Barges, ships, boats and sails. They come with something. Something fun. Some thing.
Dirges, pipes, totems and henges. They stand apart. They're apart. A part.
Stairs, stars, paths and razors. They reflect highlights. They're highlists. High lights.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
The Perilous
Chairs can be comfortable, ugly, too hard, squishy, free-form and not much like a chair, to chairs of classic shaker type manufacture. Some are made from wood, others from plastics, still others stone. Hilarity doth ensure when a half-broken wooden chair holding a stoner is viewed by another stoner with the first stoner falling flat on the ground after said chair disintegrates into disparate pieces of random wood which has recenctly become unable to properly function as a chair. That is the chair Hilarious.
Yet other chairs abide the user to entreat perdition. Skychairs hanging over the edge of the grand canyon, one blocking the entrance to a shi-shi restaurant (say Appleby's back in the early 90's), one fired with the electrical current with a warden at a switch on the other end, a chair such as that found on the bridge of any nvaval vessel thence empowered with the authority to encompass the fates of many. Oh! such chairs. To compare with the untold counts of chairs as found within the cloistered halls of the first Earl of Sandwich. These indeed are the chairs Perilous.
Twirled within the coiled possibilities of bound DNA strands are the chairs of minuscule drivers of macro-atomic dump trucks. Chairs for those guiding the replication and continual destruction and construction of self regulating roadways of life. Chairs, chairs twisting, turning, rolling and knotting, escheresque into a swirl of encoded mechanisms of the very unzippered rules of the blueprint of all mostly all chairs that to be or wantonly aspire to be. Such are the chairs Minute.
The last chair sits upon a dais of which to name is to unmake it. Not to mention that the fat little anteater father time keeps to feast upon the ants which continually come and try to create a nest in his sands of time hourglass is starting to look this way and appears none to happy about the prospect of having to interrupt his current dining fare in order to chase those away who would trundle about the room believing for a few seconds that in the game of musical chairs that the last seat in all of time is somehow going to be left open, an inviting and comfy place to sit for all eternity. The trick though, give an anteater peanut butter. The chair shall be yours.
This shall be the chair of all times. To be continuously surrounded by a wailing anteater and a circling and very angry dispossessed time-lord engaged in endless pursuit of his favorite misbehaven pet. Abide it well.
Yet other chairs abide the user to entreat perdition. Skychairs hanging over the edge of the grand canyon, one blocking the entrance to a shi-shi restaurant (say Appleby's back in the early 90's), one fired with the electrical current with a warden at a switch on the other end, a chair such as that found on the bridge of any nvaval vessel thence empowered with the authority to encompass the fates of many. Oh! such chairs. To compare with the untold counts of chairs as found within the cloistered halls of the first Earl of Sandwich. These indeed are the chairs Perilous.
Twirled within the coiled possibilities of bound DNA strands are the chairs of minuscule drivers of macro-atomic dump trucks. Chairs for those guiding the replication and continual destruction and construction of self regulating roadways of life. Chairs, chairs twisting, turning, rolling and knotting, escheresque into a swirl of encoded mechanisms of the very unzippered rules of the blueprint of all mostly all chairs that to be or wantonly aspire to be. Such are the chairs Minute.
The last chair sits upon a dais of which to name is to unmake it. Not to mention that the fat little anteater father time keeps to feast upon the ants which continually come and try to create a nest in his sands of time hourglass is starting to look this way and appears none to happy about the prospect of having to interrupt his current dining fare in order to chase those away who would trundle about the room believing for a few seconds that in the game of musical chairs that the last seat in all of time is somehow going to be left open, an inviting and comfy place to sit for all eternity. The trick though, give an anteater peanut butter. The chair shall be yours.
This shall be the chair of all times. To be continuously surrounded by a wailing anteater and a circling and very angry dispossessed time-lord engaged in endless pursuit of his favorite misbehaven pet. Abide it well.
Past Roads
Driving is only marginally better than train travel. The road is already set, the options laid out. Choices exist to turn, left, right, go back and forward. Flying you can add that extra dimension and have a little more freedom to slew about vertically.
