Green Peppers (love 'em, but they sure as hell don't love me)
Any food that smells like something that leaves the body, instead of going in it!
Things made of soy that shouldn't be.
Give your list kids!
"Cracklin'"
Any fish. Especially if they still have the head attached! They look too much like relatives that way.
Any fancy pantsy term for some kinda baked/broiled/fried animal genitality.
Green Peppers (love 'em, but they sure as hell don't love me)
Any food that smells like something that leaves the body, instead of going in it!
Things made of soy that shouldn't be.
Give your list kids!
Thursday, November 09, 2006
This modern world
A long time ago I read that Daniel Day Lewis divorced his 8 1/2 month pregnant wife by fax, which I thought was pretty cold! Now, I don't know if that's true, but K-Fed got his divorce notice from Britney Spears by text message and someone was filming him at that exact moment so it wound up on YouTube! This is a new all-time record in...something, I'm not sure what, but something.
From the Superficial:
http://thesuperficial.com/2006/11/kevin_federline_was_told_over.html
I lost track who's image this is...I will give proper credit when I find out who.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
"Ix-nay the ober-say," my closest books told me
The carrion birds
Were horny for words
As they circled St. Vincent Millay,
And if Bourbons were wishes,
They'd meet Christopher Hitchens,
In the harbor of ol' Botany Bay.
For no rosary would save you,
Nor the living God that made you,
From the wisdom of good Tanqueray.
While our vices make friends
With our achievable ends,
And we're drinkin' and thinkin' all day.
Were horny for words
As they circled St. Vincent Millay,
And if Bourbons were wishes,
They'd meet Christopher Hitchens,
In the harbor of ol' Botany Bay.
For no rosary would save you,
Nor the living God that made you,
From the wisdom of good Tanqueray.
While our vices make friends
With our achievable ends,
And we're drinkin' and thinkin' all day.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Lazy Bastard!
Hello my blog, we're on good terms,
We talk a lot,
But when I need you, whatcha' got?
Crisis many, head's in a fog,
Best thing last week? Halloween with Family Vog,
Why can't you write it, the Halloween thing?
I'm just too tired, and don't make me sing!
When I type it, it comes out crap,
Just this once, for me, please do it,
While I take a nap.
We talk a lot,
But when I need you, whatcha' got?
Crisis many, head's in a fog,
Best thing last week? Halloween with Family Vog,
Why can't you write it, the Halloween thing?
I'm just too tired, and don't make me sing!
When I type it, it comes out crap,
Just this once, for me, please do it,
While I take a nap.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
As I clean the lint filter of my mind, MORE Fluffy Notions emerge!
1.) If you could talk to just one species of animal, what species do you think you could have the most fun conversations with?
2.) Go to five totally unrelated blogs and write comments -- with linkage! -- that speak very highly about the blog of a good friend, and how much they love this blogs topics.
3.) Assume you are Hannibal Lecter and that you have been placed in the Lord of the Rings novels. What one character's liver do you eat with fava beans and a nice chianti?
4.) What famous blogger -- that you don't know personally -- would you like to have a romantic relationship with?
One Night Stand or Deep Commitment?
2.) Go to five totally unrelated blogs and write comments -- with linkage! -- that speak very highly about the blog of a good friend, and how much they love this blogs topics.
3.) Assume you are Hannibal Lecter and that you have been placed in the Lord of the Rings novels. What one character's liver do you eat with fava beans and a nice chianti?
4.) What famous blogger -- that you don't know personally -- would you like to have a romantic relationship with?
One Night Stand or Deep Commitment?
10 Fluffy Notions
Lord knows we have struggled from time to time for bloggy topics to write about! So I put my brain in MetaFluffy mode just to give us some ideas to choose from. Have at it!
1.) You're in a limo with a pretty big wad of cash, in your favorite city in the world, and you want to have the best evening of your life. What do you do? Do you do it alone? If not, with who?
2.) You can get away with one illegal action without getting arrested, but if it's dangerous you might be stopped by the person you are trying to do this to. What do you do?
3.) In your most respectful, non-obscene, sincere voice how would you tell someone they had a great ass?
4.) Pick someones blog that you like. Ask them to write a post about something you are interested in, even if they are not. If they do it, do the same for them. If they don't, write about your feelings of rejection.
5.) Have a "blog conversation" with someone else's blog; They write a post; you directly respond with a post of your own. They respond to that. Make it at least twice through. If you can, have a third party pick the topic.
6.) By some miracle, your worst enemy will accept either a dog or a cat from you as a pet. What do you give them?
7.) You and your five best friends all agree to take two weeks off together. They will let you pick either where you go or what you will all do together, but not both. Which do you take?
8.) Think of the bloggers you like to read. Which one of them would you like to see in elected office? Why?
9.) Think of your favorite person. What would you most want to give/do/share for them, assuming that they will never get to know that it would come from you?
10.) Describe how your high school age self and your 90 year old self would think about you today, especially your blog.
1.) You're in a limo with a pretty big wad of cash, in your favorite city in the world, and you want to have the best evening of your life. What do you do? Do you do it alone? If not, with who?
2.) You can get away with one illegal action without getting arrested, but if it's dangerous you might be stopped by the person you are trying to do this to. What do you do?
3.) In your most respectful, non-obscene, sincere voice how would you tell someone they had a great ass?
4.) Pick someones blog that you like. Ask them to write a post about something you are interested in, even if they are not. If they do it, do the same for them. If they don't, write about your feelings of rejection.
5.) Have a "blog conversation" with someone else's blog; They write a post; you directly respond with a post of your own. They respond to that. Make it at least twice through. If you can, have a third party pick the topic.
6.) By some miracle, your worst enemy will accept either a dog or a cat from you as a pet. What do you give them?
7.) You and your five best friends all agree to take two weeks off together. They will let you pick either where you go or what you will all do together, but not both. Which do you take?
8.) Think of the bloggers you like to read. Which one of them would you like to see in elected office? Why?
9.) Think of your favorite person. What would you most want to give/do/share for them, assuming that they will never get to know that it would come from you?
10.) Describe how your high school age self and your 90 year old self would think about you today, especially your blog.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
You say...
I forgot to say I had another of my dreams last night, so I pass it along.
I have a good friend named Lucy Krawinkel who, at present, lives in Seattle. Need to know this for the story.
In the dream I'm going to different places here in A2, and surprisingly, at different times, people come up to me and give me film equipment. It's not like I take it home; I leave in the places where it was given to me, and I know that no one will touch it, and I leave it there, knowing it's mine. Lenses, cameras, lights, dollys, you name it. This goes on for weeks. One night, I'm lying half-asleep on my little loveseat in front of the TV, while the Astaire-Rogers movie "Shall We Dance" drones on in the background. Suddenly, the DVD stops right near the beginning of the song "Let's Call The Whole Thing Off," (the potato-pohtatoe, tomato-tomatoe song) This wakes me up. I get up and walk slowly towards the TV with a soundtrack playing, kind of an electronic version of the Pachabel canon, and I walk into the TV, and into the scene. Astaire and Rogers are sitting on a parkbench wearing roller skates, about to do the song. Rogers is wearing a tailored tweed suit coat and skirt, and a kind of womans version of a man's fedora. Underneath the suit coat, Rogers seems to be wearing a black sweater with a jeweled pin right in the center. Rogers' character in the film is named Linda Keene, and the pin is a stylized "LK." When I walk into the scene, I stop and Rogers turns to look at me and says, "Well, what are you waiting for?" and my eye zooms in on the pin. I know what to do. I call Lucy, ("L:K") fly her from Seattle, and the two of us go around town using "my" film equipment to shoot the two of us doing that whole song, singing, dancing and roller skating...just for our own delight....
I looked to see if that pin is actually in the film or did my mind just make it up. Nope, it's there. I didn't even recall seeing it, but my subconscious must have and connected it to the world...
I have a good friend named Lucy Krawinkel who, at present, lives in Seattle. Need to know this for the story.
In the dream I'm going to different places here in A2, and surprisingly, at different times, people come up to me and give me film equipment. It's not like I take it home; I leave in the places where it was given to me, and I know that no one will touch it, and I leave it there, knowing it's mine. Lenses, cameras, lights, dollys, you name it. This goes on for weeks. One night, I'm lying half-asleep on my little loveseat in front of the TV, while the Astaire-Rogers movie "Shall We Dance" drones on in the background. Suddenly, the DVD stops right near the beginning of the song "Let's Call The Whole Thing Off," (the potato-pohtatoe, tomato-tomatoe song) This wakes me up. I get up and walk slowly towards the TV with a soundtrack playing, kind of an electronic version of the Pachabel canon, and I walk into the TV, and into the scene. Astaire and Rogers are sitting on a parkbench wearing roller skates, about to do the song. Rogers is wearing a tailored tweed suit coat and skirt, and a kind of womans version of a man's fedora. Underneath the suit coat, Rogers seems to be wearing a black sweater with a jeweled pin right in the center. Rogers' character in the film is named Linda Keene, and the pin is a stylized "LK." When I walk into the scene, I stop and Rogers turns to look at me and says, "Well, what are you waiting for?" and my eye zooms in on the pin. I know what to do. I call Lucy, ("L:K") fly her from Seattle, and the two of us go around town using "my" film equipment to shoot the two of us doing that whole song, singing, dancing and roller skating...just for our own delight....
I looked to see if that pin is actually in the film or did my mind just make it up. Nope, it's there. I didn't even recall seeing it, but my subconscious must have and connected it to the world...
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Naturally...
People expect a post World Series post (hmmm.."post XX post" Odd construction!) outta me, and I may do one, but I think the odd result of this, and the way the Pistons bailed out in this years playoffs, is that I think my overall interest in sports may fade. Not right away, because I have years of background in these things, but I think the long term love of sports and particular teams will decline quicker than I would have thought possible.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Make it? So what
Patrick Stewart is swanning about Ann Arbor these days, going la-la-la in various roles with the Royal Shakespeare Company, undoubtedly making people think about William Shatner and James Spader in a verson of Othello, (think about it...Spader as Iago! You know you want to see it!) whenever he appears on stage!
Fluffy Question of the day: What do I yell at the chrome dome space jockey if I see him across the street? Best answer gets a Fluffy Nod!
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
and...I'm bored stiff!
Well, who'd of thunk that three games in, The World Series is just pretty boring. There is nothing matching the tension of Tigers/Yankees or Cardinals/Mets. So far the two teams are running into a starter in lock-down mode, and that is that, Reyes(!) and Carpenter for Stl, and Rogers for Det. Yawn. Yes, it's true the Detoit starters did this to the Yankees, but there was a lot of tension here because of the potent Yankee lineup could have exploded at any moment! But when Carpenter or Reyes put the clamp down, I had no feeling the Tigers bats would have caught up to them. Ditto for the Cards vs. Rogers. Well, here's hoping the remaining games are less dull.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Ownable!
I see from my sitemeter that people are looking at my old pic of the Jimmy "Spiderman" Allen 45 I have which was posted earlier! Needless to say, this fine relic of '70's Lions memorabilia can be yours, yes yours, for the right amount of shekels! All offers entertained, as long as the Almighty Dollar is involved!
Trivia question of the day: When was the last time you actually played a 45?
Sloggin' Through, one financial trench at a time.
Fluffy Stuffin', another day, another dollar!Although I haven't had the union traumas that Camie (Hi, Vog!) has had lately, it's not as though the coffers of Fluffy Stuffin are overflowin'! Things are bad, and if I don't come up with a pathetically small amount of coin by the 1st, the fluff will be removed from the dryer, and I'll be left livin' under a bridge for Xmas. I have been hackin' away, but my biz opportunities have dried up and things have left me pretty glum. I'm hackin' away, but I need some good Blog Energy to see if the situation can be rectified.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Camie's Good Idea
The post title would be Camie's name on a Zingerman's sandwich!
