| Time |
[Mar. 13th, 2012|10:11 am] |
Time, certainly, has weight. You can see it in the sag of a staircase, or the channels rain leaves down stone walls over hundreds of years. You can hear it in the creak of an ancient floorboard, feel it in the dips and rises of an aging carpet, see it in the ripples of a century-old windowpane. And if time has weight, why not spirit as well?
We like to imagine that some essential quality of ours seeps into the wood and stone of the places we call home; that the stroke of a finger or a rap of a knuckle leaves a lasting impression that can be felt by others years or decades later. Every ghost story contains, unspoken, the hope that something of us stays behind in the places that have contained our tragedies and our triumphs. Our pain and our laughter feel like they are bigger than us; they must ripple through our surroundings, settle in, outlast us, because anything that feels so huge must last, or it’s meaningless.
I’ve been to a lot of old places (though, sadly, no ancient places). They all have ghosts. A man remains behind in the frame of the house he builds for himself. His wife lingers in the comfort she created within. Their children drift across floors that used to be strewn with their toys. Soldiers haunt the bullet wounds they’ve left across old stone walls, or arrowheads trampled into some anonymous field. Whenever you touch something old enough, created with enough care, or saddled with enough meaning, you can feel the weight of time in the palm of your hand, the warmth of all the hands before yours that held it.
So I’m not surprised when otherwise reasonable people speak to me with absolute conviction about the spirits they feel lingering nearby while they sleep, or struggle to understand the meaning behind the noises any old building makes when it’s quiet. I don’t believe in ghosts, but that doesn’t mean I don’t sense the same presence as those who do.
( Read more... ) |
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| Wrong button |
[Jan. 13th, 2012|08:55 am] |
So every once in a while, I’m following a friend of mine through a cloud of smoke towards the burning wreckage of a partially collapsed building. The air is thick with the zip and twang of bullets tumbling through the air at the end of their effective range. Somewhere up ahead, men scream and die. My friend crouches behind a crumbled wall, taking cover. I go to crouch too, but instead I roll a grenade between my friend’s legs. Then I swear, backpedal wildly, get stuck on a wall, and die.
The gamer is a brain. He is a fantastically complex organ that interprets input and issues commands via the intermediary of a nervous system – or controller – to the body – a.k.a. Batman. The gamer thinks “punch that guy,” pushes the punch button, and Batman punches.
But sometimes the brain fucks up and Batman calmly sprays explosive gel on the floor while a dude in a clown mask hits him in the back of the skull with an aluminum baseball bat.
In real life, when your brain pushes the wrong button you have a seizure or get Multiple Sclerosis, neither of which are particularly funny (well, seizures can be funny, like if you have one while holding a stack of pies), but I’ve always wondered what would happen if real life were more like video games in this respect.
Like, you’re walking with your friend down the street. You think of something funny to say, so you go to initiate a conversation, but instead you steal a car. Or you try to order a drink at a bar, and instead wildly punch the guy next to you.
I wonder, if real life were really like this, would people understand? Could you just say to the cops that you pressed the wrong button? If you saw a stranger stuck in a wall, helplessly crouching, jumping and walking back and forth in an attempt to free himself, would you help him?
And what about all the contextual actions in the world? Climbing over low walls or opening doors would be solemn events that only the most deeply disturbed psychopaths would interrupt. Which is funny, because people standing near either object would accidentally do that all the time. It’d be like suddenly dropping to your knees to pray out loud – you’d just make everyone around you uncomfortable.
New moms would have to be really super careful not to accidentally hurl their babies. Baby hurling would be a serious social issue. Baseball and hockey would be way more awesome, because people would regularly be beaten to death with sticks. Lacrosse would remain unchanged. Killing Osama Bin Laden would have required a series of precisely timed actions, and would have ended with a Navy Seal jumping on his back and stabbing him in the brain. Sadly, friendly fire would be a much more serious issue; but on the other hand, we could set up fire teams right on top of Al Qaeda’s spawn points and just waste them as they come out.