Common to all though is the travel through time. Or apparent suggestion of it. Sometimes you can go back. Like when you drive away from big cities and out into the edge of nowhere. All the old songs and stuff from decades ago is still going on out there. Cities are like rocks being thrown into a pond, creating ripples in the fabric of time/space so that out on the edge of the pond you're going to be enjoying your Iron Maiden and Def Leppard way way after everybody else close in has gone and moved on to something better like Nirvana or something.
Reminds me of this hoodie of Kurt Cobains which is hanging in a bar in Utrecht. Like the ghost needed somewhere to rest out somewhere a bit more relaxing, but still somewhere where lots of people would stop by, appreciate and gawk at what used to be. So it sits looming on the wall there. On the edge of pax romana from ages past and forward.
Common to all though is the travel through time. Or apparent suggestion of it. Sometimes you can go back. Like when you drive away from big cities and out into the edge of nowhere. All the old songs and stuff from decades ago is still going on out there. Cities are like rocks being thrown into a pond, creating ripples in the fabric of time/space so that out on the edge of the pond you're going to be enjoying your Iron Maiden and Def Leppard way way after everybody else close in has gone and moved on to something better like Nirvana or something.
Reminds me of this hoodie of Kurt Cobains which is hanging in a bar in Utrecht. Like the ghost needed somewhere to rest out somewhere a bit more relaxing, but still somewhere where lots of people would stop by, appreciate and gawk at what used to be. So it sits looming on the wall there. On the edge of pax romana from ages past and forward.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Interlocus
Dearest salutations,
Recent events have transpired necessitating the writing of this correspondence to your person.
Due to an abnormally large temporal distortion in the gravametric field surrounding your person it has been requested that immediate relocation of the majority of the fixed-state mass be removed to another manifold with a lower state of causal possibility.
Your continued cooperation and efforts in assisting the smooth flow and continuance of said time trees is duly noted, appreciated and manifests.
In greetings, yours.
CM Agapelo
Recent events have transpired necessitating the writing of this correspondence to your person.
Due to an abnormally large temporal distortion in the gravametric field surrounding your person it has been requested that immediate relocation of the majority of the fixed-state mass be removed to another manifold with a lower state of causal possibility.
Your continued cooperation and efforts in assisting the smooth flow and continuance of said time trees is duly noted, appreciated and manifests.
In greetings, yours.
CM Agapelo
Lunchez
Everything eats. nom nom NOM
The part about stuff living off our planet and consuming radiation is pretty interesting. Everything eats something to survive in this place. The biological food chain on Wild Kingdom, PBS and in school was obvious. Like sometimes you even understood that animals were eating all the time. Eating plants, each other, cannibalization, munchination, and mastication on inanimate objects like bones and happy-fun-ball. A big round-table of life where the wheel ground one being up for another to live on. Rolling over and over, recycling meat, plants, protein, sugars, atoms, energy and on back into more of the same.
Space travel makes you recycle and the idea of drinking recycled piss-water scares everybody. Except where you think your water comes from? Like some brontosaurus got scared millions of years ago, dropped a load, pissed 'isself and ran off after seeing some small rodent running around in the underbrush. This is how elephants ended up being afraid of mice (assuming you understand evolution and its consequences) and how that glass of water, beer or whiskey you had prolly came outta the business end of one extremely large schlong at some point. Sure it got filtered, evaporated, subliminated and condensed along the journey to your mouth... but all the same it is really a matter of time scale. Recycling fast, or slow? Pick your poison Julius.
The part about stuff living off our planet and consuming radiation is pretty interesting. Everything eats something to survive in this place. The biological food chain on Wild Kingdom, PBS and in school was obvious. Like sometimes you even understood that animals were eating all the time. Eating plants, each other, cannibalization, munchination, and mastication on inanimate objects like bones and happy-fun-ball. A big round-table of life where the wheel ground one being up for another to live on. Rolling over and over, recycling meat, plants, protein, sugars, atoms, energy and on back into more of the same.