Here goes her stolen quiz:
1. What time did you get up this morning? 6:49 AM
2. Diamonds or pearls? Diamonds, all the way, baby!
3. What was the last film you saw at the cinema? That last Jet Li movie...whose title I've forgotten already!
4. What is your favorite TV show? Veronica Mars (ditto Fluffy)
5. What do you usually have for breakfast? Coffee with lots of cream. (ditto Fluffy)
6. Favorite cuisine? Deli, Italian
7. What is your middle name? George, after my mother's alcoholic, violent, idiot brother
8. What food do you dislike? Seafood. Can't eat it, partially from allergic reactions.
9. What are your fave colors? Red, Green, Gold
10. What kind of car do you drive? 1998 Hyundai wagon. "The Kimchi Hearse"
11. Favorite sandwich? Big honkin Rueben!
12. What characteristic do you despise? I would say...most human characteristics. Animals, fine!
13. Favorite item of clothing? Khakis
14. If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation? New York
15. What color is your bathroom? White.
16. Favorite brand of clothing? Nothing in particular.
17. Where would you retire to? My entertainment center.
18. What was your most memorable birthday? 3 years ago, a beautiful dinner with friends at an excellent place.
19. Favorite sports to watch? Piston's Basketball. (ditto Fluffy)
20. Furthest place you are sending this? Que?
21. Who do you least expect to send this back to you? Practically anybody!
22. Person you expect to send it back first? Cynnie? Dinners? The Little Man?
23. Favorite saying? Oucha-Maagoucha!
24. When is your birthday? January 31, same day as Ernie Banks, Jackie Robinson and Nolan Ryan.
25. Are you a morning person or a night person? Vampire hours!
26. What is your shoe size? Men's 9 1/2 EEEE
27. Pet: I have a large dustbunny I have named "Otto."
28. What did you want to be when you were little? Rich, or Batman!
29. How are you today? Depressed, crappy, broke, bereft of love.
30. What is your favorite Candy? hmmm..Cashews! or M&M's.
31. What is your favorite flower? Roses!
32. What is a day on the calendar you are looking
forward to? Tomorrow, and tomorrow and tomorrow.... sorry, got nuthin'!
Here goes her stolen quiz:
1. What time did you get up this morning? 6:49 AM
2. Diamonds or pearls? Diamonds, all the way, baby!
3. What was the last film you saw at the cinema? That last Jet Li movie...whose title I've forgotten already!
4. What is your favorite TV show? Veronica Mars (ditto Fluffy)
5. What do you usually have for breakfast? Coffee with lots of cream. (ditto Fluffy)
6. Favorite cuisine? Deli, Italian
7. What is your middle name? George, after my mother's alcoholic, violent, idiot brother
8. What food do you dislike? Seafood. Can't eat it, partially from allergic reactions.
9. What are your fave colors? Red, Green, Gold
10. What kind of car do you drive? 1998 Hyundai wagon. "The Kimchi Hearse"
11. Favorite sandwich? Big honkin Rueben!
12. What characteristic do you despise? I would say...most human characteristics. Animals, fine!
13. Favorite item of clothing? Khakis
14. If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation? New York
15. What color is your bathroom? White.
16. Favorite brand of clothing? Nothing in particular.
17. Where would you retire to? My entertainment center.
18. What was your most memorable birthday? 3 years ago, a beautiful dinner with friends at an excellent place.
19. Favorite sports to watch? Piston's Basketball. (ditto Fluffy)
20. Furthest place you are sending this? Que?
21. Who do you least expect to send this back to you? Practically anybody!
22. Person you expect to send it back first? Cynnie? Dinners? The Little Man?
23. Favorite saying? Oucha-Maagoucha!
24. When is your birthday? January 31, same day as Ernie Banks, Jackie Robinson and Nolan Ryan.
25. Are you a morning person or a night person? Vampire hours!
26. What is your shoe size? Men's 9 1/2 EEEE
27. Pet: I have a large dustbunny I have named "Otto."
28. What did you want to be when you were little? Rich, or Batman!
29. How are you today? Depressed, crappy, broke, bereft of love.
30. What is your favorite Candy? hmmm..Cashews! or M&M's.
31. What is your favorite flower? Roses!
32. What is a day on the calendar you are looking
forward to? Tomorrow, and tomorrow and tomorrow.... sorry, got nuthin'!
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Yeah!
Like CamieVog, I too, celebrate the Tigers 2006 AL Pennant! Unbelievable! We now await the victor between the Mets and the Cardinals, with the Cards up 2-1 at present. But the Cardinals prevail I am ready! Here we have a cardboard premium from 1968 which I got a local grocery store! You're supposed to cut it out and fold it and then put the little pennant in the mouth! When I mentioned this thing to my Cardinal-loving friend Lucy, (mistakenly thinking the thing in the mouth was a little Cardinal, not a pennant) I realized I have a few of these things, unpunched(!) from when I was a wee lad! Enjoy!
Here we have the front cover:
And the two inside pages, ready for your scissors!
and the back cover! Thanks Farmer Jack in 1968!
If the Mets win, take pennant, cross out "Cardinals", and replace with "Mets!" Thank you for your cooperation, and go Tigers!
Here we have the front cover:
And the two inside pages, ready for your scissors!
and the back cover! Thanks Farmer Jack in 1968!
If the Mets win, take pennant, cross out "Cardinals", and replace with "Mets!" Thank you for your cooperation, and go Tigers!
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Knock, knock goes the subconscious mind
Now, Ron, you're not going to make everyone stare at Don Mossi on the top of the blog all day are you?
uhhhh...I hadn't thought about it.
There! How's that, better?
Yeah, thanks a lot Ginger!
Have a Cool Friday
We've got a number one!
Well, The Detroit Tigers are in the playoffs, which still sort of has me stunned. After many years of being way on the other side of bad, we're...in...the...playoffs.
What tha?!? We beat the Yankees you say? Land O' Goshen! We're half way to the World Series? Shussh, don't jink it!
A few years Bill James (or Mrs. Bill James?) picked the all-time ugliest player ever: '50's Tiger pitcher Don Mossi. No offense to Don; he was a cool pitcher, but my I agree with my esteemed colleague! Enjoy Game 3!
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Train in vain
Couldn't sleep again, so I thought hangin out on the front porch in the night quiet would crack open the door on the land of nod. But the trains were doing their nightly shuffle not 50 feet away so no quiet tonight! I wish that I could have painted it though...headlamp coming through the fog, the only thing you see for some time... then the lumbering (literally!) beasty blasts through, off to make Arthur Daniels Midland happy. The trees seemed happy to see it go...Perhaps I am prematurely excited over the Tigers win in the 1st playoff game with the A's last night...or I'm just cracking up naturally...Any of you Blogsters got some spare coffee to send an old Train Watcher? I'm near empty, and how can life continue with stimulants? ;-)
Someday a post composed of nothing but Movie Quotes or Song Lyrics, I promise!
Someday a post composed of nothing but Movie Quotes or Song Lyrics, I promise!
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Awesomeness!
This vid has been makin' me happy for several days now...make sure you watch the finale! Ladies and Gentlemen, The Nicolas Brothers...
Monday, October 02, 2006
Ein Peking, ein confit, ein L'Orange!!!
This one is for Cynnie, who had a brief post about dreaming the other day. After I read it -- my 'dream mind' kicked in!
It was very early or very late depending on your point of view. I sat on my front step with a perfect cup of coffee and a perfect croisant, waiting for the dawn. I knew I had to have a serious talk with the dawn, a talk I didn't want to have. Fortunately, I was spared this burden by the arrival of the Government man, who brought with him a large dossier and the unspoken assumption that I would do something about this.
Reading the reports in the folder, I was quite saddened. Someone was catching Ann Arbor's ducks, tattooing a swastika on their butts which, in dream logic, was turning them into Nazis. Hell I knew things were getting bad but I thought the ducks were just becoming neo-cons, not full-on goosesteppers!
Now I knew that they couldn't convert Ol' A2, but they would bring the OrangeClad With Permits which would be a Duckendammerung of our waterfoul, bad enough, but they would go home with just a touch of Treetown Socialism, bringing to counties that just wouldn't understand. I couldn't let our mallards become a Trotskite Fifth Column, even though they thought they were the Ducks from Brazil1
A montage began. Me, talking to ducks in a pond while I'm floating in an inner tube, talking to ducks in a hookah bar, talking to ducks strolling through the center of campus Thinking the Great Thoughts, talking to ducks under blankets at yet another frozen Michigan game...jaw, jaw, jaw instead of war, war, war, I thought. After much persuasion, some federal funding for homeless ducks, and some duck baksheesh, ( don't ask...but Canada will pay, oh, yes...) we got them to have a purge of their peers with the Chaplin moustaches. Only one problem remained.
Through an exhausting explanation, with photos, timing charts, and overhead ariel comparisons, the ducks were able to show me how off Ann Arbor's buses were from their posted arrival times, and if this were not corrected...some dire threat was hinted at, worse than 'mere' Nazism!
I finally had to ask: Why do you care about this? A duck pulled me aside and told me, "In dreams ducks always care about mass public transportation." A commission was set up forthwith...
And that's why they're dreams...
It was very early or very late depending on your point of view. I sat on my front step with a perfect cup of coffee and a perfect croisant, waiting for the dawn. I knew I had to have a serious talk with the dawn, a talk I didn't want to have. Fortunately, I was spared this burden by the arrival of the Government man, who brought with him a large dossier and the unspoken assumption that I would do something about this.
Reading the reports in the folder, I was quite saddened. Someone was catching Ann Arbor's ducks, tattooing a swastika on their butts which, in dream logic, was turning them into Nazis. Hell I knew things were getting bad but I thought the ducks were just becoming neo-cons, not full-on goosesteppers!
Now I knew that they couldn't convert Ol' A2, but they would bring the OrangeClad With Permits which would be a Duckendammerung of our waterfoul, bad enough, but they would go home with just a touch of Treetown Socialism, bringing to counties that just wouldn't understand. I couldn't let our mallards become a Trotskite Fifth Column, even though they thought they were the Ducks from Brazil1
A montage began. Me, talking to ducks in a pond while I'm floating in an inner tube, talking to ducks in a hookah bar, talking to ducks strolling through the center of campus Thinking the Great Thoughts, talking to ducks under blankets at yet another frozen Michigan game...jaw, jaw, jaw instead of war, war, war, I thought. After much persuasion, some federal funding for homeless ducks, and some duck baksheesh, ( don't ask...but Canada will pay, oh, yes...) we got them to have a purge of their peers with the Chaplin moustaches. Only one problem remained.
Through an exhausting explanation, with photos, timing charts, and overhead ariel comparisons, the ducks were able to show me how off Ann Arbor's buses were from their posted arrival times, and if this were not corrected...some dire threat was hinted at, worse than 'mere' Nazism!
I finally had to ask: Why do you care about this? A duck pulled me aside and told me, "In dreams ducks always care about mass public transportation." A commission was set up forthwith...
And that's why they're dreams...
Friday, September 29, 2006
A matter of a difference of preference
Over at the wonderful Sundries -- which you should be reading daily! -- Victoria and I had a minor disagreement of the merits of Scarlett Johannson in her interesting post on Vamps. While she and I may disagree, we here at Fluffy Stuffin can find many reasons to support our claims for Ms. Johannsons' talents.
Here, for example, are at least two.
Monday, September 25, 2006
Pining for Love(seat)
It's late and I'm up. Sigh. I kinda knew this would happen today, as sleeping was hammered into me in none-too-pleasant ways, and at indeterminate times. I had a couple of friends over this past weekend, and it was truly a festival of eating. Not that I mind, given how bland and depressing my diet has been due to lack of food diversity, (which is due to lack of money) but I've been oddly training my body to eat less, so when these events occur, they tend to knock me over. I suppose I could endure this but the whole problem is made worse by the fact that there is no really comfortable place in my house. The futon is a mess, the loveset way too small, the dining room chairs too stiff; even the rocker is not enjoyable as it once was, and it's the most comfy thing in the house! Even the bed isn't really comfortable anymore, now feeling so stiff I pile on blankets to produce a 'comfy' effect, which doesn't work as well as you'd hope.
So there isn't really good, relaxing sleep, as I said, it seems to be pounded into me, but always with difficulties. Crashing occurs, but it doesn't feel like good sleep, and I'm never really refreshed by it.
I only write this to observe my own thoughts on the need for a Comfy Chair! And how much such a thing would make the Engines of State perform that much better!
And the whole thing makes me laugh just thinking of it!
So there isn't really good, relaxing sleep, as I said, it seems to be pounded into me, but always with difficulties. Crashing occurs, but it doesn't feel like good sleep, and I'm never really refreshed by it.
I only write this to observe my own thoughts on the need for a Comfy Chair! And how much such a thing would make the Engines of State perform that much better!
And the whole thing makes me laugh just thinking of it!
Friday, September 22, 2006
Hi. I'm Ronnie Cash.
For the 100th post in the History of Fluffy Stuffin' I give you a bit o' the Man in Black!
