Wednesday, October 31, 2007

Halloween scary thoughts

Thinking about my generation in nursing homes; the first generation of video gamers... How easy will it be to contain us? Shot of morphine, a fresh diaper and a playststion 10.

Tuesday, October 30, 2007


ugh... I work in a shared office situation, including a guy there worked with me at my old job. "Skeeter" is what you'd call an extremely acquired taste. He's a belt tugging alpha male who knows everything and allegedly completed his punch card of the 50 coolest jobs in the world (kinda finished on a low note if you ask me). Personality wise; he's the yin to my socratic, pretend-to-know-nothing yang. Think John Candy as Dell Griffith from Planes, Trains and Automobiles, meets Don Knotts as Mr. Ferley from Three's Company, meets Burt Reynolds in that stupid fucking race car movie with Sylvester Stallone that I've never seen more than 5 minutes of but I just know in the bowels of my soul must be stupider than a brain damaged Newfoundland with a crystal meth contact high. Yeah; he's THAT guy.

Role-wise, he's the office manager for his company. So we use a shared T1, which goes down with alarming regularity. Once again, it goes down. Skeeter's job is to barge into my office 10 minutes later and interrupt me to ask me if I was trying to use the internet. Yeah asshole; I saw that connect to server message, but I've been spending last 10 minutes of my life trying to get onto friendster anyway. He proceeds to periodically announce to the hallway that the Internet is down. Of course we're on a need to know basis. I finally ask him if he knows what's wrong and when he thinks we'll be back online. He just stares at me like I asked him if his head was carved out of a solid block of black licorice or vulcanized rubber. No response. I finally leave and try to work from home. The worst part is he's one of those "private schedule" friends. Meaning he has a schedule, one that only he is privvy to, that dictates when he is going to be a nice guy, and when he's gonna be a douche. I'd rather he just be a dick all the time, than have to deal with his stinky bottom tomorrrow when he wants to be all chummy. That's why I have 3 friends - its all I can handle being consistently nice too. That, and those are the only dudes I could find who don't totally hate my guts.

I think I'm gonna talk to Ryan about that open office space he knows about. Another plus, besides the absence of douchebags, is that it can't be more than a mile from my golf course.

Kvetching over; we return you to your regularly scheduled bitching.

Monday, October 29, 2007

Go Jim Thorpe

Jim Thorpe is one of the coolest cats on the Champions tour - nice to see another victory under his belt. His easy going demeanor and unconventional swing make him a treat to watch.

Go Boston

Sox swept, and the Pats bulldozed a preternatural victory over the redskins. A colleague of mine said it best this morning "its a good day to be a new england sports fan" It certainly feels pretty good, and even though we've had some relative dominance the last few years, as far back as I can remember before that, we were pretty soft - you have to go back to the 80's Celtics for some bone crushing rule. So in 8 years, when the sox and pats are tanking again, I can look back on 2007 as one of those great years for boston sports.

Those rockies will get their chance someday - and who knows, if they aren't playing against the sox, I might even root for them.

Sunday, October 28, 2007

Testing mobile blogging

Now that ive got the iPhone, I wanted to see if mobile blogging with pigs is really easy. Not terribly hard.

Thursday, October 25, 2007

Rockies Uniforms

Sure, it's true ever since I got called out in July for wearing a red sox shirt, I've had it in for the rockies. It's hard to have respect for a team that was being rolled out when I was in my freshman year of college.

As fun as it was watching them get fisted by the red sox, it was hard to watch. Mainly because of their uniforms. I know that getting distracted by uniforms is pretty juvenile, but those things are awful. They looked like extras in a low budget sci-fi movie. Even the coolflo batting helmets are pretty lame - seriously, those things look like the bottom of my driver.

Friday, October 12, 2007

Long ago in a talent show far far below my standards for quality...

This may be one of the mightiest moments of WTF seen on the internet...