Space travel makes you recycle and the idea of drinking recycled piss-water scares everybody. Except where you think your water comes from? Like some brontosaurus got scared millions of years ago, dropped a load, pissed 'isself and ran off after seeing some small rodent running around in the underbrush. This is how elephants ended up being afraid of mice (assuming you understand evolution and its consequences) and how that glass of water, beer or whiskey you had prolly came outta the business end of one extremely large schlong at some point. Sure it got filtered, evaporated, subliminated and condensed along the journey to your mouth... but all the same it is really a matter of time scale. Recycling fast, or slow? Pick your poison Julius.
Monday, March 17, 2008
DannyRoll
Its no rickroll tis rather still quite teh video.
Before I get back to the world of reading and sleeping and all I had one thing to say about feathered socks. They should never have been invented. Noboby should wear those things. Noboby.
Before I get back to the world of reading and sleeping and all I had one thing to say about feathered socks. They should never have been invented. Noboby should wear those things. Noboby.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Halon
Extremists produce things with big red buttons. Non-extremists would produce lots and lots of little green, yellow and perhaps orange buttons to push in sequence. Rather than going all panicky and smashing the big red button at the first sign of trouble there would be a whole bunch of incremental steps, order and procedures to follow to help mitigate the risk.
Don't Panic. Really good advice, except then what happens to that red button which haunts my dreams, when do I get to slam it down, take a deep breath, and wait for the halon to start dropping from the ceiling? Probably I don't. Which means things would be a little too managed and safe. Boring. Boring like eating bacon wrapped doritos for years up until your heart just decides that it is done playing the game and takes a breather. The grim reaper likes to have it both ways.
Mother nature, fickle. She likes it both ways as well. How about the life of an Albert's squirrel. Lots of running around getting mildly excited about your ever growing stash of nuts, finding some new nuts. Finding a few more nuts. Sleeping. Finding and stashing nuts. Waking up to a pine martin in your tree.
No matter, bacon, death, waffles and squirrels all end up in the same place in the end. There is a really nice binary star system sitting off some tens of light years ( or so) from here. Earth just so happens to be exactly positioned above it's magnetic pole. What you say? SuparNova. Exactly. A nice bright wakeup call of cosmic particles will be tightly focused for their visit to our region of space. They won't get lost or confused on the way. So even father time and his little mistress the cosmos have a big red button. Sometimes a nova or super-nova won't do. Sometimes you gotta make statement.
What'd be really cool is if there was this whole new life-form heading out for that star. Cutting off the angle like a good hockey goalie so the shot has no way around and then the trick, eating all the radiation, consuming it and turning it into something concrete, manifest, tangible and new. Forget terraforming. We're talking swallowing a star for breakfast and growing some new chitinous outter shell by afternoon. Critters like that could live, feed and die on a scale akin to bacteria on a sequoia. A sequoia with a little squirrel and pine martin in it's boughs and a family of happy campers cooking bacon underneath.
Don't Panic. Really good advice, except then what happens to that red button which haunts my dreams, when do I get to slam it down, take a deep breath, and wait for the halon to start dropping from the ceiling? Probably I don't. Which means things would be a little too managed and safe. Boring. Boring like eating bacon wrapped doritos for years up until your heart just decides that it is done playing the game and takes a breather. The grim reaper likes to have it both ways.
Mother nature, fickle. She likes it both ways as well. How about the life of an Albert's squirrel. Lots of running around getting mildly excited about your ever growing stash of nuts, finding some new nuts. Finding a few more nuts. Sleeping. Finding and stashing nuts. Waking up to a pine martin in your tree.
No matter, bacon, death, waffles and squirrels all end up in the same place in the end. There is a really nice binary star system sitting off some tens of light years ( or so) from here. Earth just so happens to be exactly positioned above it's magnetic pole. What you say? SuparNova. Exactly. A nice bright wakeup call of cosmic particles will be tightly focused for their visit to our region of space. They won't get lost or confused on the way. So even father time and his little mistress the cosmos have a big red button. Sometimes a nova or super-nova won't do. Sometimes you gotta make statement.