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Got up, couldn't write that post, wrote this one instead
I had a post that my noodlenoggin thought would be good, but when I saw it 'on paper', it looked like crap! I just couldn't send that spew of electrons out into the world, so here I am at 6:13AM, all ready to blog but with nuthin' to say...
So...whatcha up to? Is that right? Hell, I love that too! That's just the best, especially with that caramel sauce crap, even better. I mean, I always wanted a series of breakfast cereals that you should have to set on fire to actually enjoy; Cherries Jubilee, Baked Alaska, Bananas Foster. Christ, who wouldn't enjoy Bananas Foster for breakfast? Hell, how come they haven't made Bacon flavored cereal? Fuckin' A!
Christ, Hell, Fuck...It's a good morning! [drains sluggo coffee] Ahh...[not enough milk for cereal, we indulge in cheese and crackers for breakfast]
Yep...
Sun's still not up yet...maybe I can still get in some snoozin, even after a mug of Joe...yeah, snoozin...zzzzzzzzzzzzzz
So...whatcha up to? Is that right? Hell, I love that too! That's just the best, especially with that caramel sauce crap, even better. I mean, I always wanted a series of breakfast cereals that you should have to set on fire to actually enjoy; Cherries Jubilee, Baked Alaska, Bananas Foster. Christ, who wouldn't enjoy Bananas Foster for breakfast? Hell, how come they haven't made Bacon flavored cereal? Fuckin' A!
Christ, Hell, Fuck...It's a good morning! [drains sluggo coffee] Ahh...[not enough milk for cereal, we indulge in cheese and crackers for breakfast]
Yep...
Sun's still not up yet...maybe I can still get in some snoozin, even after a mug of Joe...yeah, snoozin...zzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Sunday, September 17, 2006
A man may kill the Bloody Hun, but a woman's work...
I spotted this one on StrategyPage today:
September 17, 2006: India has formed the first all-female police unit for peacekeeping. India has had female police officers for decades, and peacekeeping commanders have long noted that the presence of female police would be a big advantage. That's because, in many parts of the world, the women are more willing to discuss important information with a female peacekeeper, than a male one. Moreover, women tend to be victimized by the violence more than the men. In these areas, the women are already familiar with the concept of female cops, thanks to the availability of cheap (pirated) tapes and CDs of Western TV shows and movies. The female police company will have 125 female cops, who will have received peacekeeping training. This includes the use of assault rifles and riot control. All of these policewomen have at least several years experience in India. Their first assignment will be Liberia.
The question I ask those of us who know her: WWCD? What Would Camie Do? Would she go for the assault rifle and riot control training? Or would being in Kofi's Angels just be too damn depressing? I have here your topic. Talk amongst yourselves. Discuss.
The question I ask those of us who know her: WWCD? What Would Camie Do? Would she go for the assault rifle and riot control training? Or would being in Kofi's Angels just be too damn depressing? I have here your topic. Talk amongst yourselves. Discuss.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Don't see the cathedral, be the cathedral
That whole thing I wrote the other day about the savory and the sweet; it's been buzzin around in my cabbage. What was I thinking? Why was I thinking it? But then it hit me; I was goin' back and kickin' it truly Old School: Plato. My conversation was an echo of one of those big epistimological Steel Cage Matches that's be goin' on for, literally, millenia. But I'm not here now to talk about that. God knows I could bather on here for way too long! No, what I'm here to say is that I'm very happy I wrote that post, and a few days later, saw why I did what I did. This is the way I've always wanted to read and think. They're not books to me, they're friends who are in the process of a long beatdown of the stupid out of me. I'm not even sure I like people who "read books." Don't go through the University of Paint Booth and get a nice baked-on enamel of culture. If it's any good at all, it's got to make you destroyed, disfunctional,dangerous. Let it do all that and then make it your own! Sand off what sticks out, polish it, buff it, weld this onto that to make you one of those, and fall in love with that. Keep doing that until you can't keep doing that anymore. Flood over your banks like the Nile, just give it away, out of raw excess. You can't keep it in any longer, you've got a hundred children to father all at once, and hording is for nerds. Then one day you wake up and realize you haven't "read Kant," Kant is this part of you over here, more attached to you than your pinky. You don't refer to your pinky by some external name do you? Of course not! My point -- exactly.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
I'll Join in the fun!
Picking up -- sort of -- on a meme started by The Blond Badger Lawprof of Madison, Ann Althouse and further enhanced by the William Powell of New England Furniture Makers, Sippican, I show off some old 45's. I have no idea if they're too scratched to play or not, but here goes!
Leading off, in a color that doesn't occur in nature, Kraftwork!
with sleeve!
45's that commemorate successful seasons of The Detroit Lions are only slightly rarer than piano rolls that praise successful Polish tank engagements in WWII, but here is Jimmy "Spiderman" Allen doing "Another One Bites The Dust!"
O Wendy, we hardly knew ye! With Lemmy, covering "Stand By Your Man."
I never doubt why I have an Ex. At the height of the worst of things, I actually bought this to play on 'our' stereo everyday, just to create banshee howls of discomfort! I may have to appear before the Geneva Convention.
Foolish Mortals at way-too-square computer companies I worked for let me make the Christmas Party mix tapes. This was one of my headliners. They were always gratified when I'd end the tape with the DK's "Too Drunk to Fuck!"
Leading off, in a color that doesn't occur in nature, Kraftwork!
with sleeve!
45's that commemorate successful seasons of The Detroit Lions are only slightly rarer than piano rolls that praise successful Polish tank engagements in WWII, but here is Jimmy "Spiderman" Allen doing "Another One Bites The Dust!"
O Wendy, we hardly knew ye! With Lemmy, covering "Stand By Your Man."
I never doubt why I have an Ex. At the height of the worst of things, I actually bought this to play on 'our' stereo everyday, just to create banshee howls of discomfort! I may have to appear before the Geneva Convention.
Foolish Mortals at way-too-square computer companies I worked for let me make the Christmas Party mix tapes. This was one of my headliners. They were always gratified when I'd end the tape with the DK's "Too Drunk to Fuck!"
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Fluffy Thoughts on Writing and Living
The savory and the sweet. Let me talk about that for a bit. These two things are not all there is to me, but they are probably the best way I summerize how I can get by with the world. The sweet is all robins egg blue, end-of-summer memories, clear, clean ozone-laden smells, a resonant tone throughout all of me, a me that I like, a me that I'd like to stay for at least a while, a me that's happy. It's the me I want to give to others; it's not a selfish happiness. It's a me that's both gracious and gentle, sympathetic and empathetic. Of course, since it's a me that wants to be happy all the time, it's a me that's a liar. That's where the savory comes in, all the sugar crystals get dissolved by the various acids of the savory. The savory is where all the tools dwell, the sharp, the quick, the vitriolic, the bilious. It destroys because it must destroy, it must get better and better at destroying. It doesn't want things to be destroyed though; it wants what is true. Destroying is a mere prelude to creating, but a necessary prelude. The dross of what was there before would keep you from seeing, from growing, from pushing yourself into your discomfort zone; that's why all the venom.
Both the sweet and the savory fall into their own egomanical self-delusions; that's why they need each other, just to bring each other back to earth. They're the squabbling couple in the next room, whom you only hear when you press your ear to the door. You're sucked in like an old gossip, you can't not listen, it's too juicy. But what are they saying to each other? Why is it so loud sometimes, so quiet others? Why can you hear how they say things even if you don't know what they're saying, and why do you impart meaning to that how?
That's the function I provide, I think, when I write. It's my ear to the wall, fingertips delicately balanced there, embarrassed at my self-discovery if the sweet and the savory were to burst through the door, where I could see them, even though you'd think you could then talk to them directly, it just never seems to work out that way...
Too much sweet and I can't be honest with you reader. Too much savory and I can't write at all, and can barely live. With proper cooking techniques, the pages will emerge.
Both the sweet and the savory fall into their own egomanical self-delusions; that's why they need each other, just to bring each other back to earth. They're the squabbling couple in the next room, whom you only hear when you press your ear to the door. You're sucked in like an old gossip, you can't not listen, it's too juicy. But what are they saying to each other? Why is it so loud sometimes, so quiet others? Why can you hear how they say things even if you don't know what they're saying, and why do you impart meaning to that how?
That's the function I provide, I think, when I write. It's my ear to the wall, fingertips delicately balanced there, embarrassed at my self-discovery if the sweet and the savory were to burst through the door, where I could see them, even though you'd think you could then talk to them directly, it just never seems to work out that way...
Too much sweet and I can't be honest with you reader. Too much savory and I can't write at all, and can barely live. With proper cooking techniques, the pages will emerge.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Ah...
Relaxin'... I'm a bit sore cause I slept the wrong way, but what of it?
Coffee's done, a late breakfast will be made, and perhaps the paper will be read, if I can find one. For some reason fleets of Harleys are rolling past my door, but my mood is good enough, so roll on, brothers! I have errands to run, but we'll get there when we do.
and how's your morning? Things here are just fine!
Coffee's done, a late breakfast will be made, and perhaps the paper will be read, if I can find one. For some reason fleets of Harleys are rolling past my door, but my mood is good enough, so roll on, brothers! I have errands to run, but we'll get there when we do.
and how's your morning? Things here are just fine!
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Boom-shaka-laca-laca, Boom-shaka-laca-laca!
Here at Le Monde du Fluffy Stuffin, we are indeed very grateful that C.Vog's illness she spoke to me of yesterday was not indeed the mumps! So, to celebrate, we play for her...
Sly-va and The Family Stone!
Sly-va and The Family Stone!
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Thursday, August 24, 2006
The Fang Inquistor
See that fang-like thing on the yellow Post-It backdrop? Looks like a broken tooth doesn't it? Well, that's exactly what it is. More specifically, that's a part of my tooth. It fell out of my head today, too corrupt, too morally impure to stay in my head. The teeth that remain are the true Siberian cossacks; tough on top of tough, ready to schvitz in a gallon of Coke Blak if the Holy Mother insists on it and laugh while doing it.
Hell, this is Quisling isn't even the weak part of the same tooth; the other side might as well be wearing a grass skirt and telling the story of my life with its' hands for all the wiggling around it does in there. Where's my Dremel tool?
Although I have been known to fancy myself a Prince Myshkin type, I have no desire to bound up in some Dental Gulag of Despair; I'd LOVE a nice gleaming Autobahn of choppers, choppers I could rip Roger Moore's arm off with! (no chrome though -- maybe stucco!) So before I get the usual blah blah blah scolding: I don't have a dental plan, never have as an adult, and my father 'didn't believe in it' when everything could have been done for free back when Mustangs and Corvettes ruled the earth and I was knee high to an AC Cobra! I also lack money in vast quantites. I try to put a positive spin on things; one missing fanglet is not a 'missing tooth' but a Clitoral Port! But things continue to fall out of my head and soon I'll be an Honorary Pogue.
If I really thought a 'begging' site would work, I have a name for mine. The Fish Fang Fund. A Google map would be overlayed on each tooth, and clicking on it would reveal the state of that tooth. I might even use the Homeland Security Color Coding System with each one; it might be its first sensible use. As donations came in, I would go get the appropriate work done, complete with pictures and a narrative! (I do have a dentist whom I've used in dire situations, who's pretty cool, so a shout-out to Santine!) And when I'm finished? I'd either donate the subsequent funds to a general purpose dental fund, or perhaps pass on The Great Pirate Roberts title to someone else equally deserving...
Ah, well, pass the vodka and blinis...
Rest In Peace, Small Fluffy Bit of Ron
Saturday, August 19, 2006
and did those feet in ancient times?
There was something interesting in the way that Herr Dinners had written a post today, and then I made myself a cheese sandwich, lie down and started a bit of a snooze and started dreaming...
Camie really wanted to go to England to visit Mr. Dinners, and I wanted to give her a gift to celebrate the arrival of Camie 2: The Offspring. I was able to scrounge up a two-seat Me-109 German fighter at a rummage sale, which I only agreed to get if the owner were able to attach an air-to-air refueling probe onto it, which they did. My price? Only a half-pint of blood. Off to England we flew, hitting a US tanker only twice on the way over!
We were the only ones able to land at Heathrow, because we had no hair gel on us. Camie had chosen to style her hair like John Entwhistle circa 1965, and my hairs are individually named, so no gel is required. We were able to park our plane in 'the Nazi terminal.' A policeman came out to meet us; he was the only person we saw. His name? I swear to God -- Dickhead Bobbie.
Dickhead Bobbie wanted to know who we had come to see, and when we said we were looking for FourDinners, who actually works here, he said, "Yessir, you want to head towards the Cotswalds, you do."
