Tuesday, December 25, 2012

Series 3. The rumor and legend.

Series 3 has been something of an ongoing myth with me. I've thought about writing it, about working on more Rino stories, but never got around to it.

Mostly out of fear. Because the Rino stories were not particularly good or useful or important. I saw no reason to read them, and every reason to throw them away.

Nevertheless, I kept them, and as I was editing them, had some fun. So I'm writing new ones.  They're better only because I'm a better writer.

Otherwise, they're still stream of consciousness, still stupid, and still fun.

For me. Not for you.

Series 2. The Lost Series. Of Stories.


(Note: This is not a blog post. I would not have made it one, but I already made the Series 1 page a blog post, so, for continuity, I'm doing the same with the Series 2 page.)

While Series 1 is what drove me to discover/love writing, they were not a real attempt to do anything with writing.  I came up with most of them during math class (which might explain my passing, but not great, grades,) and wrote each one in the course of a day or two.  They existed to be funny, and for the most part, they were.
Series 2 was different.  The plots were familiar, or similarly structured, but I actually put more than ten seconds of effort into any given sentence.  I won't say they were good, but they're at least...I don't know.  They can be read without giving me a headache.  I feel it unfair to ask for more.
That being said, I do not know where Series 2 has gotten itself off to.  I have boxes of writings and I'm sure Series 2 is in there somewhere.  When I find it, I may or may not put them up.  It depends on how many of the ideas I want to steal for future writings.

Us Vs Them. Or not.


12-25-12 note: On reviewing this now, I see why I didn't post it. I'm not a huge fan of this, but don't feel its worth the effort to rewrite. Summary of the piece: Artificial social struggle enrages me. Entitlement annoys me.

12-7-11 note: I wrote this on 4/10/11 but did not post it.  I'm not sure why.

Us vs Them.  Or not.
When listening to music, or people talking, or anything, nothing quite annoys me like the pretentious “inclusive” behavior of “us vs them.” As if “you” and “I” are somehow in a group that is separate from other people, and also better than those others. As if being separate is itself a positive quality, as if being different is better than being not different. Not to say that diversity is bad, but it's not also good simply by being diverse. Diversity isn't inherently a good or bad thing, it's just a state of existence, though that state is needed at a certain level.

Back to the point. Separating people into groups is obviously foolish. It isolates and causes unnecessary opposition. This is the biggest problem with politics (or at least with the political system(s).) The idea that, because “you” and “I” aren't like the others that we should get along, that we know something these others don't know, that because we do things they don't do, that we are somehow better, is stupid.

I find that (main stream) punk (the music style) does this a lot, and often I find this to be the reason I don't like a lot of punk, although I like the music itself. The sound is good, but the people making it seem to want to include me in their little circle of pretense. Sorry, I don't find all people older to be to be stupid fools. I don't find all people of [given political party] to be idiots, and their beliefs in that party, or any part of what it values, does not make them somehow lesser than those who happen to believe otherwise. (In particular, less than those who happen to agree with the lyrics.)

The part that REALLY bothers me is that not only are people grouped into these non-existent categories, but that they almost always insult the “others.” You're allowed to express your opinion, but do it in a constructive manner. Address why their beliefs may need changing, don't just tell them they're blind and stupid. If they really ARE blind and stupid, they won't notice anyway. If they're not, you're only alienating them by addressing them as some sort of faulty humans.

Obviously we all do this, it's part of our way of socially coping with one another, but I think generally people aren't doing it with the purpose of negating or invalidating others as much as fitting in with those around them. While maybe that's not ideal, it doesn't really bother me. Turning this tendency into something hostile and aggressive, however, makes me...sad? Angry? I'm not sure. It doesn't seem worth the effort to define the emotion specifically. At the risk of sounding like a second grader, it's bad, and that's as complex as I need to be at explaining it.

People seem to make this a perpetual state, as if at all times they're struggling against some “other's” force. Like, “Oh, I'm poor, and someone-else is not, so that person's fault. Oh, I'm sick and so-and-so could fix it, so they should.” As if we're all struggling against some one (probably several someone's) who are against us and we deserve different treatment simply because we participate in this (imaginary) struggle.

This seems to be a rambling way of saying entitlement annoys me. People deserve/should have/are entitled to only their own lives, and that only about 2 seconds after birth. After that, every second a freak accident might wipe you/me/them/everyone out, so thank your lucky stars that you get another. And then another. And then several thousand more. It's luck, not a right. Just because you get lucky many thousands of times in a row is no reason to expect more

Not to be confused with obligation or perhaps (gasp, I hate to say this,) social duty. If I can help a person not get hit by a truck, that's all well and good. Just don't let it stray into entitlement.

I'm not drawing lines, just asking for attentiveness.

Thursday, August 23, 2012

Grapple Plaster!

GRAPPLE PLASTER!

No, really, that's it. That's the joke.

You're here, reading me saying Grapple Plaster.

I'm sorry if I've offended anyone.

If anyone shows up later and wonders why this is funny, I linked it lots of places. So there.

I don't mean to be cruel or anything, just Grapple Plaster.

Saturday, August 4, 2012

Why I write (One of many)

Sometimes I wonder what drives me personally to write. Sometimes people even ask.

I don't know. I can't answer that. What makes you breathe?

But sometimes, I come up with something (clever) that I need to share.

As I sit here writing, (not this, something else,) staring at my fingernails, still dirty with sawdust and oil and little bits of dinner that never quite wash out, but must be cut away (where was I going with this?) I think about finishing a good book. And how I feel, sometimes, when I close that cover and put the book down. (Generally moments before I consider reading it again.)

That feeling of...completion?

Anne Lamott described it as lonely, and that's close. The characters have left us, at least for the moment, and we must go on without their guidance.

I say: "That's it?" I'm not upset or displeased. I am not dissatisfied. Ok, I probably am, like finishing my favorite pizza, I want more, but I can only eat so much OK?! More like "Why doesn't this keep going? When is the next book out? How will I go on when so much has ended?"

I think Sam felt this way near the end of the Lord of the Rings. I always found it a little creepy that he was feeling the same way I did shortly after.

That's what I want to do to someone. Ok, sure I write for me, but I also write because of what I can do to other people with what I already love.

I write for the bored teenager, awake at 3 am on a school night, 80 pages from the end of the book, so sweaty and engrossed in the last few pages that he (or she) can't even get off the bed to piss, but clutches at the book with fingernails at least as dirty as mine.

I want them to kill those pages in one mad dash, when he should be sleeping (or at least doing homework,) and wrestle through the best parts, where the hero overcomes something big (after which the hero probably dies. That's how I does it,)  and things more or less wrap up and this sleepy reader tosses the book across the room and screams my call: "That's it?"

I want to torture them for a year or two as I write a sequel. When we finally finish the series, they'll sit on their porch, drinking lemonade, living a story they can tell their kids later. They finish and put it down and think "That's it?" But this time they don't throw things, because ok, maybe that's enough.

I mean, I'll write until I die and if no one ever reads it, I'll keep writing. I might be sad, but it won't stop me. However, "that's it" is my favorite feeling with books. And I want to share that.

Or...force it upon unsuspecting youths.