Can trumpets be tuned?

File this under "V"

for "vomit"

I'm glad that conservatives have people like Anne Coulter on their side - it helps validate my beliefs. It also makes me realize as much as I hate Bill Maher, I hate Anne Coulter times seven.

In the interest in fairness and accuracy, I'll post the link to conservative news source Fox's coverage of Coulter's remarks, made on Donny Deutsch's CNBC program. Here's some highlights...

DEUTSCH: Christian — so we should be Christian? It would be better if we were all Christian?


DEUTSCH: We should all be Christian?

COULTER: Yes. Would you like to come to church with me, Donny?


COULTER: "...Christians consider themselves: perfected Jews."

I have to agree with Deutsch's sentiment that the scariest partt of her diatribe is not her zombified goosestepping allegiance to the most mundane and intolerant aspects of organized religion, nor her total ignorance the the relative sameness of all 3 prophetic religions, but that she sees nothing offensive about her remarks at all. Could it be that she really believes that "we want to see us all as christians". Of course, it doesn't hurt that she she takes a controversial socio-religious dump on the airwaves just as her book is about to drop. She is helping to alert the other vampires in her coven that its time to open their wallets - she's so helpful.

Another nice touch his her enlightened comments about inter racial marriage. "You walk past a mixed-race couple in New York, and it's like they have a chip on their shoulder. They're just waiting for somebody to say something, as if anybody would" What!? Am I on drugs? You might as well assert that they entered wedlock just to see the gasps of horror on the faces of smiling benign white Christians. Yeah - they want to offend you. Project much, Anne? I like shocking people. I should divorce my wife, find me one them black women, have a shotgun wedding, and crank out some mixed race babies - just so I can piss off everybody ("everybody" being white christians). Yeah, that'd be sweet. You know, she seems to be pining for those golden glory days where white people were large and in charge, and never stopped to hear a peep out of anybody else. What was the role of women in those good old days again? Oh that's right, servile baby makers. But I guess she can have her cake and eat it too - its her racist fantasy after all.

Look, I know she's got a schtick and that being a conservative rabble rouser is probably what lets her live at the end of private road in Connecticut all summer, but this is really disturbing. I hate to be the cliched liberal who gets up in arms at the drop of conservative shock pundit's hat - that's why most of what Bill O'Reilly and Rush Limbaugh say sound like a jumbled mess of syllables by the time it hits my ears. This puts too fine of a point around what's wrong with this flavor of christian conservatism. It's and embarrassment to our country, to white people, to chill christians who don't want to convert me or dream of world without muslims, who just want to go to church on sunday and pray for a better day. It makes me embarrassed to share any common demographics with her. It literally turns my stomach.

I think I'd like to hear a public endorsements of these statements to be made. By the KKK. Then maybe she'd get a sense that by definition, ignorance is a trait that one is unable to perceive in oneself.

Tuesday, October 9, 2007

Silly Rabbit, Lovecraft is for Kids

One day closer to halloween - I stumbled across a site selling plush dolls of Cthulhu - you know the hyperbolic representation of extreme evil from the netherworld? Yeah, that Cthulhu. It's the perfect bedtime companion after you read your 4 year old stories of the purest expression of dread from a distance ethereal plane that transcends death itself. Then you give them the creature-deity that is so horrible to behold that men have lost their minds - but in plush form!

Monday, October 8, 2007

The Envoy: Chapter One (rough draft)

Chapter One
D'Artagnan was compelled to remember the household cat from his childhood - Chiffon. She was the most prized possession of his mother. Like her doting owner, the Siamese was ornately beautiful with green eyes, emotionally removed, and singly interested in her own pleasure above all else. Chiffon lived a life of extremes, either being pampered and preened over by his mother, or being mercilessly tortured by D’Artagnan, whose favorite manner of menace took the shape of placing the cat into a piece of hand luggage, and violently shaking it until the cat stopped hissing and growling. It would fall out of the bag mewling weakly and limping to whatever part of the castle that she could hide from the boy. With the passing of his parents, the attache, along with everything else, had fallen into his possession.