"The Cotswalds?"
"Yes sir, by law all airport workers are required to live in the Cotswalds."
"Is that nearby?"
"Oh no, it's quite far. You'll be needing a Range Rover, sir."
"We don't have one, Mr. Bobbie, is it?"
"Just Dickhead will do, sir. I'll fetch one for you, sir, just a minute." He then walked out into busy traffic, found a Range Rover with 6 Arabic men inside, pulled them over, beat the stuffing out of them, gave us their car, and handstamped them 'to France.' SAS men took them out of the country. We thanked Dickhead and drove off.
We headed towards FourDinners place in the Cotswalds, with our own SAS man on the roof of the Range Rover who had a shotgun and a sniper rifle. His job was to pop the occasional Welsh or Scotsman who would randomly appear like grouse, and generally be a distraction from proper tourists such as ourselves.
We finally arrived at what looked like several dozen shipping crates just scattered about in a very lovely country setting. But when we went inside the place seemed huge, complete with Georgian furniture, Copley and Turner paintings, wonderful design throughout. FourDinners appeared, looking like a cross between Shane McGowan and Alistaire Cooke. I asked where the family was, and he said "They wouldn't be caught dead in a dump like this. They live near the airport" He invited us to the local pub.
The pub was an ingenious place; all beer was brewed on the roof, and feed down below via plastic tubes, which were everywhere, so you just had to open the tap and get your own beer, including a brew that expectant mothers could get sloshed on without negative consequences to the baby! No matter where I turned I was able to find a plastic tube with The Exact Beer I Wanted, and in the right quantities. We were quite happy, but the food wasn't something I would feed to hogs! Camie was able to explain the glories of The Bloomin' Onion, and I showed off my fajita making skills. We even taught them to make a deliberately bad kind of fish and chips, just so Camie's husbands' brother would show up on his birthday! We strung little chili lights throughout the bar.
And then...when we were about to leave...my phone rang, ending my reverie...but perhaps I will return to it.
Camie really wanted to go to England to visit Mr. Dinners, and I wanted to give her a gift to celebrate the arrival of Camie 2: The Offspring. I was able to scrounge up a two-seat Me-109 German fighter at a rummage sale, which I only agreed to get if the owner were able to attach an air-to-air refueling probe onto it, which they did. My price? Only a half-pint of blood. Off to England we flew, hitting a US tanker only twice on the way over!
We were the only ones able to land at Heathrow, because we had no hair gel on us. Camie had chosen to style her hair like John Entwhistle circa 1965, and my hairs are individually named, so no gel is required. We were able to park our plane in 'the Nazi terminal.' A policeman came out to meet us; he was the only person we saw. His name? I swear to God -- Dickhead Bobbie.
Dickhead Bobbie wanted to know who we had come to see, and when we said we were looking for FourDinners, who actually works here, he said, "Yessir, you want to head towards the Cotswalds, you do."
"The Cotswalds?"
"Yes sir, by law all airport workers are required to live in the Cotswalds."
"Is that nearby?"
"Oh no, it's quite far. You'll be needing a Range Rover, sir."
"We don't have one, Mr. Bobbie, is it?"
"Just Dickhead will do, sir. I'll fetch one for you, sir, just a minute." He then walked out into busy traffic, found a Range Rover with 6 Arabic men inside, pulled them over, beat the stuffing out of them, gave us their car, and handstamped them 'to France.' SAS men took them out of the country. We thanked Dickhead and drove off.
We headed towards FourDinners place in the Cotswalds, with our own SAS man on the roof of the Range Rover who had a shotgun and a sniper rifle. His job was to pop the occasional Welsh or Scotsman who would randomly appear like grouse, and generally be a distraction from proper tourists such as ourselves.
We finally arrived at what looked like several dozen shipping crates just scattered about in a very lovely country setting. But when we went inside the place seemed huge, complete with Georgian furniture, Copley and Turner paintings, wonderful design throughout. FourDinners appeared, looking like a cross between Shane McGowan and Alistaire Cooke. I asked where the family was, and he said "They wouldn't be caught dead in a dump like this. They live near the airport" He invited us to the local pub.
The pub was an ingenious place; all beer was brewed on the roof, and feed down below via plastic tubes, which were everywhere, so you just had to open the tap and get your own beer, including a brew that expectant mothers could get sloshed on without negative consequences to the baby! No matter where I turned I was able to find a plastic tube with The Exact Beer I Wanted, and in the right quantities. We were quite happy, but the food wasn't something I would feed to hogs! Camie was able to explain the glories of The Bloomin' Onion, and I showed off my fajita making skills. We even taught them to make a deliberately bad kind of fish and chips, just so Camie's husbands' brother would show up on his birthday! We strung little chili lights throughout the bar.
And then...when we were about to leave...my phone rang, ending my reverie...but perhaps I will return to it.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
The Wendy Story, Part 8
A bit of love from the kids...
Feldspar's grandson, Thomas Jefferson Airplane "Stinky" Mjolner, came back from his first year at Yale with a profound insight: that the Oedipal origin of the family's wealth was a plot "worthy of Aaron Spelling." This was completely lost on Feldspar, whose reaction was to monitor the college fund a bit more carefully. His granddaughter, Flora June "JuneBug" Mjolner, spent years in a Cervantes-like struggle to, simultaneously turn The Mill on the Floss into a screenplay and rid herself of a nasty Crystal Meth addiction. Neither of these Augean Tasks would prevent Flora June from becoming one of New York's most successful criminal attorneys in the early 21 century, but Feldspar was not to see this.
Feldspar spent years in an attempt to find the right recipe for familial contentment. Why pot roast and "Dragnet" would make anyone get along with anyone else was lost on the grandkids, and his clumsy attempts to please them were their only point of gleeful connection. As puberty occurred, they each took increased pleasure in confounding Feldspar with some sort of intellectual activity that Meant A Great Deal to Them. Never knowing when he was being made fun of, Feldspar would strike back, seemingly randomly, which left everyone confused and afraid.
The stakes were raised when Flora June arranged T.J.A.'s 21th birthday party. Calling upon Feldspar to apply some pressure through his control of the Mjolner Chair for Olflatory Study, a platoon of the prettiest cheerleaders of the Ivy League, in their uniforms, led T.J.A. from his bedroom through the house to the main garden where Feldspar and Flora June were seated on cartoony thrones, a breastwork of presents making it hard for him to approach them. While being oblivious to the dozens of highly educated bosoms bouncing around him, he stammered his teary approval, almost happy for, well, the first time ever. But Flora June was not done; from the back of the garden came Egyptian-style litter bearers, led by the most heavily-muscled men Flora June could find, each carrying an incense brazier with a giant size version of the "Pretty Kitty" Mjolner Incense Burner #16A at the top. The Kiwi-Strawberry smell crushed the more delicate scent of the new June roses. Playing against type, a drag queen with a face terrifyingly like Dietrich stepped out of the litter in a Wagnerian horned helmet and breastplate that would have done Kirstin Flagstead proud. Producing a huge hammer with a large stone head out of a rough hewn wooden box carried out of the litter by two of the brazier bearers, the drag queen met his eyes as he passed it to T.J.A. intoning in his best Dietrich rasp, "Now you are a man." T.J.A.'s blushing, shocked face turned to meet Feldspar's now-clued-in glare and he burst into tears while he ran back into the house parting the cheerleaders like the Red Sea. Days of childish shouting matches were followed by weeks of silence during The Price is Right, which were, in turn, followed by years of generating Caribbean vacations for family counselors throughout Manhattan, all of which produced nothing. Nothing at all.
Flora June did not escape unscathed. Smugly technophobic, occasionally Neo-Gothic, her grand writing project taking the place of joyous human interaction, Flora June's final push was crafted in T.J.A.'s mind and heart for years. On her 25th birthday, a 25 layer cake 12 feet tall. dominated the dining hall. It was an elaborate thing this cake; each layer had candles that ignited from a remote in T.J.A's hand, the color of each layer of flame inching its way up the spectrum. When it was time to ignite the very large candle at the top, the "one to grow on" in T.J.A.'s words, a series of whirs and clicks dropped the outer shell to reveal Flora June's handwritten copy of her screenplay. It was, of course, the only copy; for her art's sake alone it couldn't be any other way. With the highest-pitched scream anyone in the room had ever heard, Flora June made a major tactical error in bolting for the cake and not T.J.A. He had anticipated this and calmly waited while she comically tried to climb the cake, her body-wracking sobs and pleas destroying her electric blue Valentino gown in a sea of Banana and Oreo flavored frosting. He timed it perfectly; the blowtorch descending from the nether regions of the Norman Mailer piñata directly over the cake (he knew how much she hated him, and she positively squealed with delight earlier in the evening at the prospect of beating him with a stick.) igniting the white phosphorus surrounding the rolled parchment so quickly, not even ashes remained. It would be the 8th and next-to-last time that Feldspar would physically beat T.J.A., but it was far from the last time Flora June would hide in the Bowery for days. The dealers were always delighted when she arrived; plenty of money, no hassles, always wanting the best. And she got it.
Feldspar's grandson, Thomas Jefferson Airplane "Stinky" Mjolner, came back from his first year at Yale with a profound insight: that the Oedipal origin of the family's wealth was a plot "worthy of Aaron Spelling." This was completely lost on Feldspar, whose reaction was to monitor the college fund a bit more carefully. His granddaughter, Flora June "JuneBug" Mjolner, spent years in a Cervantes-like struggle to, simultaneously turn The Mill on the Floss into a screenplay and rid herself of a nasty Crystal Meth addiction. Neither of these Augean Tasks would prevent Flora June from becoming one of New York's most successful criminal attorneys in the early 21 century, but Feldspar was not to see this.
Feldspar spent years in an attempt to find the right recipe for familial contentment. Why pot roast and "Dragnet" would make anyone get along with anyone else was lost on the grandkids, and his clumsy attempts to please them were their only point of gleeful connection. As puberty occurred, they each took increased pleasure in confounding Feldspar with some sort of intellectual activity that Meant A Great Deal to Them. Never knowing when he was being made fun of, Feldspar would strike back, seemingly randomly, which left everyone confused and afraid.
The stakes were raised when Flora June arranged T.J.A.'s 21th birthday party. Calling upon Feldspar to apply some pressure through his control of the Mjolner Chair for Olflatory Study, a platoon of the prettiest cheerleaders of the Ivy League, in their uniforms, led T.J.A. from his bedroom through the house to the main garden where Feldspar and Flora June were seated on cartoony thrones, a breastwork of presents making it hard for him to approach them. While being oblivious to the dozens of highly educated bosoms bouncing around him, he stammered his teary approval, almost happy for, well, the first time ever. But Flora June was not done; from the back of the garden came Egyptian-style litter bearers, led by the most heavily-muscled men Flora June could find, each carrying an incense brazier with a giant size version of the "Pretty Kitty" Mjolner Incense Burner #16A at the top. The Kiwi-Strawberry smell crushed the more delicate scent of the new June roses. Playing against type, a drag queen with a face terrifyingly like Dietrich stepped out of the litter in a Wagnerian horned helmet and breastplate that would have done Kirstin Flagstead proud. Producing a huge hammer with a large stone head out of a rough hewn wooden box carried out of the litter by two of the brazier bearers, the drag queen met his eyes as he passed it to T.J.A. intoning in his best Dietrich rasp, "Now you are a man." T.J.A.'s blushing, shocked face turned to meet Feldspar's now-clued-in glare and he burst into tears while he ran back into the house parting the cheerleaders like the Red Sea. Days of childish shouting matches were followed by weeks of silence during The Price is Right, which were, in turn, followed by years of generating Caribbean vacations for family counselors throughout Manhattan, all of which produced nothing. Nothing at all.