I don't think that's weird at all.

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

Story 3-1

Comment 7-25-11: Here it is. The only surviving story out of Series 3. I suppose I could write more, but this one lived through the ages. All two years of ages. I like it much better than anything from series 1, but it's also about 8 years more recent. Anyway, enjoy.


Story 3-1


I had no interest in going 1,000 miles, but someone once told me “A journey of 1,000 miles starts with a single step.”

I don't buy that. A journey of 1,000 miles doesn't start with a single step, though that's in there somewhere. Before you can take any steps, there's a whole ball of metaphysical nonsense that should be sorted out.

The best place to start is with existing. If you start before that, none of the information really sticks around because it doesn't exist. Even if you're doing it as someone else's mental construct, they would need to exist, so then we have to solve their existence first. The best place to start, for yourself, is by existing. Most of us do this by default, and don't really have too much trouble with it, though we seem to have some trouble deciding if we exist or not. That's not even mentioning the mess we make out of what to do when we do exist.

If you're not sure if you exist, I don't know what to tell you. Pretend. If you can fake it, that's all anyone can ask of you.

So. Existing. Thousand miles.

No one goes straight from existing to taking steps. I'm simplifying some, but if we assume you are yourself, then you probably make the decision to take a journey of 1,000 miles before taking the step. We could trace such a journey to that decision.

Somewhere in the fuzzy chemical exchanges of your brain, you decide “Oh, 1,000 miles...good idea.” And it sort of goes on from there. You probably don't even know that it happened for a second or two. After that you even have more work!

A single step? How about the nerve impulses to take that step? How about the chemical exchanges to initiate the muscle action of taking the step? How about the dozens of balancing muscles that keep you from doing a (thoroughly amusing) face plant into the concrete sidewalk, splattering nose goo, mixed with a healthy dose of nose blood, all over Mrs. Florin's, your imaginary neighbor (she can't take this journey, because she doesn't exist,) petunias? How about the ridiculously complex exchange of...you know...brain stuff that allows you to walk? 

Huh? How about THAT?

Seriously though, I think the saying is a bit metaphorical, sort of saying that you need to begin before the end is in sight. That's also nonsense, but we don't have the technology to bend time or space or anything, so if you're interested in running 40 some marathons, you should probably make with the step-step.

I only needed to walk about half a mile to the grocery store to buy some pudding, because pudding is amazing and I had run out. But most of the same stuff applies. That neuron junk for sure. Not so positive on the existence jazz.

I opened my door to go out to my car, and there on the lawn stood someone I had not seen in almost a decade. My old friend (ok, we're not really friends, but I say he is to spare his feelings,) Something Other Than George or Bob stood there, still as a stump.

I politely refrained from punching him in the face (not punching someone is a good place to start for people you haven't seen in a long time,) and walked down to the curb, where my car was more or less parked.

Something Other Than George or Bob (I might call him SOTGoB sometimes, because he hates that,) turned around as I walked by. “Hey jerkface,” SOTGoB said, “You've been out of the peril stew for a long time, but this pudding-venture might prove, oh, I don't know, PERILOUS! So watch your back! Not really though, because that would mean breaking bones, or carrying a mirror all the time, and neither are good ways to avoid peril.”

I nodded to SOTGoB. “Whatever you say goblin man,” says I. “I'm off on a pudding-ventu...wait, you stole my word.”

Something Other Than George or Bob smiled a toothy, evil goblin (which he is,) all wicked and clever and with the green spit dripping out of the side of his half open mouth and said “Yeah, I do that.”

So I got in my car and drove to the food-mart. Which was kinda wasteful because I cold have walked there, but lack of pudding makes me impatient.

As a quick aside, I feel I should comment on my love for pudding. Just because I'm the king of the Gelatin Kingdom does not mean eating pudding is a betrayal of my people or their honor. 

Gelatin and Pudding have had good diplomatic relations for many years and neither side feels bad about consuming the other for delight.

Once in the store, I found some pudding, which was even on sale. I bought them all, left, drove home, ran inside, forgot to not punch Something Other Than George or Bob (lack of pudding is to blame,) and sat down.

I barely even took the time to throw several tons of prepackaged pudding into storage on the way.

I grabbed a spoon, opened the cup, took a bite aaaaaand NOOOOO! Lime pudding! How horrible! Frantic, I ran to my storage to check the other boxes. Also lime pudding! Every single one! Nine tons of lime pudding!

Even worse, the coupons on the lids (all pudding comes with coupons on them, I'm pretty sure that's a law,) were expired! Double even worse, when I checked the receipt, they weren't really on sale. Man. Day ruined.

“Hah!” Something Other Than George or Bob said, nursing his black eye. “You thought I was joking didn't you? Moron.”

I looked at SOTGoB for a moment, so confused that I had nothing to say. “What?” Was all I managed. I almost cried depressed tears, but I was worried they'd melt the floor or something.

“Err,” Something Other Than George or Bob said. “I mean...here, let me try again.”

At this point, Something Other Than George or Bob stuck his head through the ground, breaking a large number of my floorboards in the process, and said “See? What did I tell you? Peril, Eh?”

“Ooooooh,” I said. “Now I get it.”

Saturday, July 21, 2012

Ridiculous Research


(add in links)


7 9 2010
To write a book, I need to have a basic understanding of many things. I generally need at least 30 minutes of research for anything I put into a story. If I'm not already familiar with the topic, that increases to an hour.


Take a house. Maybe 15-30 minutes of research. But if I’m talking about a massive ancient temple, I need to answer all sorts of questions to be able describe it properly.


Is the place falling apart?


What parts are most likely to fail? Doors? Walls? Ceilings? Floors? Support structures (such as pillars)?


Does any of this change when its built free standing? Into a mountain? Underground? Is it more likely to suffer degradation from water damage or from the sheer passage of time?


Do gothic churches outlast pueblo adobe cliff villages?


And most people know more about buildings than many possible topics. Everyday people live, work, shop, and travel in and around buildings. We’ve seen lots of them, see how they get destroyed, and have seen damaged building.


How about combat? The closest I’ve come to combat would be being in a fight with someone, or else in wrestling. Needless to say, neither of these two really give me writable background.


I may need to define/explain military structures, weapon systems, tactics, and more.


Military structures are a bit easier, partly because we hear about generals, captains, and sergeants in movies more often than we get much information about cavalry charges and phalanx formations. I’ve talked to officers and enlisted soldiers. I’ve never met someone who worked in a phalanx.


Weird that.


I have to know, how fast can a phalanx move? What sort of equipment would they be carrying for a short or extended deployment? What does their equipment weigh? What does it look like? How does a formation like that move? When it moves, what are the problems with moving, and how might they be exploited?


What weapons were traditionally used in (or against) a phalanx? Were weapons developed later on which might have been more effective than the normal pike/spear? Would a Halberd work better than a pike? And really, what IS a halberd or a pike? Why would one or the other have been used? What were their strengths and weaknesses?


The questions spiral out of control. I look up all sorts of things about tanks, artillery, and what generals want when making one compared to what designers want.


What is desirable in a good tank? Speed? Armor? Range? Electronics systems? What have they considered for possibly making it better? What would they like to do with it but haven’t? How would doing something like putting a missile package on it change its function?