What'd be really cool is if there was this whole new life-form heading out for that star. Cutting off the angle like a good hockey goalie so the shot has no way around and then the trick, eating all the radiation, consuming it and turning it into something concrete, manifest, tangible and new. Forget terraforming. We're talking swallowing a star for breakfast and growing some new chitinous outter shell by afternoon. Critters like that could live, feed and die on a scale akin to bacteria on a sequoia. A sequoia with a little squirrel and pine martin in it's boughs and a family of happy campers cooking bacon underneath.
SR / t = oo
Simreal time: Amount of time expended in simulation.
Biological and mental or hardware and programmatically placed energy and attention.
Devoted to achieving a state of harmony based upon scenarios derived from either internal imagination or externally manufactured situations.
Biological and mental or hardware and programmatically placed energy and attention.
Devoted to achieving a state of harmony based upon scenarios derived from either internal imagination or externally manufactured situations.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Glass Hand
Sabre punch upside teh head. Inside the gunwales a sloppy wave cruised by roiling some flotsam. A bottle, inside of which was a small orange crab and the remains of a note careened by and disappeared over the side and into the sea.
Boot into the leg. The wooden one, so no hurt, no foul. However, a free chance to return the favor and dash the dastardly fellow to the deck. Where another wave sent small boxes, spliters of wood, coils of rope and that fine fellow rolling together and over the side and into the sea.
Grapeshot cutting the sails. Clearing what is left of the deck. Not much left of the deckhands. Not much left of the glass windows or navigation lights neither. Before another cannister comes sailing through the smoky air it is over the side into the water and onto the task of the swimming to the distant shore. A looking glass in one hand and a bottle in the other.
Boot into the leg. The wooden one, so no hurt, no foul. However, a free chance to return the favor and dash the dastardly fellow to the deck. Where another wave sent small boxes, spliters of wood, coils of rope and that fine fellow rolling together and over the side and into the sea.
Grapeshot cutting the sails. Clearing what is left of the deck. Not much left of the deckhands. Not much left of the glass windows or navigation lights neither. Before another cannister comes sailing through the smoky air it is over the side into the water and onto the task of the swimming to the distant shore. A looking glass in one hand and a bottle in the other.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Kessel Run
Ever wondered about if hauling a load of spice or some crystal fragments around the galaxy is going to allow you to retire in style when you are old and everyone you knew is dead because they stayed planetside? Wonder no more... Interstallar trade
Monday, March 10, 2008
Cruciform
Ishtar is one weird cookie. Who really gets off on having meat thrown at them besides weirdo derivative nerd types on ten-speed bikes? Speaking of which I've decided that hamburgers should be called meat-cookies. Makes a lot of sense. Especially if you consider those little white castle ones. Really, hamburger is not much of a name. Maybe it would be if you always wrapped the pattie in bacon or actually (shockingly) made it out of some weird part of a pig. Instead of grinding up the celestial bull and using him as hamburger it seems like calling it something great like meat-cookies would impart a sense of greatness, mangificence and general overall grandeur to the whole deal. Gilgamesh sure as hell didn't get credit for helping create hamburgers. He didn't get credit for creating the plot line for uncounted numbers of zombie movies either. I mean though, who else would have pissed off Ishtar enough to raise the dead. Between inventing hamburgers and zombies I'm going to have to say G was one phat kitteh.
Lagnation
Politics is the anvil upon which stupidity is forged into conformity.
CNN, mmporgs, and aggregatorz have taught me this. Not that this is either surprising, news, or worth talking about. What is worth it is the rapid fusion of the powers into a alliance of self-serving ignorance.
Today after watching a squirrel stop in the road, take 3 seconds or so to judge the speed of my car, and then run frantically back to the curb, it was forever apparent that deer are pretty dumb. Dumber than squirrels. If they surpass lemmings in the raw brainpower department remains to be seen.
Squirrels can find nuts and avoid traffic. How many people can do the same? Apparently not many. Every day it seems more and more people decide that walking IN the street rather than on the sidewalk is normal. Maybe they lack an education in physics, or perhaps being chased by neighborhood dogs and run down by anything with wheels has bred a race of squirrels which far exceeds the previous generations in pure mental capacity. I know not. Next time I commune with some shaman I'll find out though.