Flora June did not escape unscathed. Smugly technophobic, occasionally Neo-Gothic, her grand writing project taking the place of joyous human interaction, Flora June's final push was crafted in T.J.A.'s mind and heart for years. On her 25th birthday, a 25 layer cake 12 feet tall. dominated the dining hall. It was an elaborate thing this cake; each layer had candles that ignited from a remote in T.J.A's hand, the color of each layer of flame inching its way up the spectrum. When it was time to ignite the very large candle at the top, the "one to grow on" in T.J.A.'s words, a series of whirs and clicks dropped the outer shell to reveal Flora June's handwritten copy of her screenplay. It was, of course, the only copy; for her art's sake alone it couldn't be any other way. With the highest-pitched scream anyone in the room had ever heard, Flora June made a major tactical error in bolting for the cake and not T.J.A. He had anticipated this and calmly waited while she comically tried to climb the cake, her body-wracking sobs and pleas destroying her electric blue Valentino gown in a sea of Banana and Oreo flavored frosting. He timed it perfectly; the blowtorch descending from the nether regions of the Norman Mailer piñata directly over the cake (he knew how much she hated him, and she positively squealed with delight earlier in the evening at the prospect of beating him with a stick.) igniting the white phosphorus surrounding the rolled parchment so quickly, not even ashes remained. It would be the 8th and next-to-last time that Feldspar would physically beat T.J.A., but it was far from the last time Flora June would hide in the Bowery for days. The dealers were always delighted when she arrived; plenty of money, no hassles, always wanting the best. And she got it.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
The Wendy Story, Part 7
...and we come back from the distant past, to Feldspar in the present...
In 1942, Feldspar Mjolner surprised the entire family by announcing his intention to enter the service. His intense desire to see the Pacific theater was surpassed only by the Army's bureaucratic will to keep him a file clerk, first in Texas, than in 1944, in England. When he was caught trying to rape the daughter of a Welsh longshoreman, he was exiled to Scapa Flow as a liaison officer. Howling to his Congressman got him sent to France, where he got the clap within a week. When he went into a black unit and demanded the ranking sergeant shine his boots while he went on about how ugly Eleanor Roosevelt was, Feldspar thought he was proving how tough he was to his Southern peers. The near-riot that ensued got him cashiered and sent back to the East Coast until the war ended. Still, The War gave Feldspar a great gift; being the object of envy for everyone who longed for an event in their own lives so profound that it excused every form of self-centered behavior in perpetuum.
Feldspar's son, Jonathan Martial "Binky" Mjolner, checked into the Hanoi Hilton during the Summer of Love because he spent too long listening to the lock-on growl of his Sidewinder and a Mig-15 "Fagot" attacked from the rear with the sun in Binky's eyes. He checked out for a more protracted stay in Arlington during the time in the Paris Peace Talks when they were debating whether the negotiating table should be square or round. When Feldspar finally received word of his son's death, he was secretly relieved that his position of warrior/patriarch would remain unchallenged by someone who had really seen combat. This was unspoken but understood through the family; the years of self-fortification had begun.
By the time of college for his two grandchildren, Feldspar had become a Vauban fortress of ill-temper; calculated, precise, expensive and overwhelming. Raising his two grandchildren was a difficult task made more difficult by virtue of the two kids being considerably smarter than Feldspar before they reached puberty, and made impossible by the kids intense dislike of each other. This troika of problems had made the Mjolner "family" non-existent; but, as in all such families, no one was willing to say as much.
In 1942, Feldspar Mjolner surprised the entire family by announcing his intention to enter the service. His intense desire to see the Pacific theater was surpassed only by the Army's bureaucratic will to keep him a file clerk, first in Texas, than in 1944, in England. When he was caught trying to rape the daughter of a Welsh longshoreman, he was exiled to Scapa Flow as a liaison officer. Howling to his Congressman got him sent to France, where he got the clap within a week. When he went into a black unit and demanded the ranking sergeant shine his boots while he went on about how ugly Eleanor Roosevelt was, Feldspar thought he was proving how tough he was to his Southern peers. The near-riot that ensued got him cashiered and sent back to the East Coast until the war ended. Still, The War gave Feldspar a great gift; being the object of envy for everyone who longed for an event in their own lives so profound that it excused every form of self-centered behavior in perpetuum.
Feldspar's son, Jonathan Martial "Binky" Mjolner, checked into the Hanoi Hilton during the Summer of Love because he spent too long listening to the lock-on growl of his Sidewinder and a Mig-15 "Fagot" attacked from the rear with the sun in Binky's eyes. He checked out for a more protracted stay in Arlington during the time in the Paris Peace Talks when they were debating whether the negotiating table should be square or round. When Feldspar finally received word of his son's death, he was secretly relieved that his position of warrior/patriarch would remain unchallenged by someone who had really seen combat. This was unspoken but understood through the family; the years of self-fortification had begun.
By the time of college for his two grandchildren, Feldspar had become a Vauban fortress of ill-temper; calculated, precise, expensive and overwhelming. Raising his two grandchildren was a difficult task made more difficult by virtue of the two kids being considerably smarter than Feldspar before they reached puberty, and made impossible by the kids intense dislike of each other. This troika of problems had made the Mjolner "family" non-existent; but, as in all such families, no one was willing to say as much.
The Wendy Story, Part 6
We go even further back in time, from Feldspar to the Original Owner of the Maxty Building, which was posted here...
Ransom Waldo Maxty
Ransom Waldo Maxty
Saturday, August 12, 2006
But what about in the coaches poll?
The other day I looked up "stuffin" on Google, and this blog came in at #4! There was much huzzahing in the house of Fluffy! But now I just did it, and I've done slud down to #16! Most of them are Food Network thingies, but I'm now behind "Stuffin Young Muffins", both 3 and 4! Disgraceful! At least I'm ahead of #1 and #2...
I will work on "Stuffin Young Muffins #5" for scale, and will perhaps blog about it!
I will work on "Stuffin Young Muffins #5" for scale, and will perhaps blog about it!
Tip O' The Cap!
One of my last college acquaintances has a blog, OldPanther, and on it she had a cool list to reply to, so here goes! Original question in plaintext, her reply in Bold, and my reply to her reply in Italics:
Comment to this post and:
1. I'll respond with something random about you
You are one of the most intelligent men I know.
Needless to say -- you need to get out more.
2. I'll challenge you to try something
Read The Celestine Prophesies
Crapper book, check! I'll have to retire my Best of Screw collection for awhile then!
3. I'll pick a color that I associate with you
A deep olive green. I don't really know why, but it feels right
The association of myself and Sgt. Rock of Easy Company is a natural one, but in this case I think you're channeling my eerie resemblance to Ian Anderson of Jethro Tull...
4. I'll tell you something I like about you
See number one
You do? I've missed the bowl again! Good thing I AM retiring the Best of Screw...
5. I'll tell you my first/clearest memory of you
Sitting around my kitchen table playing strategic/statistical war games with Gordon, Ed, et.al.
I still own most of them! I remember T.H.E. Football a lot...ask Gordo about it!
6. I'll tell you what animal you remind me of
A blood hound, al la Duke from the Beverly Hillbillies
That's your spouse talkin' there! A blood hound only dreams of having my jowls someday...
7. I'll ask you something I've always wanted to ask you
I can't really thing of anything. I've always asked you anything I've wanted to know.
Cop out! Cop out! C'mon OP, there must be SOMETHING! I have many questions that could be asked of me, which you don't know the answers to, which you might even like to know! Ask me anything! Although I reserve the right to only answer privately, I will answer you truthfully!
8. If I do this for you, you must post this in your journal
This is done. Would you post mine now that you are doubly won? -- slight twist on "Kill" Bill Shakespeare, Alls Well That Ends Well
Comment to this post and:
1. I'll respond with something random about you
You are one of the most intelligent men I know.
Needless to say -- you need to get out more.
2. I'll challenge you to try something
Read The Celestine Prophesies
Crapper book, check! I'll have to retire my Best of Screw collection for awhile then!
3. I'll pick a color that I associate with you
A deep olive green. I don't really know why, but it feels right
The association of myself and Sgt. Rock of Easy Company is a natural one, but in this case I think you're channeling my eerie resemblance to Ian Anderson of Jethro Tull...
4. I'll tell you something I like about you
See number one
You do? I've missed the bowl again! Good thing I AM retiring the Best of Screw...
5. I'll tell you my first/clearest memory of you
Sitting around my kitchen table playing strategic/statistical war games with Gordon, Ed, et.al.
I still own most of them! I remember T.H.E. Football a lot...ask Gordo about it!
6. I'll tell you what animal you remind me of
A blood hound, al la Duke from the Beverly Hillbillies
That's your spouse talkin' there! A blood hound only dreams of having my jowls someday...
7. I'll ask you something I've always wanted to ask you
I can't really thing of anything. I've always asked you anything I've wanted to know.
Cop out! Cop out! C'mon OP, there must be SOMETHING! I have many questions that could be asked of me, which you don't know the answers to, which you might even like to know! Ask me anything! Although I reserve the right to only answer privately, I will answer you truthfully!
8. If I do this for you, you must post this in your journal
This is done. Would you post mine now that you are doubly won? -- slight twist on "Kill" Bill Shakespeare, Alls Well That Ends Well
Friday, August 11, 2006
I take Cammie's Challenge -- Again!
Here be my list!
10 Years Ago: August 1996
When my heart was sore, I started hanging with Camie at her then-place of work...and havin' a blast!
5 Years Ago: August 2001
Was in a deep fog of emotional pain...
1 Year Ago: August 2005
Was/am in worse financial shape than Camie, which has been lobotomizing me one neuron at a time.
5 Songs I know all the words to:
"I'm Putting All My Eggs In One Basket" -- Irving Berlin
"It's Been A Hard Days Night" -- The Beatles
"Kiss Me, Son of God" -- They Might Be Giants
"Freddie's Dead" -- Curtis Mayfield
"Jeepster" -- T.Rex
5 Snacks:
Reduced Fat Ruffles Potato Chips (not NO FAT!)
Cashews
Lightly Salted Peanuts
Zingerman's Corned Beef
Caprese Salad
5 Things I would do with $100,000:
Massive down payment for a house in Ann Arbor -- like Camie!
Get a new car (haven't had one since 1984) -- like Camie!
Get a good education for The Little Man.
Set up The Fabulous Fluffy Travel Fund for me those I deem FluffyWorthy.
Pay back my friends! -- like Camie!
5 Places I would run away to:
Midtown Manhattan
Greenwich Village
Under my covers
Northern Italy
The Old West Side of Ann Arbor
5 Things I would NEVER wear:
My dignity with pride.
Any outfit wore by The Villiage People
A business suit, if I could help it
Clown Shoes with A Tux
A club tie
5 favorite T.V. shows:
Veronica Mars
Gilmore Girls
Washington Journal on Fridays with Brian Lamb
Action
So You Want To Dance and Blow Up Every Reality Show On TV
(written, directed, produced and starring me!)
5(+1) Greatest joys:
My best friend Camie (Vog)
The Little Man, who I bought a Hummer for. ("For us to DRIVE?")
Sandy Bullock
Fred and Ginger
My Novel (which still electrifies me from time to time)
plus a special shout-out to Art Gurl too!
5 Favorite toys:
My digital camera
My Board Games
My Music
My DVD collection
My Maxfield Parrish repro
10 Years Ago: August 1996
When my heart was sore, I started hanging with Camie at her then-place of work...and havin' a blast!
5 Years Ago: August 2001
Was in a deep fog of emotional pain...
1 Year Ago: August 2005
Was/am in worse financial shape than Camie, which has been lobotomizing me one neuron at a time.
5 Songs I know all the words to:
"I'm Putting All My Eggs In One Basket" -- Irving Berlin
"It's Been A Hard Days Night" -- The Beatles
"Kiss Me, Son of God" -- They Might Be Giants
"Freddie's Dead" -- Curtis Mayfield
"Jeepster" -- T.Rex
5 Snacks:
Reduced Fat Ruffles Potato Chips (not NO FAT!)
Cashews
Lightly Salted Peanuts
Zingerman's Corned Beef
Caprese Salad
5 Things I would do with $100,000:
Massive down payment for a house in Ann Arbor -- like Camie!
Get a new car (haven't had one since 1984) -- like Camie!
Get a good education for The Little Man.
Set up The Fabulous Fluffy Travel Fund for me those I deem FluffyWorthy.
Pay back my friends! -- like Camie!
5 Places I would run away to:
Midtown Manhattan
Greenwich Village
Under my covers
Northern Italy
The Old West Side of Ann Arbor
5 Things I would NEVER wear:
My dignity with pride.
Any outfit wore by The Villiage People
A business suit, if I could help it
Clown Shoes with A Tux
A club tie
5 favorite T.V. shows:
Veronica Mars
Gilmore Girls
Washington Journal on Fridays with Brian Lamb
Action
So You Want To Dance and Blow Up Every Reality Show On TV
(written, directed, produced and starring me!)
5(+1) Greatest joys:
My best friend Camie (Vog)
The Little Man, who I bought a Hummer for. ("For us to DRIVE?")
Sandy Bullock
Fred and Ginger
My Novel (which still electrifies me from time to time)
plus a special shout-out to Art Gurl too!