Thankfully, in fiction, I can use Wikipedia. I’m not exactly citing my sources. Yes, it can be innacurate, but generally, nerds who put wrong information on wikis do not edit glaive or bill. Which were both things I looked up at one point.

It goes on and on and on. I read things by some authors and I wonder to myself “Hmm, why would they do X instead of Y? Did the author even check?” Any time I find myself wondering about something in my own writing, I go look it up.


Generally this takes between 4 and 16 hours a week. Many times I will hunt through 30-40 websites looking for references to my topic. From time to time I find the name of a book discussing what I’m dealing with and then see if it’s at a nearby library.


That’s really all I have to say. I spend ridiculous amounts of time looking things up, and sometimes I have to wonder how much of it will get used.

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

Story 1-10



(This is it! The last story in the first series, where we see my powers manifest and the first hints of true peril. Now I'll be forced to find the next series. I hope it is in a box under my bed. That's where I keep old writing.)

Students attend school, often learning, sometimes playing. At times they take breaks. Those breaks often last for weeks and months, hopefully full of fun and delight. This is one such story.
No guarantee is made that these events are real, or based on any same, rational, or real event of any sort. Except Kenny the Tree. He lives in Kansas.
I decided to go on a trip to a skiing type place. On this “trip“ I realized that I had two feet.
While I was skiing I rammed face first into a large tree type thing. I then named this tree Kenny. - Note, Kenny the Tree has asked that his location be removed for privacy reasons. However, you will know him when you see him.- Upon standing up from this frightfully horrendous event I concluded that somehow my skies has become a “snow“ “board“. Well as I am not all that good at skiing anyway, I would, obviously be even worse at snowboarding. So I was feeling quite afraid for my life. Being impaled should be avoided when possible. Obviously. - Lies. I love to be impaled!- I hopped right onto that there snow board and away I zoomed. On and on I zoomed, like a pro I zigged down that there mountain.
Then I opened my eyes and realized that I had not really gone anywhere at all and in fact I had just stood in one spot and pretended. I had grown quite tired and decided not to attempt to ski down the mountain. Instead I decided that sledding was certainly my best bet.
Sledding did not work. So instead thought I ought to make the mountain just shrink and that way get down. Of course that did not work either. -Thrilling-
Finally, out of options, I transported myself to the bottom to think about it for a while, when I realized that I was in fact already at the bottom. After this realization I danced many small circles and went to have some really good hot cocoa.
I then went to my room, which may not have been a room, but that's what I called it while on my “supposed ski trip/vacation death trap dealy bop.”
Once I entered the room I knew that someone must be staying there already, as the beds were all nicely unmade and there was food in the mini fridge, which, of course, I ate. Quickly.
When the inhabitants returned, finding me rummaging through their personal belongings as I was, I inquired as to the whereabouts of my room, which discovered had been stolen by a large purple monster. –lies, lies, its all a bunch of lies. You are surely the most incompetent person that I have ever meant. Nothing after the part about the cocoa ever happened. Sure it did! You don't remember it because you were...unconscious! Yeah! Knocked out after hitting your head on Kenny the Tree. Oh. Well I'll believe that.-
As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, a large purple monster had stolen my rom and taken it off to some odd place. So I chased the beast and as soon as I did I realized that large purple monsters are really only destroyed cell phones. Because I knew this truth I thus ignored him. Monsieur purple monsters don’t like being ignored, so he attacked me in a horrendous ball of fury, which engulfed me. Smitely. But did not harm me on the slightest nor did it scathe my wondrous...uhh...wonder. -very original-
As you can guess I was quite disturbed that this purple being of cell phoniness may possibly have been part of the peril. Why he may, in fact, be an enemy whom I was meant to rid the planet of in my quest to defeat my peril. Then I turned to face him, and I unsheathed my handy light bright. I tossed those light bulbs at him “like none other“ - That’s right i said like none other! And I really meant it too! Good one self. That'll learn 'em.-
My attack was unsuccessful, because (as I should have known, but only learned later,) large purple fiery cell phone monsters have absolutely nothing to do with a light bright. Thus –jelly smells like cheese- those little bulbs didn’t do that much, except of course, make him glow all those neat colors of the little bulbs.
I knew I'd have to try something else. I would eat 5 donut buddies and then kick him in the shins while shooting insane duck/children at him. Then I would kick him again, real good this time, toss him in a pool of pudding, and THEN sell him to Not George Or Bob. Who, by the way, collects, repairs, and makes broken cell phones.
But then I thought that a large purple pudding covered clown face glowing cell phone monster would not only spark him cell phone interests, but also humor and amuse him. So of course, knowing that I had a good trade, attack as mentioned. I'm not sure if it worked, but I sold him to Not George or Bob anyway.
Not George or Bob loved him, but gremlin-monster marriages remain illegal. As far as I know they still work together, managing their relationship despite the occasional squabble.
For giving Not George or Bob this, I received a large “tennis-racket.“ I applied a good bit of old school Mafia-style extortion and turned it into a very profitable racket indeed. -That was terrible. Puns are not funny. Sure they are.-
About this time, I discovered my latent telekinetic, psycho-empathic, and just plain special and mentally superior, powers.
Well this was quite an interesting adventure that I had gone on, and I wondered what I would do next, when I realized that I could sell my broken glass table leg for a roll of duct tape, and 3 jumbo jelly beans. So that’s what I did. Then I went home to play a long game of chess with my stuffed moose.
At about this time, you should be imagining Something Other Than George or Bob sticking his head through the ground and saying “See? What did I tell you? Peril, Eh? EHH?!”

Saturday, June 23, 2012

A composite of early summer 2008


6-23-12 Posting note: This was after 7 continuous, full-time college (including summer.) I posted this on my website on 11-30-09, but wrote it on the dates listed. I think I selected these entries out of about 30 others. These were the best or most relevant ones.