With the handkerchief placed over his mouth and nose, D’Artagnan felt, not without irony, that he might fall out of the carriage mewling quite weakly himself. The four horses drawing the carriage were being lashed by the coachman without pause, their hooves smashing the rainwater out of wheel ruts and potholes. D’Artagnan and Esmerelle clutched hand loops with white-knuckles, and were trounced about frantically against all six sides of the coach with an absence of rhythm that struck panic in their hearts and nausea in their guts. With great difficulty, D’Artagnan managed to fumble his way to opening the side window, and stuck his head and shoulders out. Looking back at the road behind him he could not see their pursuers, nor hear the musket shots in the distance. That knowledge, combined with the fresh air and the cold mud splashing the back of his head and neck, left him momentarily refreshed. Just at that moment the carriage struck a gaping pit, violently delivering his head into the window frame. A wet rosebud of pain opened across the top of his skull. Angrily, he slapped the outside of the coach.

“Perhaps, monsieur, you would consider slowing our pace! It appears that our pursuers have abandoned the chase!” D’Artagnan yelled up to the driver, who did not look down, but cracked the whips violently instead.
“Eh?!” The driver fired back, obviously irritated by the interruption.

“We aren’t being followed anymore! Slow down, please!” D’Artagnan shouted.

With the same bitter annoyance, the coachman brought the carriage to a skidding stop. This time it was the side of D’Artagnan’s face that met with the window frame. He swore as a welt immediately swelled up across his cheekbone. The horses snorted and clapped their hooves in place, sharing the same indignation as their master. The coachman turned to face the road behind them, firing a quick and dirty glance down and theatrically placing a cupped hand to his ear. For the first time in what seemed like hours, the sound of the heavy rain was noticeable as it pelted the roof of the carriage, the worn brim of coachman’s leather bicorne and the shining coats of the horses. Incredulously, D’Artagnan gaped up at the coachman and back at the road. Moments passed, and just as he was about to protest, a the whistling of ammunition tickled his face, followed moments later by the crack of gunpowder.

“Eh?” The coachman repeated, this time the tone and his glance were both pregnant with the same gleeful self-satisfaction. D’Artagnan moved to slap the side of the carriage, but the coachman required no such prompting. With jerk of the reigns, the crack of the whip and a heroic declaration of profanity, the horses leapt into full stride again. Symmetry was achieved as the back of his head was cleaved by the window frame. D’Artagnan sat back into his seat, bouncing wildly again, as he tended to his newly minted head wounds. “Shit,” he muttered to himself as he examined the kerchief “this will never wash out.” Esmerelle shot him hateful glare - her eyes were two coal smudges on a white sheet - until she turned back to the matter of hanging on for dear life. If he remembered correctly, this flight was thanks to her doing.

The rifle shots continued and D’Artagnan again thought of his mother’s Siamese. If he remembered correctly, Chiffon did not live very long.

The Envoy: Chapter Two (rough draft)

Chapter Two
D’Artagnan thought it wiser to have his audience with the King without cleaning up or dressing his wounds. As he strode into the court, he could tell that his fortunes had shifted slightly, and he felt bold enough to improvise a limp in his left leg. It was not a question of sanity; the regent had long ago lost all semblance of rational thought and personal restraint. The critical question was precisely what kind of insanity would his audience be treated to? The king was wearing his nightgown, playing with a superbly detailed twenty foot long model of a galleon. He was perched atop one of several footstools that provided access to the higher sails and crows nests. The king was in a happy state, and that bode well for D’Artagnan and the potentially displeasing news he had to debrief.