5 Favorite toys:
My digital camera
My Board Games
My Music
My DVD collection
My Maxfield Parrish repro
Monday, August 07, 2006
The Wendy Story, Part 5
We leave Wendy and Ramon for just a tic, as we explore the history of the present owner of the Maxty Building...
Feldspar Mjolner owned the Maxty Building since the late '30's when Old Man Maxty died. Despite several attempts to rename it over the decades, ( Liberty Building, FM Towers, Hammer INC., etc. ) the only name anyone would use was "The Maxty Building." Feldspar liked to say that the Mjolners' made their fortune in the fur trade; there was some truth to this. Third level 17th century bureaucrats, the Mjolner family wound up on the wrong side of the Bourbons just in time to help Canada rid itself of its excess beaver population. Quite a lot of money was made, enough to keep the family in booze and political chicanery for almost 200 years, but by the early 20th century Mjolner arrogance and family size had pretty much sluiced off the revenue stream.
The Mjolner family fortunes were saved, oddly enough, by a 15-year old Feldspar and Prohibition. Feldspar stumbled onto a flavorful, strong, bathtub gin mixture that quickly became THE bootleg hooch for sophisticated alkies for blocks around. As the fame of "Mjolner's Hammer" spread, a disturbing side effect was noticed; some people would go blind, others would die. The first to go blind was Feldspar's abusive father; three days after this sad event, he stepped in front of traffic and was killed. It was noted that a black shoeshine boy was the first person to him after he was hit and he passed away before help could arrive. It was then made known that a reward was there for the taking if the young buck would come forward and tell the family of any Last Words of Import. Robert Cletus Johnston, later referred to as "Uncle Robby", wide-eyed, anxious, and frightened that this might be some kind of cruel trick, told the Mjolners, in trembling voice, that the old blind man just said "On purpose." As the white people paused to take this in, Robert snatched the $100 bill from Feldspar's hand and fled, never to be heard from again, despite his having won a Silver Star at Tarawa. The rest of the family consoled themselves by assuming that Grandpa, out of sheer grief, took his own life, but if there was another interpretation of "On purpose", only Feldspar knew it , and he kept his own counsel.
Normally, blindness and death would not constitute a good product recommendation, but Feldspar and his family were able to turn the truth into what would later be called Urban Legend. Instinctively, Feldspar's exploiting of these events made the noxious brew even more popular. Using an artist whose half-Munch, half-Frazetta style would be revived in the mid-2010's, the "Are You Man Enough to Pick Up Thor's Hammer?" ads sucked in the stupidly macho and Feldspar's way of combining colorings and bizarre flavorings from Chinatown, drew in the ladies, especially after he cut it with water. When Prohibition ended, the Mjolner's decided to clean the stuff up and go legit. Not content with just alcohol, they expanded into flavored tobaccos, multi-colored rolling papers for those still making cigarettes at home, and Hummel-like ceramic incense burners with their catch-phrase, "It smells good!" molded along the base. By 1938, the sales of all these products allowed the Mjolners' to save enough cash to purchase the Maxty Building.
Feldspar Mjolner owned the Maxty Building since the late '30's when Old Man Maxty died. Despite several attempts to rename it over the decades, ( Liberty Building, FM Towers, Hammer INC., etc. ) the only name anyone would use was "The Maxty Building." Feldspar liked to say that the Mjolners' made their fortune in the fur trade; there was some truth to this. Third level 17th century bureaucrats, the Mjolner family wound up on the wrong side of the Bourbons just in time to help Canada rid itself of its excess beaver population. Quite a lot of money was made, enough to keep the family in booze and political chicanery for almost 200 years, but by the early 20th century Mjolner arrogance and family size had pretty much sluiced off the revenue stream.
The Mjolner family fortunes were saved, oddly enough, by a 15-year old Feldspar and Prohibition. Feldspar stumbled onto a flavorful, strong, bathtub gin mixture that quickly became THE bootleg hooch for sophisticated alkies for blocks around. As the fame of "Mjolner's Hammer" spread, a disturbing side effect was noticed; some people would go blind, others would die. The first to go blind was Feldspar's abusive father; three days after this sad event, he stepped in front of traffic and was killed. It was noted that a black shoeshine boy was the first person to him after he was hit and he passed away before help could arrive. It was then made known that a reward was there for the taking if the young buck would come forward and tell the family of any Last Words of Import. Robert Cletus Johnston, later referred to as "Uncle Robby", wide-eyed, anxious, and frightened that this might be some kind of cruel trick, told the Mjolners, in trembling voice, that the old blind man just said "On purpose." As the white people paused to take this in, Robert snatched the $100 bill from Feldspar's hand and fled, never to be heard from again, despite his having won a Silver Star at Tarawa. The rest of the family consoled themselves by assuming that Grandpa, out of sheer grief, took his own life, but if there was another interpretation of "On purpose", only Feldspar knew it , and he kept his own counsel.
Normally, blindness and death would not constitute a good product recommendation, but Feldspar and his family were able to turn the truth into what would later be called Urban Legend. Instinctively, Feldspar's exploiting of these events made the noxious brew even more popular. Using an artist whose half-Munch, half-Frazetta style would be revived in the mid-2010's, the "Are You Man Enough to Pick Up Thor's Hammer?" ads sucked in the stupidly macho and Feldspar's way of combining colorings and bizarre flavorings from Chinatown, drew in the ladies, especially after he cut it with water. When Prohibition ended, the Mjolner's decided to clean the stuff up and go legit. Not content with just alcohol, they expanded into flavored tobaccos, multi-colored rolling papers for those still making cigarettes at home, and Hummel-like ceramic incense burners with their catch-phrase, "It smells good!" molded along the base. By 1938, the sales of all these products allowed the Mjolners' to save enough cash to purchase the Maxty Building.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Sunday, July 30, 2006
Rhythm fights boredom
I must admit it was a low energy day today. I must stop blaming entropy for my own personal laziness, but I can't even muster the energy to do that, and I'm not even trying for a pun there!
But I wasn't bored, which is odd. Somehow the events of the day had a rhythm about them, and with rhythm in my corpus, I don't get bored. Things got done 'in rhythm,' meaning I did them at the time I wanted to, not when I had to. Even though it was a low energy day, I got a lot done. So, I'm quite delighted with myself.
What bores you? What gives you energy? Does rhythm matter to you?
But I wasn't bored, which is odd. Somehow the events of the day had a rhythm about them, and with rhythm in my corpus, I don't get bored. Things got done 'in rhythm,' meaning I did them at the time I wanted to, not when I had to. Even though it was a low energy day, I got a lot done. So, I'm quite delighted with myself.
What bores you? What gives you energy? Does rhythm matter to you?
Thursday, July 27, 2006
and....Action!
Wow, my 25 peeps pic came through, and now I feel obliged to be entertaining! Let's see...what to say....what to say...man, I'm SOL!
I know, read the Wendy story! Scroll down,it's there....meh, not much of a salesman, eh?
Well, here's the blog, fellow blogflys, read on and enjoy yourselves!
Fluffy, his own bad self
I know, read the Wendy story! Scroll down,it's there....meh, not much of a salesman, eh?
Well, here's the blog, fellow blogflys, read on and enjoy yourselves!
Fluffy, his own bad self
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Proposed Term
I've noticed how people hang out at groups of blogs, partially by their interest, partially by social bonding. What is this like? This is like how the same groups of people will frequent the same bars, often for the same reasons as the blogs! Thus, I propose to call such folks "blogflys", like "barflys." Someone could alter that Blogger "B" to look like a fly, that'd be cool!
Whatcha think about it?
Whatcha think about it?
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
I take Cammie's challenge!
5 Things in my freezer
1. Frozen French Fries
2. Martini glasses!
3. Empty ice trays
4. Pepper Stoli!
5. Empty ice container
5 Things in my closet
1. Ancient wargames
2. Ancient Playboys
3. A sign from a long-departed local candy store that reads,
"Sorry -- The Walnut Room is filled to capacity this evening."
4. A box of old calenders, kept for the cool pictures
5. Matchbox cars
5 Things in my car
1. One lousy quarter
2. Spider webs
3. A small wrench
4. Sunglasses
5. Febreeze
5 Things in my purse (now if I can only find it!)
1. Shakespeare First Folio
2. My common sense
3. Autographed copy of Old Testament.
4. Jet-Pack
5. 12 billion dollars
5 Friends I'm inviting to join the game:
1. Old Panther
2. Ack/Nak
3. Art Gurl
4. Mike D
5. George
1. Frozen French Fries
2. Martini glasses!
3. Empty ice trays
4. Pepper Stoli!
5. Empty ice container
5 Things in my closet
1. Ancient wargames
2. Ancient Playboys
3. A sign from a long-departed local candy store that reads,
"Sorry -- The Walnut Room is filled to capacity this evening."
4. A box of old calenders, kept for the cool pictures
5. Matchbox cars
5 Things in my car
1. One lousy quarter
2. Spider webs
3. A small wrench
4. Sunglasses
5. Febreeze
5 Things in my purse (now if I can only find it!)
1. Shakespeare First Folio
2. My common sense
3. Autographed copy of Old Testament.
4. Jet-Pack
5. 12 billion dollars
5 Friends I'm inviting to join the game:
1. Old Panther
2. Ack/Nak
3. Art Gurl
4. Mike D
5. George
Sunday, July 23, 2006
I promise I won't stay serious for long!
This post is not intended for the world, but the half a dozen of you who show up on occasion who understand the range of crisis that have been occuring here at Chez Fluffy Stuffin'. It's been two months of panic attacks, depression, sorrow, fear, and more existential dread than a Kirkegaard/Schoepenhauer festival, but for the moment things are in the clear. This happened last Thursday, and just now am I able to write about it. Let's make it clear: I'm not out of the woods just yet, and there is a bit more strategic pressure on me, but there is a plan, and I'm going to try and act on it as best as I can. Watch this space: In another month, I may well be climbing the walls again. We will work to prevent this. Why am I writing this post? To stand up and thank those who need thanking.
Firstly, I want to thank those in the blogosphere who have help me financially and emotionally. You know who you are, and I think what you did was both incredible and wonderful. We may never actually met, but I am grateful to you in ways that trancend mere appreciation. If there were a Karmic PayPal, you'd be gettin' emails from it.
Next, I want to thank those who, in an oddball fashion, are also trying to help, even if not directly. You know it comes back to you as well. One of you is trying to get the Fluffy novel published; if this event comes through, and I sense you know you can make it happen, what boons would I grant you? Don't use your imagination; let me use mine. If you step up, I promise I will 'Release the Kraken' and let my mind pour itself onto blank pages like Bondo on a '68 Chevy. I could do no less. Think about that.
I also want to tip the cap to my spiritual bodhisattvas, who keep the day alive within my mind. Who are these? They range from Nietzsche to Groucho to Ginger to Sandra to Old Tree Town itself, and without them, I have no structure grounding me to both art and living.
Lastly, I must save special space for Cammie; she is the family I have never had, worth more to me on a bad day than my biological family was on a good day. She's done something no one has ever done with/for me; she has invested in me. It's not just help, and it's not just placing some kind of pressure, but both put together tightly, all there to make me more human. I can only give what love and care I can to you Camie; we will pull each other through one mess after another, and I think that when we triumph it will also be together as well. Not just for ourselves, but for the Little Man as well! I can't forget how much of a help he is, even though, right now, I don't think he gets it. But he will, we'll make sure of that.
This crisis is not without a casualty. Someone I've known for a long time has called it quits on me. I was saddened by this at first, but upon further review, I should have punted this person a while back. If you can't hang when things get tough, exit to the left, more beer for the rest of us! If this is the only price I have to pay to get through this grief, wow, have I made out cheap! This, by far, is the surest sign I've gotten old; I used to spot the worthless a lot further off, and acted accordingly. Ah, well, I'm only human-all-too-human.
Firstly, I want to thank those in the blogosphere who have help me financially and emotionally. You know who you are, and I think what you did was both incredible and wonderful. We may never actually met, but I am grateful to you in ways that trancend mere appreciation. If there were a Karmic PayPal, you'd be gettin' emails from it.
Next, I want to thank those who, in an oddball fashion, are also trying to help, even if not directly. You know it comes back to you as well. One of you is trying to get the Fluffy novel published; if this event comes through, and I sense you know you can make it happen, what boons would I grant you? Don't use your imagination; let me use mine. If you step up, I promise I will 'Release the Kraken' and let my mind pour itself onto blank pages like Bondo on a '68 Chevy. I could do no less. Think about that.