A composite of early summer 2008
6 18 08
When I lay here trying to sleep, I wonder about the things I’ve done and the mistakes I’ve made.  I wonder if I were able to do things over again knowing what I know now, would I make changes and what would they be?  Do I value the lessons learned over the possible opportunities missed?  I don’t know.
Later, looking back, will I see the same things in this time in my life?  I’d like to think not, but the sheer lack of feeling like I’m doing much worthwhile makes me think I will barely even remember now as more than what classes I was taking and where I was living.  Which is worse?  To want to change a lesson learned by huge mistakes, or to not make mistakes and as a result to be forgotten?
This comes up from late night considerations of things as compared to Moorhead.  Specifically thinking about intramural soccer.  No really “big” mistakes were committed there, but the girl involved was cute and fun to talk to.  What could have come from that had I dared to call her?  I had her number since we two basically organized everything for soccer.  I gained nothing from not calling her, so it’s one thing I’d say I likely would have changed.
I continue to be amazed at how much happened up there in those short 5-6 months.  I think about it pretty regularly, especially when considering things that are occurring in my life now.  It is a reference against which I compare many things.  Is that because it was so formative or so destructive?  Was it formative because of what I learned through that destruction?  Was it just the right time in my life that anything that had happened would have become significant?  I don’t know.
I feel idle.  I probably am.  Maybe it’s just summer.  I want to exercise.  I want to get a job.  I want more friends.  I want to move on in life.  I want a girlfriend, though I am displeased at myself in some way that it matters so much that I write it among other more important issues.  I want dedication.  I want progress.  Of course, getting these things will make me want free time and relaxation.
Writing all sorts of “wants” makes the good ol Lutheran in my feel guilty.  I know it’s ok though.  It’s fine to want more.  It’s ok to not have enough (especially since I’m not talking about material things.)  Even so, all the things and blessings I have overwhelm me.  How could I ever express sufficient thanks for such luxury?
6 19 08
Given that last night [the night of 6/18] was a singular piece of writing and no semblance of a journal, this obviously is as well.  What do I intend by writing these entries?  Some sort of introspection?
It feels like most of my life has been on hold for 5 years.  I’m somehow stuck in 2003.  I have no job, no education, and live with my parents.  Other than hair I’ve lost, I look and dress mostly the same as I did then.
Even so, I feel like, “new beginnings” aside, I am moving on.  I’m writing more, for what that (this) is worth.  I am and have been taking (3/4 assing) classes.  I have a vague semblance of a difficult long term plan.  I’m trying to clean up my relationship with Kent.  Leah and I are hanging out more, which is great.  Even my handwriting is a bit better.  Sounds like progress.  Or like it’s closing in on time for a crash and crap shoot.
Where does God fit in?  I believe, so now where are faith motivated acts?
How do “truly productive people” find time to sleep?
7 10 08
What is it that we’re looking for in life?  What is it that makes us write or create or love or live at all?  I’m not looking for any meaning to do these things, or meaning to life, but the how of it.  Some people can get up and do things.  Others cannot.  What is different between them?  What is it that some people find makes them able to function and that others lack which restricts them to a bed in the mental health ward of a hospital?
Anyone who does anything with passion knows that you don’t do it for the actual product (though having a thing be completed is also nice,) but that it’s just whatever it is the person does is as close as you/we/I/anyone really comes to what is really wanted.  I don’t know what this mysterious and elusive thing is, but I know when I see bits of it.

Story 1-9


(Disclaimer: I wrote these "stories" in high school, during study hall, when I should have been doing my homework. Meaning, they are not representative of my current writing.
I've edited them so they embarrass me less, but only the grammar and punctuation. They're still embarrassing, but are a little funny. Or something.)


Well now then yet I was like walking in this garden this one time right? And suddenly I came upon this tree, not an ordinary tree mined you, but a tree TREE. -Oh. Oh no. I've heard this one before. You have​? Yeah. So. Just bear with it. For once, this really happened. All my stories really happened. Sure they did.- The tree TREE was crying, so I inquire as to the nature of its sadness. As soon as I said something the tree TREE hopped right up and swallowed me whole. How odd.
As I passed through the ominous hole that IS and or WAS its mouth, I plopped down in its belly and discovered that I was not the only one that the tree TREE had consumed. Neigh there were at least 5 other beings that were in the same predicament as I. Not long after I had learned all of their names, I knocked them unconscious and crawled back up the throat of the tree TREE, but alas my labors were to no avail as the neck was an unholy length. -For real. Unholy. Demonic maybe.-
So I plummeted back into the abyss below me.
I turned tail and tucked into a full swan dive, through which process, I proceeded to imbed myself in the bottom of the stomach. As soon as I pried my face free from the ground, I discovered that I was no longer in the tree TREE at all. Far from it indeed. For I once again found myself in a funnel falling at a speed similar to that of a blender being shot out of a canon.
As I proceeded to observe my predicament, I perceived a floor rapidly approaching my position.
So I simply slowed my self down by waving my arms, like a bird mind you. I gently landed on a cake-like floor.
This cake-type flooring did not taste at all like cake, on the contrary it tasted more like pie. I then kicked that no good floor and went on.
Then, this giant, yellow, butterfly/dragon fly crossbreed came zipping, fluttering, and zigging up to me. I took one look at it and then threw some boiling stew that happened to be cooking on a large nearby rock. As soon as I was finished thoroughly thrashing it’s wits out, it flew away in an even more drunken manner than with which it flew away yonder at an alarming speed. -Yeah it did.-
Well then I looked around a bit, ate some of that stew and I jumped up and down about 3000 times in one place (for convenience.) When I completed my jumping sequence and I fell to the floor, unconscious. Later, after waking, I stood up and walked around for a while. I came to a point where I had nothing to do, so I took my finger nail cutter, threw it at the wall.
Upon impact, it exploded, revealing a large opening to the outer world. So I walked outside and looked at the tree TREE, which was standing nearby. As it had tried to kill me , and did in fact succeed in eating me, I held no grudge. Instead I simply cut it down and used it for a large amount of fire wood.
At about this point imagine Something Other Than George or Bob sticking his head through the ground and saying “See? What did I tell you? Peril, Eh?“

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

Picture of a First Day of School (2009)


Comment: 6-20-12
My first repost in a while. I'm often surprised at my own writing. Sometimes clean, sometimes funny. Even 3 years ago, competent and effective. I'm not bragging; it's the truth. I kinda wish things had gone better.

Picture of a First Day of School
09/08/09

How even to begin to describe it?  Like being at the State Fair (and in saying such, I limit my audience to Minnesotans who go/have gone to the Fair) or a very busy airport.  Shuttle busses whiz students and faculty back and forth across a campus so large it has its own transit system.

There’s a presence in the air here; one both oppressive and welcoming.  It threatens to crush the unready, but for some, for me anyway, carries a sort of pheremonal, almost psychic (if there is such a thing) empowerment.

“I can work with this,” my mind says.  “This is a thing that we can use.”  At Century, I managed, tried even, to float through.  To pass between people and classes like an Olympic diver into water, leaving only a quiet “blurp” and the smallest ripple to mark my passage.

I didn’t want to deal with its sort of extended high school attitude, or the remarkable number of intelligent, but very young PSEO students.  That type of thing would never work here.  Such a solo-isolationist act would ensure I never knew the things I would need to know so I could finish my time here.

Even if I could pass unnoticed, I would not want to.  I can enjoy this place, but it’s more than that.  As my friend Dan learned, college is not about receiving an education, or certainly not only about that, but about meeting people who would make it worthwhile to GET said education.  It’s all about networking (and that applies to all of life, not just college.)
That sort of psychic-like mental-energy-feeling beckons.  It calls to the interested mind.  It says “Grow here.  Become something more.”  My mind agrees.  It feels the power of 40,000 people of similar age with similar goals.  Here I can take root and make a home.  If I didn’t, I would be wholly destroyed, but, of course, I really want to, so that possibility doesn’t worry me.

The best words and phrases of creative thought come to me in useless quips as I walk through the teeming masses.  As I buy a coke; “Do I take the sure slow death of carcinogenic artificial sweeteners?  Or the irresponsibly lazy death of sugar induced heart disease?” I chose diet only because I like how it tastes better from a fountain than normal coke from such a source.  Also, the excess sugar makes me jittery.