Also, I guess almost everyone would start off their day with three grenades and whatever the basic loadout for their character class is. I feel like the world would be a much more peaceful place if everyone had three grenades – even if people did accidentally throw them at their friends all the time. |
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| the dark side of convenience |
[Dec. 19th, 2011|10:30 am] |
So I just read an article about unique vending machines. One of the machines mentioned dispensed bottles of wine. It also featured an ID scanner and a breathalyzer. Obvious safety precautions certainly, but I GUARANTEE someone has put his balls on that breathalyzer.
So, you know, drink responsibly. |
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| Support my face! |
[Nov. 30th, 2011|08:53 am] |
If you've been waiting until the last minute to donate to my totally kick ass lip rug, now is the time. Movember ends today!
That said, I'll keep taking donations until Friday! Do your part and contribute a dollar or so to keep men healthy! Remember, without men, we would not have things like the cotton gin and robots with machineguns mounted on them - and those are both totally awesome.
So please, remember how boring and quiet the world would be if all the men died of butt cancer, and give give give!
http://mobro.co/heatray
Sadly, no picture here because LJ won't let me rotate an image. . . |
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| drankin' |
[Aug. 23rd, 2011|10:23 am] |
Alcoholism has been a thing in my life.
Not a big thing. My grandfather apparently recovered from his alcoholism around the time my mother was born. There were a few fairly important people in my life who had drinking or drug problems when I was a kid, but my mom shielded me from the worst effects of that. Which isn’t to say I wasn’t aware that these people had a problem; just that I didn’t really understand the depth or severity of the problem until later in life.
When I was younger, most of my understanding of both the benefits and dangers of alcohol came from actually hanging out in bars. My mom raised me as a bartender, waitress, and caterer. I spent a lot of my time after school sitting at a bar, drinking a virgin daiquiri, and talking with the ragged old fishermen and cops that occupy barstools up and down the suburban California coast in the afternoons.
The first person to really explain alcoholism to me, though, was Denny O’Neil, the writer of The Invincible Iron Man in the early 80’s. I didn’t actually read these comics until the late 80’s, when my step-dad gave me a box full of comics including this entire story arc, but this was my introduction to the serial nature of comics. Before I was given this box, I had a few issues of various books I’d picked up as a kid, but I’d never been a regular reader. I had no understanding of how deep the story could get.
( Read more... ) |
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| REPOST - The Best Dream I've Ever Had |
[Aug. 15th, 2011|11:08 am] |
I re-encountered this old post this weekend, and thought I'd repost it. This is an actual dream I had while I was quitting smoking. This is exactly as it happened, including the commercial break fade outs.
FADE IN
The scene is David Hasselhoff's house. It is furnished in the manner you'd expect from an international television, film and rock 'n' roll star, and part-time lifeguard in Southern California. I am his personal assistant.
David stands in front of a full-length mirror, adjusting his tie. He is getting ready for a blind date. I cannot see myself, but I assume that I am wearing a suit similar to, but not as nice as, the one David is wearing.
David is conducting himself with the calm grace of Mitch Buchanan. He exudes the coolness of Michael Knight. And there is just the tiniest hint of Nick Fury about him as he turns and tells me he is ready to go. He displays none of the agitation I would feel were I the one going on a blind date in a locale where Yasmine Bleeth and Pamela Andersen are the everyday woman. I would be a total wreck, but David is fine. David is cool. David is all broad shoulders and hairy chest and German superstar, and how could a blind date go wrong for a guy like this?
He walks out the door, and I follow him. As his personal assistant, I go everywhere with him. Even on blind dates. Especially on blind dates.
CUT TO
The front porch of David's date's house. We're here to pick her up, only to find a line of men, waiting at her door. David seems mildly put out, but we get in line and wait calmly as the line moves forward bit by bit. Just like a line at an amusement park, it moves more quickly than you expect it to, and before long we're inside, being greeted by David's date, who looks very nice in a purple evening gown, and asked to have a seat while she gets us a drink.