It was clear that this was the work of a master craftsman, likely a boat building architect in the employ of His Majesty’s Royal navy. The mermaid that adorned the bow must have taken weeks alone to carve and paint. The cannons looked as if they might actually be functional, and knowing the king, that was likely a formal request made of the builder. The sails appeared to be woven of authentic cloth, and all of the rigging and nets were similarly authentic. This was a vessel, no doubt seaworthy, that was clearly a labor of love by a true artisan who must have derived great pride from being allowed to share his prodigious gifts with the greatest of all patrons.

D’Artagnan caught the eye of the King, whose face lit up with incandescent happiness. His subject returned the look with the remarkable sincerity that befit a man of his skills and place. Excitedly, the king hobbled down from the ladder, raced to the bow of the ship and snapped the mermaid off from beneath the bowsprit.

“D’Artagnan! You simply must come sailing across the court with me. This mermaid will provide us with fair seas and may also guide us safely past the isle of wretched harpies that are spoken of residing in the far sea.” He pointed over to one of his attendants, how flashed the knowingly sad smile of a dog who knows that his ability to withstand vigorous beatings without protest is the only thing that saves it from being tied in a sack dropped from a bridge.

“Oh dear,” The King announced, sadly recognizing the mermaid in his hand. “It appears this boat is broken. Please have it taken away at once.” Being king means never having to address your requests to anyone in particular. D’Artagnan knelt at the feet of the King, kissed a ring upon a hand which smelled of feces and sugar, and was asked to rise. The King gave him a vigorous hug that betrayed how frail His Royal Majesty’s frame really was. D’Artagnan, familiar with this greeting, knew to return the hug, lovingly but softly so as to not bruise his brittle bones. The King clasped his subject’s biceps and held him at arms length, beaming with pride as he examined him. The head trauma did not appear to register. How better off the country might be if that boat were not so stable upon its footing and came crashing down upon the king. He thought of the king, trapped under the weight of the splintered boat. He imagined that the ruler’s courtesans would make a to-do, but none would actually help him, unless it appeared that he perchance might free himself.

The king continued his charade of sanity, clapping D’Artagnan on the back and leading him towards the thrown. The royal fingertips tugged up his nightgown gingerly, so as not to trip as he mounted the thrown. His left hand reached instinctively for the scepter, which he began to wag, catching the balled end in the palm of his other hand. Here, in the details, D’Artagnan could read the lack of reason; in the hands, the scepter was being aggressively toyed with like a cudgel - even while his eyes still twinkled with favor. Bits of dried blood were faintly visible in the crevices of the scepter. He had seen his liege administer but a few of the fatal beatings that helped lend its encrusted red patina.
“Have We reached an acceptable agreement with king Edmund regarding Our mountain retreat?” The acoustics of the room were designed to amplify sounds that came from the throne. Accentuating the fraudulently debilitated left leg, D’Artagnan lowered himself to one knew before making his reply.
“I think that we should have some success, my lord...” D’Artagnan paused “...I wonder however, if you strategy regarding Esmerelle was fitting for this particular scenario. I of course, would never think to question your well crafted strategy, but I do not think that Edmund took kindly to Esmerelle’s execution of your intended role for her.”
The king’s smile poured out of his face completely, leaving the empty bucket of a perplexed scowl behind. The scepter wagged like the angry tail of a cat. Chiffon again - not a good omen.

“We had no plan for Esmerelle. She was present, merely as your appointed assistant, as always. Of what execution do you speak? We would ask you to choose your words carefully, but we know that it is in your nature, and in the nature of your forked tongue, to do so.” Malice blew through the voice and countenance of the king, silently and undeniably as winter air creeping under a door.

“I beg your pardon, my liege,” D’Artagnan began. He knew the best route with the king was bored detachment rather than obsequiousness. The king found quivering fear delectable, and poorly feigned confidence was like the shell on a crab that needed to be removed, before the soft innards could be gnawed upon. Besides, the king’s envoy knew he was not at fault; his goal was to ensure that this recent diplomatic catastrophe would be Esmerelle’s final contribution to D’Artagnan’s career. He would settle for having her detached from his appointment, but truth be told it took only a modest amount of wine for D’Artagnan to share his dream of Esmerelle’s head being detached from her neck.