It’s like being in some mythical city.  Not Minneapolis, which it is in, or even any other city I’ve ever been to, but like what movies show us Seattle (where I’ve never gone) or New York (where I have gone) are supposed to be.  Heavily bustling foot traffic marches between their peers who form lines in doorways.  Out on the sunny grass-filled lawns people sit, lie, stand, spin (practice balls for fire spinning of course,) and bike.  Hordes of bikes.  They pedal by in twos and twenties, migratory herds running from predatory shuttle busses.

Is it always this way?  Does it die down as the weary Fall season and heavy class load beat at their youthful spirits?  Even if 10% of them dropped out (10% of the whole school being bigger than any school I’ve ever gone to before) then it should still be packed with humans.
I can only imagine the tunnels between buildings will, in the winter, look like some scene out of a disaster movie.  Thousands of people, refugees from the hostile environment, shuffling through low cement walk ways.
Beginning classes always leaves people feeling overwhelmed.  Beyond even that though, I know I have a lot to do.  I need to look into lots of things which are native to the U that I am unfamiliar with.  I need to look into transit alternatives.  If things went perfectly (and so far they have, so I’m going to trust God to keep everything working for me) I will live within range to join those rubber-on-cement leg pedaling herbivores (the bikers, duh.)

If things don’t, I need to look into busses or carpools.  Even if I simply commute as I have been, parking daily will quickly bankrupt me.

Essentially everything is coming down to money.  I need to work out financial aid stuff.  Hopefully I can get work study still.  Hopefully I can get loans in time.  Hopefully I can earn enough money to move closer and fix the transportation issue.  I might get grants.  I might get lots of grants (hopefully!)

Even if I do, if I get the hours and pay I’d want, I won’t be so impoverished next year as to get them again, and so will need to come up with at least $5,000 a year that I don’t have access to this year.  I suppose the whole of this relative pipe-dream rests on book selling.  I want to finish book 1 and have it sold in a year.  This may be (read: IS) unrealistic.

Oh well.  I’ll cross these bridges when I come to them.  At the moment, I’m doing what I want to do and am enjoying it.  I’m happy to be in school and look forward to the challenge of juggling another semester of class, work, homework, and life.

For now, simply being happy is enough for me.

Story 1-8


(Disclaimer: I wrote these "stories" in high school, during study hall, when I should have been doing my homework. Meaning, they are not representative of my current writing.
I've edited them so they embarrass me less, but only the grammar and punctuation. They're still embarrassing, but are a little funny. Or something.)


Something other than George or Bob come up to me and raises his hand in the air, shaking it about, nearly poking both my eyes out in the process. And so he says, “Riiiiiiino! You, yes you, stop fidgeting, have met small peril before, but now great peril will come upon you and increase its intensity 10 fold! Well maybe not 10, but at least fifty percent more. So watch out! Things will be more dangerous from now on! OOOooooooo!” Then, Something other than George or Bob scampered away to go jump rope with his friends.
Well I sure wasn’t scarred of the old so-called, somewhat quasi normal peril, but this 1.5 times amplified peril was so great even I was shaking in his boots. And the scary thing about this was that I was not wearing boots! I was wearing galoshes, yeah you heard me! Galoshes! So there!
I figured that if I was going to defeat my new and improved 1.5 times more perilous perils then I should get a good night’s rest and have a healthy breakfast, so I went home. As I went to sleep I vaguely remembered Something other than George or Bob’s warning and I wondered if it was possible for any sort of peril to get me in my dreams. –So now the story will be dream stuff until I say that the dreams are over.–
I found myself once again in the mysterious forest, battling the giant field mouse (you may recall such a fight from previous adventures,) but it was a whole lot larger. Really, the size increase was quite impressive. Just as it was about to crush me into a pancake, a feeling I can only call fuzzy came over me. Then, I noticed that I was no longer in the mysterious forest. Instead I was in a city and all the trees had been turned into buildings, but there was no one moving. It was as if time had frozen, leaving all the people and candy wrappers hanging in the air.
I said to myself, “Self, know what? I could have a lot of fun here.”
“Know what?” I said in reply, echoing my earlier words. “I really could and I think that it would indeed be neat.“
So I went up to almost all the cars and I opened the glove compartments. Then I popped their trunks open for no reason at all. –I know this might seem rather mean and perhaps a little evil, but it was a dream and I knowsed that its was a dreams. So I didn’t really care that I was doing all these really mean things.–
Before I could cause any more mischief in my dream lands, I woke up. Well believe you me, this oddity of a dream had startled me to a certain degree, but for the most part, I felt much relieved, because having control of my dreams has always been a sure sign of my sanity.
Well rested after a very sane night of sleep, I felt hungry, so I swam down the stairs into my kitchen. I was quite famished, and anticipated a large breaking of the fast, of BREAKFAST as it is commonly called. I soon discovered one of the great perils that I would have to face. When I opened my cuboard, I discovered all my cereal had been eaten by a large pack of traveling weirdoes (you know, the type with those hair cuts, who always wear those stupid hats,) who had mistaken my house as some sort of a inn with free lodging and food.
Missing out on breakfast really boiled my ears. (That hurts a lot, trust me.) As soon as I got some ice for my burnt lobes I immediately set off to the nearest food supplement repository. Upon arrival, I went to the automatic door, but for some reason it had backwards writing on it and it only let people out. So when one person came out I thanked them and politely went in. (Later research suggests that this was some sort of backwards trap for people who are too stupid to escape a one way door.) As soon as I went through the first door I was faced with the same problem again, though now knowing the trick, I overcame this puzzle with ease, only taking another fifteen minutes to enter the the edible material resovour.
Once inside, I immediately went to the nearest currency/supplement exchange vendor, and requested the location of marshmallow and grain chunk heterogeneous mixture contained within a plastic repository bag. I tell ya that this operational manager of the checkout lane did not understand at all what I meant in any way, he was obviously of a lesser intellect. As a result of this confrontation, I decided that I must go in search of it myself so that I could completely gain the satisfaction of gaining my goal. I found the cereal in aisle three.
The first phase complete, I set out to gain the material that would be used to liquidate the entire combination inside of an upturned three dimensional concave circle. Milk was easier to find, so I found myself on the way out within moments. Having obtained all three things, I went to the food checkout lane. Whence the transaction was completed, I went off to my home, which by some quirk of fate, of just by normal happenstance, was on fire at the time of my return. I refused to let a simple fire dampen my spirits. –You are such an idiot. The house was not on fire! You are making things up again, not that you need to, things being perilous enoguh as they were. I can’t believe this guy; the nerve of some people.–
Oh. Right then. So I went into the house and kicked off my shoes. Then I went and threw my coat on the coat rack and karate chopped the cupboard, just to announce that I had returned to my domain. While I was doing all this I leaped into the air, twirled about a few times, did an airborne sumersault, spring boarded off the refrigerator, tossed the entire ensemble of food onto the table, where it landed in perfect eating order, and flew into a seat, sitting down to consume my breakfast.
Satisfied with my aerobatic routine, I was content to eat my breakfast in peace. At about this point imagine Something Other Than George or Bob sticking his head through the ground and saying “See? What did I tell you? Peril, Eh?“

"Story" 1-7 (Just for continuity)

Story seven was so bad that I refuse to put it up.  Compared to the rest of series 1, which I think are moderate, even in their best moments, story seven was a steaming pile of poo.  So, you won't see it.  I only have fragments, because in editing, I was so harsh that I had less than a page before I realized I had cut huge chunks of it away, save it that way, and then a backed it up over the old files.