Small talk ensues. David is very good at small talk. I sit silently and sip my cognac. After a short while, David works his magic, and as he stands and offers his arm to his date, the screen FADES OUT and goes to COMMERCIAL.
FADE IN
The scene is David's date's bedroom. David and his date are in bed, silk sheets pulled up to their chin. I am sitting in a chair by David's side of the bed, indeed wearing a suit nearly identical to David's, which lies scattered around the room. I am lighting three cigarettes.
Just as I pass two of the cigarettes to David and his date, we hear the front door open, and then slam, and a man's voice announce that he is home.
David's date sits bolt upright, and whispers that, oh God, her husband is home. David asks her to repeat herself, and she does, adding that we should hide. David re attires with the deftness of a TV star, and we crawl underneath her bed, still smoking. David's date leaves the room to greet her husband. She too has somehow magically reapplied her purple evening gown, and her hair is perfect.
We wait for a good long time, listening to David's date and her husband chat and dick around in the living room, with David growing more and more frustrated. Finally, he points out in a whisper that someone of his stature shouldn't be cowering under the bed, tells me to follow his lead, and crawls out. When he stands up, his suit and tie are perfect. Mine, I think, are probably wrinkled, askew and covered in dust bunnies. He strides out into the living room with me in tow.
David's date's husband seems surprised to see two men in suits coming out of the bedroom, but his brewing reaction is stifled when David greets him in the gayest voice I have ever heard.
The husband offers us a drink, which David declines by saying "No thanks. I'm gay."
The husband accepts this, and responds that his brother is gay.
David suggests that maybe he and the husband's brother have met.
The husband says that they probably haven't. His brother doesn't go out much anymore since he was horribly disfigured in a car wreck.
CUT TO
A quick shot from over the top of a television in a dark room. The only thing visible is a figure sitting on the couch with a bitter expression on his face. His face is cast in blue and shadows by the flickering light from the television. He is missing part of his jaw, an ear and one eye.
CUT BACK
To the date's living room. David says he probably hasn't met the husband's brother then.
FADE OUT
COMMERCIAL
FADE IN
Sometime during the commercial, terrorists have kidnapped David's date. Conveniently, the terrorists are holed up in a boat that sits on giant sawhorses on the beach, putting the case squarely in David's jurisdiction as a lifeguard. When we get there, there are already a half dozen police cars parked underneath the terrorists' boat on the beach, where the terrorists cannot shoot at them.
As David stands talking to the cop in charge, explaining his plan to sneak onto the boat and rescue his date, a black limo pulls onto the beach and drives up next to us. The tinted rear window scrolls smoothly down to reveal Steven Seagal, who says that he is taking over rescue operations.
David turns to him and tells him that this is his beach, and he will do the rescuing.
Steven Seagal says that maybe he should stick to life guarding, and let movie bad asses do the hostage rescuing.
David tells him to fuck off.
Steven Seagal suggests that he may have more experience at killing terrorists and rescuing hostages, and asks David if he ever saw Under Siege.
David says yeah, he thought it was a pretty good movie.
Steven Seagal says he has an idea to see who gets to rescue David's date.
CUT TO
The interior of my grandmother's house. It is a sprawling California ranch-style home full of antiques and expensive works of art. Music full of harpsichords and violins that sounds like elevator Muzak from the early-80's plays softly on hidden speakers throughout the house. We have come here to stage a knife-fight a la Under Siege between David Hasselhoff and Steven Seagal to determine which one of them gets to rescue David's blind date from the terrorists based in a boat on giant sawhorses on the beach. Since they are both good guys, they will use letter openers instead of knives. We have come here because my grandmother has a lot of letter openers in her study.
The fight ranges all over the house, destroying antiques, ruining art, and knocking over furniture. It seems pretty close, but David keeps using strange words to mock Steven Seagal during the fight. Words like "omnibus" and "obsequious." Finally, in the living room, on my grandmother's weird, circular Zodiac area rug, David somehow gets Steven Seagal into a figure four leg lock and begins stabbing him in the head with the letter opener. He says, "Your knife strikes are mellifluous."