“I had only assumed that such a brazen act was one that you must have orchestrated. If that’s not the case, I fear that Esmerelle has thrown my Majesty’s interest into a most precarious position.” He waited for the sign - the king’s knee began to bounce impatiently; D’Artagnan then grinned inwardly outed Esmerelle.

“It pains me to inform you that my attendant slept with with Edmund’s sons.” D’Artagnan locked his eyes with the king; it was another bold move learned from experience. A preemptive and strong stare did several things; it displayed strength of position were a debate to break out, it prevented the king from doing so first, and it allowed him to peer into the king for a reaction. The kings face melted into slightly baffled surprise. “Sons, you say?”

One of the great ironies of sovereign rulers is their need to be supplanted in the right manner. D’Artagnan knew it was in human nature to desired what one could not have; indeed, it was D’Artagnan’s knack to discover that want, and dangle it’s possibility like a carcass in front of a hungry dog. A king and queen’s wants were seemingly easily satisfied. It left rulers feeling empty and frustrated; D’Artagnan knew that this was an oversimplification, and untrue. This highest echelon of nobility thirsted for two things; to become anonymous and to be dominated. The key was to bring satisfaction to these two wants in a way that did not unhinge a cushion of comfort. The king or queen must be able to indulge in escaping the role, without ever feeling that their authority and rule is credibly at risk. It was a dangerous road to navigate, but D’Artagnan charted the map. As he continued, he used the stern tone of a tutor whose student was slow to learn the lesson.
“Yes, your highness, sons. We have confirmation from an attendant who caught her in the act of pleasuring both of the King’s two oldest sons simultaneously.” D’Artagnan behaved as him the King were the last man in the Kingdom to know. The way gossip traveled the streets and taverns, it may well have been true.

“Simultaneously, you say?” The king seemed to be waffling closer to confusion.
“At the same time. It was clear that the boys were both heavily intoxicated. I cannot verify all of the details, but it appeared that the three were fully engaged with one another. Suffice to say, the scandal broke quickly throughout the castle and kingdom. Now the bloodline has been called into question, and each of the respective families of the betrothed have negated their agreements. The king is said to be considering making his third son heir to the kingdom.”

“But the youngest has a clubbed boot, and stricken with brain fevers.” The king forgot himself and gasped with genuine concerned for the fate of his adversary’s throne.

“Yes. That is true.” D’Artagnan slowly, almost imperceptibly, began to lift himself off of his knee.
“But the older boys. The middle boy is only fourteen years of age.” The king’s eyes wandered and lost focus. The gears started turning, his voice had a fuzzy giddiness. There was something good for the king at the end of this line of questioning, he just hadn’t figured it out for himself yet.

“Yes. That is true. We were lucky to escape with our heads attached to our necks, once Edmund learned of what had happened. We were chased to the channel, and his navy even gave chase for some time before turning back. Unfortunately, we are left with a pitched battle to obtain the retreat. I mean that figuratively, of course, your Majesty. I am loathe to bring this up at such a time, but this is not the first time that Esmerelle has sabotaged either your goals or my ability to execute them diplomatically. I strongly urge you to reconsider my request to-”

The king waved his hand at D’Artagnan, absently dismissing him. “No, no, that wont be necessary. I know you are quick to sever your ties from the woman, but I won’t allow it. Not yet. I know that you lack the vision, but trust me when I say that she has a part to play in your story yet. Of course, I will discipline her severely. Most severely.” the King’s fidgeting and absent smile betrayed an engorgement of the royal plumbing.

“You certainly are hot to have her dismissed, D’Artagnan,” the king continued “but what I still have yet to understand is that if you detest her so much, why on god’s green earth did you marry her?”