I also want to tip the cap to my spiritual bodhisattvas, who keep the day alive within my mind. Who are these? They range from Nietzsche to Groucho to Ginger to Sandra to Old Tree Town itself, and without them, I have no structure grounding me to both art and living.
Lastly, I must save special space for Cammie; she is the family I have never had, worth more to me on a bad day than my biological family was on a good day. She's done something no one has ever done with/for me; she has invested in me. It's not just help, and it's not just placing some kind of pressure, but both put together tightly, all there to make me more human. I can only give what love and care I can to you Camie; we will pull each other through one mess after another, and I think that when we triumph it will also be together as well. Not just for ourselves, but for the Little Man as well! I can't forget how much of a help he is, even though, right now, I don't think he gets it. But he will, we'll make sure of that.
This crisis is not without a casualty. Someone I've known for a long time has called it quits on me. I was saddened by this at first, but upon further review, I should have punted this person a while back. If you can't hang when things get tough, exit to the left, more beer for the rest of us! If this is the only price I have to pay to get through this grief, wow, have I made out cheap! This, by far, is the surest sign I've gotten old; I used to spot the worthless a lot further off, and acted accordingly. Ah, well, I'm only human-all-too-human.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Monday, July 17, 2006
Right into the danger zone...of Ypsilanti
Back in '88, when there was a Mrs. Fluffy, we went to an air show, and I climbed into an F-15, just for my photo op as 'Imperial Oppressor of the Month.' I'm grinnin' 'cause I turned on the FLIR, got that Sidewinder growl tone, and blew an AMC Pacer back to Kingdom Come...who wouldn't grin at that?
The Wendy Story, Part 4
We finish our first Wendy and Ramon segment...
Man, this is gonna be just the best! I'll use some of that bullshit-o Spanish she loved so much, Ramon said to himself as he rounded the corner and all he could see as he came into the room was that ass, that unbelievable ass, as she was there, right there, up against the window, OH MY GOD he thought, this is just incredible, she knows my thoughts, she can see my very soul, like I don't even have to say anything and she just fuckin' knows ( a few neurotransmitters in Ramon's brain raised the question of marriage and were told "No" by the vast congress of both hemispheres so quickly that it did not really qualify as "a conscious thought") but when she turned her head, he froze and all he could see were the tears going down her face, tinted red by the neon hot dog sign two stories above across the street. She figured it out and she was going to go through with it ...for me... even though it's gonna.....really bad.... even though she thinks I'm a...and I am a...thoughts of asking the forgiveness of the Virgin Mary brought the erection down and into himself like the raising of a drawbridge, and between blustery apologies,teary gasps, and whip-stings of self-flagellating guilt, Ramon gathered his clothes hurriedly and left the apartment so quickly even Wendy could hardly say anything.
.....the outer door slammed shut, and Wendy had her answers. "The shit I have gone through to avoid using the goddamn vibrator on a Saturday night," she said aloud, this time fighting back tears of laughter at poor Ramon again. A deer in the headlights of self-discovery she knew she couldn't go backwards; raising the stakes makes it that much more seductive, and that much more necessary. Staring out the window at the object of her desire, this time out of awe and not fear, she knew she no longer needed a man, but a skyscraper. Wendy, and Wendy alone, had to have the Maxty Building.
Man, this is gonna be just the best! I'll use some of that bullshit-o Spanish she loved so much, Ramon said to himself as he rounded the corner and all he could see as he came into the room was that ass, that unbelievable ass, as she was there, right there, up against the window, OH MY GOD he thought, this is just incredible, she knows my thoughts, she can see my very soul, like I don't even have to say anything and she just fuckin' knows ( a few neurotransmitters in Ramon's brain raised the question of marriage and were told "No" by the vast congress of both hemispheres so quickly that it did not really qualify as "a conscious thought") but when she turned her head, he froze and all he could see were the tears going down her face, tinted red by the neon hot dog sign two stories above across the street. She figured it out and she was going to go through with it ...for me... even though it's gonna.....really bad.... even though she thinks I'm a...and I am a...thoughts of asking the forgiveness of the Virgin Mary brought the erection down and into himself like the raising of a drawbridge, and between blustery apologies,teary gasps, and whip-stings of self-flagellating guilt, Ramon gathered his clothes hurriedly and left the apartment so quickly even Wendy could hardly say anything.
.....the outer door slammed shut, and Wendy had her answers. "The shit I have gone through to avoid using the goddamn vibrator on a Saturday night," she said aloud, this time fighting back tears of laughter at poor Ramon again. A deer in the headlights of self-discovery she knew she couldn't go backwards; raising the stakes makes it that much more seductive, and that much more necessary. Staring out the window at the object of her desire, this time out of awe and not fear, she knew she no longer needed a man, but a skyscraper. Wendy, and Wendy alone, had to have the Maxty Building.
Saturday, July 15, 2006
The Wendy Story, Part 3
Wendy and Ramon...still talkin' to themselves...
The reason Wendy admired and was fascinated with men so much is that they did things. I mean, not always well, but so what? If it didn't work out, you moved on. Men did; women waited. She had emulated the men in her life well enough to have a decent place in Manhattan, but she had never completely turned the corner. She had occasionally wondered if this were an accident, but each time she had such doubts, she just ratcheted up the intensity of her competitiveness. She had to; it's how you stayed in the game, the game where money was the maguffin. But this was different; she knew she had won. What kind of self would she be now? The sheer amount of money meant she would no longer need to hustle, no longer need to count coup. Hustlers would come to her; she would wait. She couldn't turn a blind eye to all this; she couldn't turn the money down could she? No, no, unthinkable; the future would never forgive her.
Wendy stood up, and still nude, went to the patio window overlooking Hell's Kitchen. Leaning tiptoe, legs splayed, she pressed her forehead and palms flat against the large sheet of glass. She couldn't help but look out and down, the car horns and taxis a B-movie backdrop like bluebirds and daffodils would be to someone from the country... She took all the succor she could from this image; she now felt she would have to leave New York as well. Too many familiar snarls, too many psycho-land mines to step on, too many people like who she used to be... Like every other person running away from themselves she wanted to stay right here. Her tears came when she closed her eyes and just listened... She imagined each self she no longer needed falling to the street below, being taken away by New York, being left screaming in pain and crying for help in New York, unsure who would be left up here in the air to look out over New York each morning. Anyone at all? Anyone she could stand? And if you win, and are not you, did you win? She longed so much for kindness now, and realizing that no man ever understood that it's kindness when you need it, not when they feel like giving it to you, the tears came harder and she pushed the glass even more, hoping...
Should, like, I grease her up?, thought Ramon. Like that big fat Brando guy, in that really dumbass movie she made him watch twice? It's not really easy to be aggressive and sneaky all at once, but it's what he wanted to try...maybe this wouldn't be so cool after all....Ah, fuck it, let's do it. The bathroom door creaked as he opened it and went into the next room.
Her loneliness had hardened the air in the room, in her space, when the door creak clued her in... Who?.... She had totally forgotten about Ramon, when he stomped in not so much a man as an erection and a smirk. She really didn't need this now. Keeping her nude self facing the City she turned her head to tell him to go when....
The reason Wendy admired and was fascinated with men so much is that they did things. I mean, not always well, but so what? If it didn't work out, you moved on. Men did; women waited. She had emulated the men in her life well enough to have a decent place in Manhattan, but she had never completely turned the corner. She had occasionally wondered if this were an accident, but each time she had such doubts, she just ratcheted up the intensity of her competitiveness. She had to; it's how you stayed in the game, the game where money was the maguffin. But this was different; she knew she had won. What kind of self would she be now? The sheer amount of money meant she would no longer need to hustle, no longer need to count coup. Hustlers would come to her; she would wait. She couldn't turn a blind eye to all this; she couldn't turn the money down could she? No, no, unthinkable; the future would never forgive her.
Wendy stood up, and still nude, went to the patio window overlooking Hell's Kitchen. Leaning tiptoe, legs splayed, she pressed her forehead and palms flat against the large sheet of glass. She couldn't help but look out and down, the car horns and taxis a B-movie backdrop like bluebirds and daffodils would be to someone from the country... She took all the succor she could from this image; she now felt she would have to leave New York as well. Too many familiar snarls, too many psycho-land mines to step on, too many people like who she used to be... Like every other person running away from themselves she wanted to stay right here. Her tears came when she closed her eyes and just listened... She imagined each self she no longer needed falling to the street below, being taken away by New York, being left screaming in pain and crying for help in New York, unsure who would be left up here in the air to look out over New York each morning. Anyone at all? Anyone she could stand? And if you win, and are not you, did you win? She longed so much for kindness now, and realizing that no man ever understood that it's kindness when you need it, not when they feel like giving it to you, the tears came harder and she pushed the glass even more, hoping...
Should, like, I grease her up?, thought Ramon. Like that big fat Brando guy, in that really dumbass movie she made him watch twice? It's not really easy to be aggressive and sneaky all at once, but it's what he wanted to try...maybe this wouldn't be so cool after all....Ah, fuck it, let's do it. The bathroom door creaked as he opened it and went into the next room.
Her loneliness had hardened the air in the room, in her space, when the door creak clued her in... Who?.... She had totally forgotten about Ramon, when he stomped in not so much a man as an erection and a smirk. She really didn't need this now. Keeping her nude self facing the City she turned her head to tell him to go when....
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
The Wendy Story, Part 2
We continue with a little internal dialogue...
In New York there was Disnification, and there were rumors of Disnification. When the Fairy Dust of East Asian capital hit mid-town, the Lost Boys slithered back to their Soho nightspots, the men with meathooks for hands went back to Brooklyn, and the Boys Who Would Not Grow Up flitted back to the East Village, all for the noble cause of Greater Tourism. Ever since then, every time two bankers from different hemispheres got together for lunch in the upper '50's, people for ten blocks around, knew,in their heart of hearts, that their rattle-trap of an elevator-less building would be plowed over to sell coon skin hats, Goofy neckties, and Scrooge McDuck Money Bins to endless strangers from Kyoto, Singapore and Seoul, so that by the simple virtue of having sat there and having done nothing at all, they would be allowed to leave the Greatest City in The World for West Palm Beach bank statements intact. But that evening, Wendy had pieced together the real truth; that right here in her backyard, would be where the tsunami of greenbacks would hit, and if she were quick enough, she should be able to buy a damn building out from under some saps nose, and turn it around with such force, that, well, the Darwinian struggle for survival would be over. The fortune cookie made her think of how all these people she's been chatting up individually didn't know much, but the logic of their combined knowledge led to unflinchingly obvious conclusions. She had even gone so far as to figure out the building to buy, a building whose placement was crucial to all of the proposed plans for the area. What she couldn't figure out was why this knowledge had left her so depressed.
From behind? Ramon wondered about this as he toweled himself off and, looking about, found some bitchin' oil that would make his pretty damn buff bod look like it had been through the spray wax at the car wash. Yeah, I think it's time. I mean, she knows I'm not a tough guy, she knows that it's time to move the sex life up a notch, time for him to show her he could take control.
In New York there was Disnification, and there were rumors of Disnification. When the Fairy Dust of East Asian capital hit mid-town, the Lost Boys slithered back to their Soho nightspots, the men with meathooks for hands went back to Brooklyn, and the Boys Who Would Not Grow Up flitted back to the East Village, all for the noble cause of Greater Tourism. Ever since then, every time two bankers from different hemispheres got together for lunch in the upper '50's, people for ten blocks around, knew,in their heart of hearts, that their rattle-trap of an elevator-less building would be plowed over to sell coon skin hats, Goofy neckties, and Scrooge McDuck Money Bins to endless strangers from Kyoto, Singapore and Seoul, so that by the simple virtue of having sat there and having done nothing at all, they would be allowed to leave the Greatest City in The World for West Palm Beach bank statements intact. But that evening, Wendy had pieced together the real truth; that right here in her backyard, would be where the tsunami of greenbacks would hit, and if she were quick enough, she should be able to buy a damn building out from under some saps nose, and turn it around with such force, that, well, the Darwinian struggle for survival would be over. The fortune cookie made her think of how all these people she's been chatting up individually didn't know much, but the logic of their combined knowledge led to unflinchingly obvious conclusions. She had even gone so far as to figure out the building to buy, a building whose placement was crucial to all of the proposed plans for the area. What she couldn't figure out was why this knowledge had left her so depressed.