Steven Seagal, frustrated, shouts, "Why do you keep talking like that?"
David responds, "I try to learn a new word every day."
Then I wake up. |
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| Update! |
[Aug. 9th, 2011|10:17 am] |
This is some stuff that happened this weekend.
I was in the lodge, using the urinal. Behind me were the showers. To my right were the sinks. As I did my drunken business, I became aware that there was a young many moving between the sinks and the showers, ferrying handfuls of hand soap from the dispenser to another man in one of the showers.
There are certain inviolable rules in the social contract, but none are so crucial to the continued functioning of society as the ones that come into effect the moment you enter a men’s room.
Bathroom etiquette is pretty specific, but I don’t think there’s a rule about having a friend ferry soap to you in a public shower. That said, it’s still weird. It might have been less weird earlier in the day, but this was around 11:30 or midnight, and there was a toga party happening in the bar just outside the door to the bathroom. To leave a fairly raucous party to discover a guy franticly pumping foam into his hands, and then running across the humid restroom to deliver it to his naked wet friend felt, to me, like a rule was being bent or broken.
Later on, the soap guy was in the bar with other friends, trying to grind on girls while the band played mediocre covers of the Beastie Boys, Marvin Gaye, and Faith No More. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a bar band play a Faith No More song.
( Other things I did this weekend: ) |
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| My fourth of July |
[Jul. 5th, 2011|10:06 am] |
I am so exhausted I can barely type today, so you get an update of my holiday weekend activities in the form of a bullet list.
This weekend:
- With the assistance of a guy named Ed and my friend Henry, I transported an oven, a fridge, two grills, the pieces of two freestanding stripper poles, and a couple hundred pounds of other stuff up to the top of a hill in Vermont.
- Fried and served just a little over 80 pounds of bacon in between Friday and Sunday.
- Also fried (in bacon grease with garlic) the following: Pumpkin bread, pumpkin-strawberry cake, Twinkies, Chips Ahoy, strawberries, pineapples, a pickle, apple slices, Oreos, a Pop Tart, mango.
- Learned several basic pole dancing and Chinese pole acrobatic moves.
- Deejayed a heavy metal set while a mostly naked man swung a flaming battle axe around, followed by a woman breathing fire off the axe. Soundtrack for that particular performance: “Destroy the Orcs” by 3 Inches of Blood. Also, the fire performance area was flanked by occupied stripper poles.
- Watched a mammoth burn.
- Finally killed the Wal-Mart tent I’ve had for something like 7 years, and that has served me very well during all of that time.
- Ate breakfast in the woods while a man played the cello for me.
- Used a “man-ladder” (meaning, I climbed up to stand on another guy’s shoulders), and some of the Chinese pole technique I’d learned earlier, to cut a rope out of a tree 14 feet in the air.
- Probably some other awesome stuff that I’m forgetting because I’m so exhausted that I’ve nearly fallen asleep twice while writing this.
Today, because of carrying things up and down the aforementioned hill, sleeping on the ground for five nights, pole dancing, climbing trees, running, jumping and drinking heavily, I am more achy and tired than I think I have ever been before. Literally every muscle in my body is sore. Sitting in chairs is obnoxious because they touch all of these muscles in my sides, legs and back that I’m not normally even aware of, and highlight the achiness there.
Totally, totally worth it. Hell yeah. Can’t wait to do it all again next year. |
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| More help please! |
[May. 26th, 2011|09:18 am] |
Thanks for all your responses to my request for mad scientists. But now I want more!
This time, I'm looking for people who aren't scientists, but still fall into the "crazy, transformative personality" category. Artists, writers, philosophers, soliders, etc.
Also, I need more inventions. What's your favorite completely insane thing that people have created?
Finally, think back into history. What's something or someone that fits this broad definition of Mad Science from before the 20th century?
Thank you! |
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