Saturday, October 6, 2007

I hate it but it puts me in a good mood...

"I've had the time of my life" from Dirty Dancing. It helps that Tatum likes trying very hard to sing the words.

Friday, October 5, 2007

My first golf handicap


Coincidentally, I think that's almost the equivalent of being able to type 19.5 words a minute.

I have one more revision schedule period (beginning of november), before the season ends.

Also, it says I've played 21 rounds this year. I'd say that about 4 of those were full rounds, and 34 9 hole rounds. That's purty good - you can get in a good amount playing 9 after work in the summer.

Wayward conversations when you are whacked out on DayQuil

I'm taking the day off finally. I'm out of it today. As testament to that claim, I just had this exchange with Jade...

Me (zoning out on couch, thinking out loud): You'll find it for me, Magellan. Chillin' like Magellan...

...that doesn't even rhyme.

Jade (putting mail together in the kitchen): Who says "Chillin' like Magellan?"

Me (still zoned out): "I dunno...

(spacey yet decisive)"

Thursday, October 4, 2007

I've joined the Sith

I received some late night revisions to a powerpoint deck. I managed to pull into a coffee shop early this morning to execute said changes prior to the 9AM meeting. Let's see where I started to fall towards the dark side...
  • I was in starbucks
  • I was using a macbook pro (17 inch no less)
  • I was drinking a Venti with room.
  • I was wearing shades
  • I had noise canceling headphones on.

After 3 people came up to see my computer, it was then I realized I had become the very thing I swore to destroy

Movie Trailer Awesomeness

I may actually have to go see this in the theatre.

Wait - check that. I may actually have to go all the way to Denver if I want to see this in the theatre.

This is Wrong in So Many Ways

Charges dismissed in sherry enema death.

Yes, that's drinking sherry... She told the newspaper her husband was addicted to enemas and often used alcohol in that manner... a throat ailment that left him unable to drink the sherry.

Maybe when you've burned your throat drinking sherry, it's time to get your ass to a twelve step, not have your wife shoot twelve ounces up your ass.

I just noticed the dateline - Houston. Priceless.

Why do lame white people like me listen to hip hop?

Rather than field this one myself, I'll let these three crunk ladies answer for me.

(yes, that is gwen verdon)

Scott Mountain has a twin

Sorry Scott...

It's Ed Helms, star of NBC's The Office, and former reporter for Comedy Central's The Daily Show. He actually a pretty funny guy - here's the clip I took this from, on why Ed Helms prefers LA to NYC.

Wednesday, October 3, 2007

Halloween Awesomeness

Let's get crunk at Camp Crystal Lake.

Because Halloween is coming, I want to talk about somebody important to Halloween movies. What? Michael Myers? No. A Mr. Jason Voorhees. That's right, somebody made a Jason Voorhees slideshow tribute. Of course they did; this is the internet. I don't know what this lame song is, but it makes me want to weep, it's such a beautiful specimen of 80s hair rock. At 3:14 credits actually start - that's how you know its a real "Jason Voorhees Tribute". Wow, I forgot how not-cool 80s slasher films were.

What kind of names is Voorhees, anyway? Seriously. Is it Roma or something?

I be cussin'

I swear. A lot. Sure, I tone it down for most folks, but when I get the green light, I'm the cussin'est. I've noticed on the blog that I try to make journal entries the way I would talk, except I don't feel as comfortable peppering the posts with that. I'll occasionally name-drop one of the seven deadly masters, but more often than not I elect to delete the profanity. Personally, I like swearing, and I think its a great form of communication. It doesn't get the respect it deserves. Nothing cuts the gordian knot in two like a well placed f-bomb. I guess that immediacy gets lost in the written form, so you really have to wait for a good opportunity to organically happen.


Nursing a sick head cold. Earaches, sore throat, stuffy nose, aching joint. The works.