I refuse to write a new series 1 story (even editing these plays with my writing and not in a good way,) so for now (and probably forever) my audience will have to do without story number seven.

Monday, June 18, 2012

Story 1-6


(Disclaimer: I wrote these "stories" in high school, during study hall, when I should have been doing my homework. Meaning, they are not representative of my current writing.
I've edited them so they embarrass me less, but only the grammar and punctuation. They're still embarrassing, but are a little funny. Or something.)


Reviewing my previous adventures, I noted a lack of action, so I decided that now I should, to increase the quality of my stories, be more active in my methods of doing things. Not that I should describe them more actively, but should do more active things and then describe those. Or that. Either one.

Once, I decided that I should go bungee jumping, but not in the typical elastic-off-a-bridge method. Let me tall you it took no small amount of coaxing to convince to Not George or Bob (not Something Other than George or Bob mind you, but Not George or Bob, his second cousin) to go on this adventure with me. Because I would need him. For bungee jumping via alternate means.

As we were on this elevator up to the platform to go bungee jumping and about half way up, Not George or Bob disappeared in a puff of very gooey and sticky pink steamy smoke. If there's one thing I can't stand, it's anything sticky. Which is actually many things. So, as a correction, if there's many things I can't stand it is sticky things. –That's still wrong.– Ok, out of the many things I can't stand (and there are many,) all things that are sticky are near the top of the list. –Better–

“Well,” I said to myself, but then didn't go on, because there were people nearby and excluding them from my conversation would have been rude. “I,” I thought, “can’t let him do that.” I did the Exact Thing (you know, the Exact Thing, not to be confused with the Vague Thing,) and appeared (somewhere) standing on my eyebrows. I solved that problem by running around on my elbows for a while.

Now, keep in mind, when a person is standing on their eyebrows, that person is usually having a heart attack. My heart was fine, but I did topple (not to be confused with a popple) over. That is to say, I fell head over heals and landed on my elbows. Usually when a person performs this stunt, said elbows subsequently snap off and one then continues his or her foreword, out of control, motion. I skipped the last part out of consideration for time (and my forearms, which I'm quite attached to.)

Upon regaining my standing stance I resumed my bungee jumping adventures. Well then I jumped back to the top of the platform in a manner similar to that of a really neat high jump thing trick. It really was a trick you see, because I knew Not George or Bob would return as soon as I left. The sticky residue gave him away. Not George or Bob always returns for his messes.

When I got to the top I looked at Not George or Bob, and he blinked twice and disappeared in a puff of smoke. Well I knew how to do this exact thing (that is, the same thing he had done, not the previously mentioned “exact thing.” I can only do the “exact thing” once a day,) in a neat manner that was somewhat similar to the way in which he did it. Thus had I done so and thus did I appear in a long tunnel where Not George or Bob happened to be running away from me.

This was odd because he was laying down unconscious, and until then, I only knew of three people who could run down a tunnel while unconscious. Oddly, his cousin, Also Not George or Bob is one of them. To my relief, I noticed that we were not really moving, but being pulled by a large conveyer belt thing and zooming along at quite a pace might I add. –No it wasn’t! Oh then I suppose that we were just mystically flying backwards for no reason. Yes! Oh yes well that’s what I thought so I was just checking.–

So we were flying backwards and what not and so I said to myself, “Self?” I says.

“Yes?” I said.

“Well,” says I, “We think that we should stop going backwards and make Not George or Bob stop too.”

“Oh, yes, quite the dashing plan,” came my terse reply.

“Yes yes yes, quite dashing indeed,” I tittered like a school girl. I almost smacked myself for that one. I'm no school girl and should know better.

“Fine then,” says the me, “now what I want is to stop this backward flying backward stuff.”

So that’s exactly what happened as soon as I wanted it to.

Once I stopped the backward movement stuff, I grabbed Not George or Bob by the neck, and POOF I disappeared I a cloud of stuff. Again. When we reappeared somewhere, a delightfully high somewhere I must add, I pushed Not George or Bob off a handy platform. George fell to his doom, because the stupid gremlin wasn't wearing a bungee cord. This turned out a-okay, because he happened to be a gremlin and they don’t get hurt by that type of falling stuff.

So then I, following Not George or Bob's example, jumped off the platform, but as I was neat (so neat!) I stepped onto the ground and did nothing. So as soon as I jumped off this thing and landed in this neat (very neat!) way, a large alien space ship came down and this loud, but tinny booming voice all hollers out these few lines of speech.

“OOOOHHHH ooOOOoOOooo whooooooooo oooooOOOooOOOoo oooooooooh, Rino King of the    
Semi-gelatinous beings that are commonly referred to as gelatin peoples, not to mention other gooey and neat things that are not quite solid or liquid, but still taste really neat,” it said (no lie!) “You have done well on your quest to do this bungee jumping stuff. Quite well.”

I didn’t like its arrogant tone so, I punched the entire ship, right in the nose and it cried and ran away real fast. So I felt real proud and started walking home. At this point imagine Something Other than George or Bob sticking his head through the ground and saying “See? What did I tell you? Peril, Eh?“

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

Hippies and Music (Bonnaroo 2012)

I'm taking a walk to the porta-potty. A group of twangy youths walking north, stop me, ask "Which way is centeroo?"

I point south toward the archway that marks the front gate. Streets of artists, hustlers, concessions, and tiny little shows, either music or dancing block the view, but music drifts over the stands and camps. "Keep following the road," I say, "until you see the big arch. Just follow the music."

Before I leave, one girl says "Do we keep going?" She gestures north, toward the road and more camps, "Or listen to the guy on acid." She points at me.

I am not on acid. But, shirtless, in flower dotted swim trunks and sandals, wearing bracelets and giant shades, while sporting four inches of chin-beard (I refuse to admit it's a gotee,) and grinning because the shows are good (and maybe I'd been drinking,) I guess I could see how she'd mistake me for one of dozens of tripping hippies.

From June 7th-10th, I lived music in surprisingly cool (record lows,) Manchester, TN at the excellent Bonnaroo festival.

I saw 30+ (out of over 150 possible) shows including Radiohead, Red Hot Chili Peppers, The Beach Boys, Alice Cooper, Skrillex, and Phish.

I missed more than I saw. Critical choices, see? Punch Brothers or Battles? Mogwai or The Roots? The Shins or Fun.?

Like any major event (80,000 campers, plus extra,) it must be seen to be believed.

Example day:
Wake up at 8 am. Tent is a sauna. Unfortunate.
Drink many beers.
Go to shows.
Run back to camp for beer and food.
Go to more shows.
Collapse for sleep by 1 am.

Here's a note from each day!
5/6
Leave town by 2 pm, then drive until arrival (18-19 hours.)

5/7
Too warm for naps after setting camp, but drink many beers instead.