From behind? Ramon wondered about this as he toweled himself off and, looking about, found some bitchin' oil that would make his pretty damn buff bod look like it had been through the spray wax at the car wash. Yeah, I think it's time. I mean, she knows I'm not a tough guy, she knows that it's time to move the sex life up a notch, time for him to show her he could take control.
Saturday, July 08, 2006
"I came here for the witty conversation." "What witty conversation? This is the Internet" "I was misinformed."
 | You scored as Humphrey Bogart. Humphrey Bogart is your classic movie persona. Trenchcoats and classy dinner jackets are all you. People are instantly drawn to your suave charisma and nonchalance. Your cleverness enables you to solve mysteries. You're probably the classiest one of the bunch!
Which classic movie actor/actress are you? (pics) created with QuizFarm.com |
The Wendy Story, Part 1
Here's our opening....
She deliberately, consciously, let her toes uncurl. She kept her eyes shut.
Now....who was this? The mumbled Spanish, the way he held on to her left breast like a doorknob, let her know this was Ramon. Good. She really wasn't feeling very talkative. Their relationship had moved to a very comfy place of non-verbal interaction. He looked up with the same puppy dog eyes which asked for some sign of sexual approval. Her downward unsmiling stare simply stated, "Off." As he withdrew and stood up chastened, her tilted head, slightly crinkled pixie-grin, and widely spread thighs denoted, "Thank You." This was as much as he would get, but he was pleased. Easily pleased. This was one of the reasons Wendy liked Ramon and called him far more often than any other man. He was about as subtle as a freight train, but he had the energy of one as well. About the moment of her own exhaustion, he was more than ready to keep going. It was at this point that she had to lose just enough control to make things... interesting.
As Ramon bounded off to the shower, Wendy pulled herself up and sat staring at the wet spot. Solitary post coital technical analysis had been a very good snuggling partner for Wendy her whole sexual life, but this time something wasn't right. It's not that Ramon had been perfect -- good god, no! -- but, really, what did she expect from someone so inexperienced in, well, everything? "Not Much," she caught herself saying aloud. Still, her sadness lingered in the room like the smell of the sheets. For a tiny second she pressed this analogy too far and hoped that a bit of fresh air (maybe a new man, someone much more skilled...) would clear things up. But she knew deep down, this wasn't true. Time was against her, and the "Married, filing jointly" option was just an admission of defeat, of capitulation, of total surrender. She knew herself so well that this would never even vaguely be a possibility.
Man, this chick was just fucking unbelievable! Well, at least unbelievable at fucking! Ramon laughed at his own joke in the shower, now regretting using her shampoo. Its delicate floral scent, which he really loved last night, would cause no end of teasing from his older brother Cristobal, and intense probing questions from his mother who would warn him for the 100th time to stay off of Bleecker Street. Still, he knew why she hung around with him; he knew that he wasn't like his brother and his cruel friends; he knew that she could see his inner gentleness, his love of art and flowers. All he needed was a chance, a bit more exposure to class and he knew that his love for her would grow, and like, her love for him as well. That's why he was grateful she got him the job delivering sandwiches to the Stock Exchange. Man, what a step up from that damn busboy job!
They fucked that first -- no wait, he caught himself, we made love that first night -- and women don't do that without... without...love? He was afraid to say it, but he knew it was true, because, man that's just how chicks are. Everything for them was about love and that's why he smugly knew he was better than nearly every man he'd ever met. He loved women; and he was happy that he found one that could see that, and that, with time, and care, she would love him too. Ramon recited these little speechments in the quiet of his room many times, but this was the first time he did it at her place, talking to the wash cloth, gesturing and pointing in the steam. The blood rushing to his groin indicated that he was gearing himself up for another round.
What was wrong? This ate at Wendy to the point that she was disturbed by her own obsessiveness. This itself was disturbing; she had never worried about her obsessiveness before. All her life she had saved up for this series of moments and now that they had come she just couldn't bring herself to believe it. How different life would have been, if six weeks ago, she had ordered the Woo Dip Har as she normally did, instead of what she had ordered.
Wendy didn't save every fortune cookie message, but each one she did save had to be tacked onto a little framed cork board in a particular order forming a kind of PostModern Book of Days, with the occasional touch of duck sauce or sweet-and-sour lending an organic verisimilitude to this life's work. These cork boards - now numbering 7 - would constantly be shuffled around the bedroom walls as if some kind of fractured English feng shui would produce inner peace, but dammit, it just wasn't working. Why she got the Egg Foo Young that night she honestly couldn't say; maybe the longing for a childhood comfort food? She ate it, but didn't really bond with it enough to check out the fortune. Just as she thought this, she dropped the cookie into the gravy making a sploosh of coagulated grease on the table, her clothes, her face. A burst of anger made her tear open the cookie and melodramatically read its contents: "Awareness of others will lead to an awareness of self." So many of her recent thoughts and problems resolved themselves so cleanly when she read it each word sounded like a bank vault tumbler clicking open.
She had been trolling her usual information nets; mailroom clerks, CEO's, financial consultants, the tired huddled masses of cubicle drones, the survivors of corporate downsizing, their employee numbers practically tattooed on their arms. Wendy knew what every good bartender knew; people ache to unburden themselves on you. If you seemed to be a light, a warm place, a comforter during a rainstorm, the amount of information they were eager to tell you was amazing. It was as if a small betrayal of confidence compensated for the removal of any form of life outside of work. Wendy had long ago honed her trust-building techniques -- quiche and latte for the ladies, whiskey and fellatio for the menfolk -- but if people honestly didn't know the truth they couldn't impart it in the leather and mahogany confessionals of Park Avenue. Gossip was the die that cut the truth into puzzle pieces, and intelligence is seeing the patterns of those pieces where others did not. Wendy hyper-concentrated on this baroque jumble of kooky glances, statistics, ennui, and thinly suppressed postalrage until she couldn't concentrate on anything else. Certainly she knew what to do when she had been in this position before; she needed to get laid. She had stopped for tortilla soup at a place near Washington Square. It was small, cramped, disgustingly dirty -- but it had the cutest wait staff. It was the way Ramon tried to conceal his obvious staring that she found attractive. He was easier to pick up than the check. By mid-afternoon of the next day, she had forgotten all about him. But then, 3 days later, he called! He whined about her not calling him the next day, he whined about her leaving while he was still asleep -- he really,really,really wanted to see her again, maybe get a sno-cone or a hot dog and walk through the park feeding the pigeons off the hot dog bun while he told her how important Freida Kahlo was to him as not just an artist, but a person. She bit her lip, each tear of laughter finding its way into the speaking part of the phone. She couldn't help but agree to the next date -- and the next. The reason it was great was that when she decided it was over there would be no reasons; one day she would not answer his calls anymore and that would be that.
She deliberately, consciously, let her toes uncurl. She kept her eyes shut.
Now....who was this? The mumbled Spanish, the way he held on to her left breast like a doorknob, let her know this was Ramon. Good. She really wasn't feeling very talkative. Their relationship had moved to a very comfy place of non-verbal interaction. He looked up with the same puppy dog eyes which asked for some sign of sexual approval. Her downward unsmiling stare simply stated, "Off." As he withdrew and stood up chastened, her tilted head, slightly crinkled pixie-grin, and widely spread thighs denoted, "Thank You." This was as much as he would get, but he was pleased. Easily pleased. This was one of the reasons Wendy liked Ramon and called him far more often than any other man. He was about as subtle as a freight train, but he had the energy of one as well. About the moment of her own exhaustion, he was more than ready to keep going. It was at this point that she had to lose just enough control to make things... interesting.
As Ramon bounded off to the shower, Wendy pulled herself up and sat staring at the wet spot. Solitary post coital technical analysis had been a very good snuggling partner for Wendy her whole sexual life, but this time something wasn't right. It's not that Ramon had been perfect -- good god, no! -- but, really, what did she expect from someone so inexperienced in, well, everything? "Not Much," she caught herself saying aloud. Still, her sadness lingered in the room like the smell of the sheets. For a tiny second she pressed this analogy too far and hoped that a bit of fresh air (maybe a new man, someone much more skilled...) would clear things up. But she knew deep down, this wasn't true. Time was against her, and the "Married, filing jointly" option was just an admission of defeat, of capitulation, of total surrender. She knew herself so well that this would never even vaguely be a possibility.
Man, this chick was just fucking unbelievable! Well, at least unbelievable at fucking! Ramon laughed at his own joke in the shower, now regretting using her shampoo. Its delicate floral scent, which he really loved last night, would cause no end of teasing from his older brother Cristobal, and intense probing questions from his mother who would warn him for the 100th time to stay off of Bleecker Street. Still, he knew why she hung around with him; he knew that he wasn't like his brother and his cruel friends; he knew that she could see his inner gentleness, his love of art and flowers. All he needed was a chance, a bit more exposure to class and he knew that his love for her would grow, and like, her love for him as well. That's why he was grateful she got him the job delivering sandwiches to the Stock Exchange. Man, what a step up from that damn busboy job!
They fucked that first -- no wait, he caught himself, we made love that first night -- and women don't do that without... without...love? He was afraid to say it, but he knew it was true, because, man that's just how chicks are. Everything for them was about love and that's why he smugly knew he was better than nearly every man he'd ever met. He loved women; and he was happy that he found one that could see that, and that, with time, and care, she would love him too. Ramon recited these little speechments in the quiet of his room many times, but this was the first time he did it at her place, talking to the wash cloth, gesturing and pointing in the steam. The blood rushing to his groin indicated that he was gearing himself up for another round.
What was wrong? This ate at Wendy to the point that she was disturbed by her own obsessiveness. This itself was disturbing; she had never worried about her obsessiveness before. All her life she had saved up for this series of moments and now that they had come she just couldn't bring herself to believe it. How different life would have been, if six weeks ago, she had ordered the Woo Dip Har as she normally did, instead of what she had ordered.
Wendy didn't save every fortune cookie message, but each one she did save had to be tacked onto a little framed cork board in a particular order forming a kind of PostModern Book of Days, with the occasional touch of duck sauce or sweet-and-sour lending an organic verisimilitude to this life's work. These cork boards - now numbering 7 - would constantly be shuffled around the bedroom walls as if some kind of fractured English feng shui would produce inner peace, but dammit, it just wasn't working. Why she got the Egg Foo Young that night she honestly couldn't say; maybe the longing for a childhood comfort food? She ate it, but didn't really bond with it enough to check out the fortune. Just as she thought this, she dropped the cookie into the gravy making a sploosh of coagulated grease on the table, her clothes, her face. A burst of anger made her tear open the cookie and melodramatically read its contents: "Awareness of others will lead to an awareness of self." So many of her recent thoughts and problems resolved themselves so cleanly when she read it each word sounded like a bank vault tumbler clicking open.
She had been trolling her usual information nets; mailroom clerks, CEO's, financial consultants, the tired huddled masses of cubicle drones, the survivors of corporate downsizing, their employee numbers practically tattooed on their arms. Wendy knew what every good bartender knew; people ache to unburden themselves on you. If you seemed to be a light, a warm place, a comforter during a rainstorm, the amount of information they were eager to tell you was amazing. It was as if a small betrayal of confidence compensated for the removal of any form of life outside of work. Wendy had long ago honed her trust-building techniques -- quiche and latte for the ladies, whiskey and fellatio for the menfolk -- but if people honestly didn't know the truth they couldn't impart it in the leather and mahogany confessionals of Park Avenue. Gossip was the die that cut the truth into puzzle pieces, and intelligence is seeing the patterns of those pieces where others did not. Wendy hyper-concentrated on this baroque jumble of kooky glances, statistics, ennui, and thinly suppressed postalrage until she couldn't concentrate on anything else. Certainly she knew what to do when she had been in this position before; she needed to get laid. She had stopped for tortilla soup at a place near Washington Square. It was small, cramped, disgustingly dirty -- but it had the cutest wait staff. It was the way Ramon tried to conceal his obvious staring that she found attractive. He was easier to pick up than the check. By mid-afternoon of the next day, she had forgotten all about him. But then, 3 days later, he called! He whined about her not calling him the next day, he whined about her leaving while he was still asleep -- he really,really,really wanted to see her again, maybe get a sno-cone or a hot dog and walk through the park feeding the pigeons off the hot dog bun while he told her how important Freida Kahlo was to him as not just an artist, but a person. She bit her lip, each tear of laughter finding its way into the speaking part of the phone. She couldn't help but agree to the next date -- and the next. The reason it was great was that when she decided it was over there would be no reasons; one day she would not answer his calls anymore and that would be that.
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