It's a Monday. I have heightened senses on a Monday. It's a mystery to me. Anyway, from the corner of my eye, I see the Job Order factory right across the room a-buzz, like most bees go, with a flurry of high-heeled comings and goings, J.O. manufacturing without doubt, which would eventually make mercy killing this day more an aspiration than a possibility.|
Okay. There's this office clown who's been constantly hovering about me, like fly on... err... creme broule. As if life isn't short enough, he's making a dangerous habit of peeking over my shoulder every time I blog. Asking him to buzz off is proving to be quite the undertaking. He is denser than a brick wall and impervious to even the most virulent forms of slander.
Now, I'm two minds split about this minor disturbance in the force. Should I drop him 26 storeys below like a bad idea? (How apt -- watch out for falling debris. I will revel in the irony.) Or, should I emotionally maim him, the sort that scars for life, rehabs on the spot, and makes you turn to religion.
Which makes finding my copy of "Idiot's Guide To Hypnotism" a tad more urgent.
The Itch Of Ages Strikes Back
I should be quarantined. I should be boxed in a sterile environment. Instead, I am running amuck mass railway transits, cabs, and rush hour lifts. You see, little brats (I mean it) living with me are playing gracious hosts to the viral blight on vanity, the chicken pox. Which leads me to suspect there may be viral pathogens clinging on the fabric of my shirt, my jeans. The hair, however, poses no real threat to even the most poorly immunized bystander. No virus can possibly escape the tenuous hold of Dep. Now, if you think I have a history of pox running in my veins, you are wrong. But worry not, chicken pox virgins. If my antibodies prove no match against these microscopic miscreants that could infect even a bacteria, then I will lock myself in solitude and meditate on the complexities of life, like how the microwave oven works, or how they put the graphite in pencils, or how Nicole Richie can stand being herself.
That's it. I think I've just had enough of pointless (and idiotic) pain-peddling, mental retardation inspired no doubt by Jackass Of The Highest Order, Johnny Knoxville, in Big Boys.com (there, on the sidebar) and Triumph the Insult Comic Dog (also on the sidebar), video clips courtesy of Limewire (again, on the side bar). Any more of this and I'd turn into a drooling candidate for major lobotomy. (Observe. The side-effects of this double whammy of vague mindlessness must be the obsessive use of parenthesis, like they were seasoning on blanched cabbage. Keen.)
In celebration (somewhat) of International Women's Day (which explains the female glyph on the March 8 Google.com logo)...
A purty young nubile thing once asked me, once and never again, if man is a walking timebomb, an infernal creature inevitably destined to stew in Dante's depths for being the unrepentant vandal to the sacrament of matrimony. The answer was yes. Man is naturally polygamous. What followed was an impressive endless stream of cusses the likes of which may never be seen on this blog. Or anywhere else. Ah... the exquisite pain of validation. Tsk.
Blame biology, sistas, the root of man's philandering ways. Physiological difference. Man can pass on his genes and surname (ok, in illegit cases, only the former, minus the latter) even in the twilight years of his life, viagra-aided or no. On the otherhand, his sexual counterpart goes through menopause, and once through the threshold, her fertility makes like a banana and split. There. The biological mismatch is my first, last and only salvo at polygamy.
A man denying his genetic hand-me-down urges is a man constantly besieged. So, to the rare, stalwart, monogamous il castrati in heart and mind ... err... may your genes prevail.
I have a new toy. It has the stamp of Hollywood cliche "if it fell in the wrong hands ... etc, etc." all over it. It's a modest 4 plus megapixel digicam that could elevate any visual moron into an art genius. It's really a no-brainer to use. Just train the cam on a subject, press the shutter, viola! -- Art! But, there is hardly any profit to be made shooting zen-picturesque waterfalls, sunsets and your mixed-breed canine best friend nowadays. Besides, where's the thrill in that?
I, on the otherhand, would rain paparazzi hell on unwitting twosomes concealed in the cover of darkness. Parking lots. Fire exits. ATM booths. Condemned buildings. Memorial parks. Public restrooms. From garden-variety liaisons to the perverse. The list goes on. The potential for antecedent exposes and the consequential extortion is nearly boundless.
"Do not blog about your blog." says one site on blogging. Watch me.
I've been busily pouring over all the online notes, cryptic codes and everything that sounds, looks and feels absolutely greek to a man of my age and temperament, HTML codes and all its ilk, in the attempt to bend the limited functionality of this blog to my will, other than just to parade around my extreme dislike for radish, hype, Mickey Mouse, doodads that don't really work, and the word "denied".
But, in the next few days, there will be some changes around here. Guaranteed. Or your money back.
But progress, in quotes, heaves and crawls at a snail's pace. Touching base with HTML, and the many aliases it goes by, without the required stock know-how, is like cracking the shell of a walnut with verbal abuse.
From CNN online.
"Rumsfeld Sued Over War Crimes."
About fucking time.
News over a month ago, again from CNN, correspondence from Rumsfeld.
"Iraq Years Away From Nuclear Capability."
Who's dumb? Who's dumber? Rumsfeld for stating the obvious? Or CNN for treating it as headline news? And check out the oxymorons, the news is practically oozing with it: dumb intelligence and old news.
I thank you, Limewire, for being the online download nexus hack that you are, of any file extension deemed possible: MP3s, Mpegs, Jpegs, WMVs, etc.
I thank you, Limewire anonymous, whoever you guys are, for sharing your music, your MP3s, your WAV files, so that I could relish once more the songs that I thought were beyond resurrecting. The Beat's "Mirror In The Bathroom", Tones On Tail's "Lions" and "Real Life", Joy Division's "Isolation" (and Smashing Pumpkins' cover of the same title), even the days of strut's Kraftwork's "Tour de France". Your concerted efforts have made compiling such lost treasures into a CD I now tap my feet to and lip-synch shamelessly.
I thank you for making nostalgic sound-tripping dramatically less financially prohibitive.
Because of you, I'm just a few tracks short of collecting into a CD all the music tracks of Need For Speed Underground 2: Capone, Terror Squad, Felix da Housecat, heck, even Paul Van Dyk.
In gratitude and in return, I offer you, through Limewire, the forlorn MP3s in my hard-drive, pathetic dial-up connection notwithstanding. So go ahead, grab a copy of the MP3s you like, they're free, and all worth the download, and while I'm online.
To all the limewire hosts generous enough to offer their boy band music, because you understandably don't have the slightest clue, and because I'm in a benevolent mood, I spare you your lives.
What a shamefully lame title for the first blog of March. Even after a suspenseful few days in absentia. It reeks of Star Wars Episode I and Jar Jar Binx. Lame. And when I say lame, I mean vanilla. Flavor of the month theme? As early as now, it sure is shaping up that way. But still, totally lame is not as bad as, nor as trauma-inducing as, totally boring, which is, in a way, its own special redeeming value. So, lame it is. March it is.
Now, we can all get on with our lives.
Is It November Already?
Now, Isn't She A Beauty
So, What's New?
Goblins, Rascals, Every Single One Of Them
The Anatomy Of A Rant
Spamblogger, A Word Or Two...
Garlic, All Is Not Lost.
Gaiman versus Caiman
Busy ... Busy ... Busy ...
Born To Snooze
Heres My Kokote
Is It Safe?
Something To Sing About
Streaks Of Light
Hire Me ... Please
Hyung Tae Kim
Happy Tree Friends
My Boyfriend Is A Twat
Home Star Runner
Albino Black Sheep
Triumph, The Insult Comic Dog