5/9
Danced my legs wobbly at various excellent performances.

5/10
Neglect sunscreen, but rain-clouds save me.

5/11
Meet first Minnesotan Bonnarooian at gas station on way out of town.

5/12
Parting of ways at 12:30 am.

I see I've neglected to mention everything. Porta-potty disasters (try not to think about it) and being offered Molly about 80 times. Lighting displays, meeting about 800 people from Jersey, or arrays of unexpectedly impressive hippy art sold from carnival-like stands along every chalk-dust covered street. People dancing literally all night long or watching people try to shower under waist high faucets while standing in half a foot of mud.

But, like I said, you'd have to be there.

Or ask me about it.

Wednesday, May 30, 2012

That guy in the back?

Yes, I'm drinking coffee and writing. No, I'm not staring at you, I'm just gazing off into space as I work.

So, I realize most people don't sit in coffee shops for 4 hours at a time like I do. Their bathroom breaks probably don't smell like an empty coffee mug either. Ah, the perils of the industry. Not the point.

People come in, sit in front of the bar, and do...I don't know. Something. Their empty tables encourage me to wonder why they stayed. Sometimes they pull out a (still very trendy as long as you're in a coffee shop,) ipad, and maybe do some work (aka, look at hilarious cats.)

Maybe I just choose the wrong seat, or maybe I should work on staring at a blank wall, but generally, these people occupy the table directly in my "stare at nothing" sight-line. You know the one. The direction I stare when looking out the window at the people who walk by, seeing each one struggle with the difficult choice of taco bell vs arbys. (I'm not judgmental or anything...) My general "wrestling with life and trying to come up with a better verb for climb"-looking direction.

But, after a while, the people at these tables seem to notice that my gaze often seems to fall upon them. Or maybe not. To me it seems they notice. Then, heads are combined in hushed discussion. (I can't actually tell, I have headphones on.) Papers are shuffled.

Shortly after, with furtive glances at me, or perhaps I occupy their general "gaze out the window" direction, they gather their things. Like Eddie Izzard miming a worried store owner, all agape and speechless.

They leave.

Maybe they only had twenty minutes for lolcats. Maybe I've just spooked some middle aged soccer moms, what with my terrifying demeanor.

I am, after all, a man, in public. Males are terrifying. Why, a male might try anything. Like, talking to you! Even without ulterior motives, maybe he's just being polite, you'll be frozen in place, unsure what to say to "Is this your phone?" As he hands you the missing article (dangerously recovered from the ground, where you deliberately dropped it while coming out of the restroom,) of cat and children photos and regular texting-while-driving. Then what will you do?

Run. There are no other solutions.

Maybe I'm not that guy. Maybe I'm watching criminals plan bank robberies and they don't like my vague, unfocused attention.

I seem to have written myself into a corner here.

Tuesday, May 29, 2012

Done! (For now.)


Huh. Was thinking about how to edit a story, how to tweak a little part for a bigger impact, when I realized I do not have the writing skill to make the story flow the way I imagine it working.

I can tweak and prod and pull all day long and in the end, I won't be able to tell if or when its doing what I want it to do.

I cannot make this story any better. At least for now.

And THAT, my friends, is how I know when I'm done with a story. I think I can trim a few parts of it out (maybe cut 500-1k words,) but once I have the story doing as much as I can wring out of it? Cutting becomes easy once my content is in place.

So, chop a bit out here and there (I'm pretty sure I know where already,) and send it off again. I'll let editors tell me if they like or dislike a part.

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

Story 1-5


I walked down the long wooden plank leading to the boat. –I was going to take a cruise you see– It happened to be a Caribbean cruise on a “cruise ship.” So as this “cruise ship” cruised along I observed an unusual sight. There was this pink floating blob floating along and it floated it’s merry way on down to where the captain, first mate and most of the bridge crew were sitting and whacked them on the back of the head with a large wooden police beaty-beat stick that it had.

“That's odd,” says I.

At about this point I decided to take a swim in the pool. The one that IS on the boat of course, not the pool that follows the boat along side doing pool things. I don’t think anyone would want to swim in that pool.

After about half an hour of swimming I realized “when pink blobs attack people they should not whack people on the back of the head. Instead they should shoot small and unbelievably weak pink blobs of goo at them and hope to make them fall over the side of the boat,” which is much more sensible. I mean it’s just not done that way. If pink blobs went around whacking people the entire world would fall into disorder.

So I went back to that pink blob, which was now sailing the boat on it’s own course, and I said to it “Hey! Pink blobs are not supposed to go around whacking people, they are supposed to shoot pink blobs at people and make them fall off the edge, which is much more sensible.” I added that last part on my own.

The pink blob did not like that, so it began an attack run at me and in response I shot this really neat pink blob of 
strange goo at it and slimed it away after only one simple attack. Upon impact of this attack the pink blob flew over the edge and dissolved in the water that was below the side of this boat.

Noting the lack of a conscious bridge crew, I decided to steer the boat for a while. So I took control of the boat and began to drive it to where ever I decided that I should. Thus when the crew awoke it was raining mystical white gelatin! This was probably because I had steered the entire boat to the place where I commonly refer to as “the gelatin kingdom,” which may be misleading, because it's actually a duchy, the duke there being in liege to the King of Sugar, who lives in Iowa.
When we got there everyone was happy and joyous, and they all got off the boat in the manner of joyous and happy people, thankfully skipping the needless “push people into the water” part of the celebration. As I am the ruler of the gelatin kingdom thus they were ruled by me. This was neat to say the least. Neat. Thus ended this journey. Ended.

As I have yet to argue with myself I shall proceed to do so for the rest of the time. – Or shall I at that? Yes I think that I shall. OK then. But I don’t want to. Oh what do I think? I say lets kill him. No I want tea…and biscuits. No not biscuits– Let me stop you right there, before you go any further and commit some sort of legal infringement. That’s the scene with the red knight from “Monty Python and the Holy Grail.” It isn't something that you made up at all. Are you sure? Of course I’m sure! Well, no, wait am I? Err, yes, of course I am!– At this point imagine something other than George or Bob sticking his head through the ground and saying “See? What did I tell you? Peril Eh?“

Thursday, March 22, 2012

Story 1-4

(Disclaimer: I wrote these "stories" in high school, during study hall, when I should have been doing my homework. Meaning, they are not representative of my current writing.

I've edited them so they embarrass me less, but only the grammar and punctuation. They're still embarrassing, but are a little funny. Or something.)


In my previous stories I have related numerous adventures, many of which may have been either true or occasionally humorous, but often neither and only occasionally one or the other. If any of you feel those stories were inappropriate or dumb in any way then I suggest that you not read this story. I hope it will follow a similar format and at least one time should, hopefully, be either true or funny.
As I got up from a wonderful, and might I add quite resting, night of half-sleep-like-daze I went out to eat my whole wheat O’s with de-fatted cow milk. As I ate this mixture with my UTENSITRON I happily viewed the electron charged color viewing box, or TV as I have heard it called by the locals.
While I was enjoying my morning “Break-FAST,” some jerk rang the doorbell. So I called my doorman –Jimmy? Bob? Joe? Odd, I don’t rightly remember his name. Maybe it was Kellswith? I'll call him Kellswith.– You see as I got up I smashed my head into my door frame and toppled over onto the ground and righted about in pain until the massive pain and sudden convulsions subsided.
-I don’t know about you; Well I do, he or she or it is dumb and ugly and stupid and smells bad and is ugly and smells REALLY bad. How dare you talk about the reader like that? I mean I can’t believe you just did that. I never– after which he, that is, Kellswith went out to answer the door. The person at the door was currently was named Ben, or maybe Bendo.
Well this “BEN“ ran into my home, because apperntly that's what he does. Where upon he attacked a monstrosity of a pink puffy hamster rabbit cross breed, who, as it happened, was just about to engage in a game of chess with my stuffed moose. The chocolate moose as a matter of fact.
So I threw a small stuffed toy at Ben, who was infuriated by this further assault, and began to mutter at random about meaningless things, which involved something about it being time to get up. Thus I sat down in my theater chair, which I keep in my main chamber of my house for events such as this.
After sitting down, I grabbed a large bad of popcorn and continued sitting to watch the upcoming combat.  After the fight, the victor would duel me in a game of checkers. Well that crazy Ben kid came running at the fuzzy bunny, who turned around and picked Ben up effortlessly. Ben responded by pinching the Bunny’s ear, before running out the door in a mad fit.
This suited me very well because my stuffed moose is very good at Parcheesi (which I often confuse with yahtzee,) whereas that Ben kid, well Ben aint so good any card game. The bunny creature however, is quite excellent at all games that require massive mathematical computations and strategic coordination. –excuse me I've seen you say that this is a game of chess, checkers, Parcheesi, sorry!, and pente, along with some odd game that requires the superior intellect of a massive pink bunny creature with unlimited strength. Which game is it really? What people are these you're talking about? Bunny guy? Moose? I don't know what you mean? What? Have you been reading what you've been writing? No, only fools do that. – Needless to say, I ran out of popcorn long before they started, so I lobbed, not hurled or threw mind you, my chair at the two of them and stormed out of the room.
Soon after, I heard laser fire from the danger room, so I quickly ran down there only to find wolverine and gambit about to be killed – I'm pretty sure that's a scene from x-men actually. Whatever.- Anyhow, they're about to be killed when – Hey wait, he, err, I'm right. Oh well, I have no idea what I was talking about. So from now on I am going to ramble randomly on a new topic of my choosing. How is that different from before? Quiet you. –
So then I started to repel down the castle wall to the ground, because my moat had dried out. I hopped down onto my umbrella pogo stick, which quickly snapped under the massive impact of the falling asteroids. Quite soon after I landed on the ground and was sucked up (or down if you prefer,) by the muddy muck below.
As soon as this happened I sprinted off, having noticed a large group of boys dressed in neat-o animal costumes that really piqued my interests in the movie Peter Pan. Well this was just too much for me and at that point I attacked them and threw them all off a nearby cliff, but not before stealing all of their costumes (they were fully dressed underneath, worry you not,) clubs and other neat-o stuff. (It was a small cliff, they were fine.)
The weapons I threw at Peter Pan, who may have attacked me, so I attacked him back. Not long after I dug a small hole in the ground and made a neat home there, my second ground based home for the week. At this point imagine Something Other Than George or Bob sticking his head through the ground and saying “See? What did I tell you? Peril Eh?"

Monday, March 12, 2012

The Association!?

High school.  1998-2002.  The internet was becoming a big deal.  Search engines like Lycos, Excite, Yahoo, and Hotbot were competing to find a reason for their existence.  MLA (and english teachers everywhere) struggled on how to cite a document found through the internet.

And I, having free time and access to the internet, decided I should learn to make websites instead of doing my homework.  Lots of free website places existed, but Angelfire offered a whopping 50 megabytes of storage space.

That was a lot in the late 90s.

Websites were made of unimpressive text, which didn't take much space, and crappy images of jumping monkeys, which, while they took more space, were also unimpressive.

As linked above (or findable, to the intrepid internet-eers,) I chose angelfire and after several revisions, made this website.

I disabled some of the links when I realized that site still existed.  Some never worked, or run in odd circles.

I was pretty young, so pretend a mentally deranged sea turtle wrote the code and I think you'll gain the appreciation I had for it.

Years later, I worked for a small company making websites.  I got the job based on that previous experience with jumping monkeys and confusing link-circles.

We worked with a single company that had many smaller contractors.  My boss sold sites to these contractors and I did the setup, personalizing any information, fonts, colors, images, etc.  Half the time I fell asleep because I had stayed up too late playing some MMO the night before.

I never wanted to go into web development, so the only sites I continued working on was my mother's and my own (the later is being rapidly replaced and reworked to exist on this blog.)

So, suffice to say, I get a lot of questions about websites.  I'll get into that later.

Wise Sayings


Neither wise, nor sayings (at least, not many people have ever said these things,) they are nevertheless, things that are written. Here. And elsewhere, a few times.

I wrote about 40 pages of these in high school. They weren't funny then, and now they're only funny to me because I'm imagining the looks on people's faces if I said these things to them.

My Wise Sayings:
1. Wise is the man who sleeps with his shoes on when it snows.
2) He who sleep, with the sheep, dies with the cows.
3) A frog with four eyes has twice as much blinking to do.
4) NOTHING HERE
5) He who sleeps in his bed, dies in his coffin.
6) A wise man once said, "I would like some chocolate please."
7) If you remove your ears, how will you hear the butcher calling?
8) Only a fool puts a burning stick in their underpants.
9) Cows who step in their dung wear it all day long.
10) If you fall asleep on the latrine, you may awake in a mess.

Thursday, February 23, 2012

People don't even live for 80 terabytes

At 60 minutes an hour, 24 hours a day, 356 days a year (roughly) and assuming we live 100 years (unlikely:)

60x24x356x100=51,264,000 minutes in a person's life.

An average song is 3-4 minutes long (I'll use 3) and is recorded in 128 kBps (or sometimes 256, but I'm using 128) at roughly 1 MB per minute.

1,000 MB = 1 GB : 1000 GB=1 TB

51,264,000 minutes (roughly) = 51 TB
51,264,000/3 minutes = 17,088,000 songs


So if you ever discover you have 17.1 million songs, or roughly 51 terabytes of music, and you have not just been born, then remember, you have more music than you can listen to.  And probably are the reason the US government wanted to do the whole SOPA thing.  (Oh no?)

At roughly 10-14 songs per album (seems generous)

17,088,000 /14 =  1,220,571 albums.  Even assuming these were bought at Amazon's $5 per album price (and they do not have 1 million+ albums at that price) you would pay roughly $6 million dollars.


edit: fixed 2 typos


Wednesday, February 22, 2012

Apophenia Batch 1

I see faces!  On things!  Click the links to see if you see what I see.
Because I don't have anything better to do.

Here's an easy one.  If you don't see it, I don't know what to tell you.
(Hint: It's a lion)

This angry man has been staring at me for weeks.


I left the corner in for size reference.
This has been colored edited, because it's very faint.
And slightly creepy.


I moved my keys four times and they refused to stop grinning at me.