Finding nuts on the internet is not small thing. Some companies based their business on doing just that. Not that I'm proposing to create a global pool of squirrels willing to perform querries for each and every one of you. It is a good idea, but off topic. Avoiding traffic, while also a good idea, is also off topic and really bad for efficient caching, so again... off teh table.
Again though, dependence upon third powers to collect, filter and bring your daily entertainment and information into your growing bubble of knowledge is dangerous. Swarms of locust are really good at devastating ecosystems and moving on. When they can't move on, they die. Monoculture and overspecialization lead to extinction. All I'm saying is you all should be more like cockroaches. Consume everything. Even the cardboard that the twinkie came in.
CNN, mmporgs, and aggregatorz have taught me this. Not that this is either surprising, news, or worth talking about. What is worth it is the rapid fusion of the powers into a alliance of self-serving ignorance.
Today after watching a squirrel stop in the road, take 3 seconds or so to judge the speed of my car, and then run frantically back to the curb, it was forever apparent that deer are pretty dumb. Dumber than squirrels. If they surpass lemmings in the raw brainpower department remains to be seen.
Squirrels can find nuts and avoid traffic. How many people can do the same? Apparently not many. Every day it seems more and more people decide that walking IN the street rather than on the sidewalk is normal. Maybe they lack an education in physics, or perhaps being chased by neighborhood dogs and run down by anything with wheels has bred a race of squirrels which far exceeds the previous generations in pure mental capacity. I know not. Next time I commune with some shaman I'll find out though.
Finding nuts on the internet is not small thing. Some companies based their business on doing just that. Not that I'm proposing to create a global pool of squirrels willing to perform querries for each and every one of you. It is a good idea, but off topic. Avoiding traffic, while also a good idea, is also off topic and really bad for efficient caching, so again... off teh table.
Again though, dependence upon third powers to collect, filter and bring your daily entertainment and information into your growing bubble of knowledge is dangerous. Swarms of locust are really good at devastating ecosystems and moving on. When they can't move on, they die. Monoculture and overspecialization lead to extinction. All I'm saying is you all should be more like cockroaches. Consume everything. Even the cardboard that the twinkie came in.
Sunday, March 09, 2008
Armalite
Symphonic moments compose history. Strains twirling and morphing into events, cataclysms, triumphs, unparalleled feets and long-jumps out of the current memory segment. Last night Shiva, tongue laden with the blood of demons danced upon Bifrost leaving stardust, mankind, consciousness and twin lines of chaos and cosmos twisting in its wake. Feared, Loki turned about escorted by wolves and ran from the fray. Somewhere inside of that ringing event sat a little bell. The silver kind. A bell of harmonic resonance. Creating wave upon wave piling high and higher until the resonance broke the bridge, drowning all upon its outer shore. Thence discord and concord flattened into a line, leaving the silence of the frost. Upon which trod the Queen of Hearts, seeking Alice. Mystery abounds with the feet of a rabbit and the smile of a quantum cat. While sometimes things are what they appear, other times not. While a turtle shifts its weight and the world settles anew.
Melkor
Things all start looking like nails. Though I can't help but think that these guys would be headlining Valarapolussera if there was ever such a thing. So much in the spirit of the whole movement.
Thursday, March 06, 2008
Crestone
What if we ARE living on an event horizon? Time could just be that, the tide and swirl as everything we see and know is rotating into the infinite. It may be that the past and future are only here with us because of the vortex. If it was a really big vortex maybe there couldn't ever be enough perspective to observe or understand that there was anything beyond the tidal pull. That is what happens when you go swimming in the ocean. Those other little singularities could just be nothing more than bubbles or eddies on the arms of an even larger one. Though what if it is all just one and time and space are all folded and distorted and you're really mostly seeing a mirror, but a mirror which folds through our physical universe.
Moonlight
Set the mood please. It is something I'd like to order from a menu, or stumble upon, or have thrust upon me by some hot but crazy woman.
Then noticing that the faint silverlight glints like a razors edge I'm going to request the braised hamsteak, fall on my shadow, and end up failing in love with the waitress.
Whereupon if the mood pleases it is some kind of occams shadow loving to fall upon a glinting request back into the moon.
And now, in shadow, in light can the sun and moon stumble in a crazy dance like a drunken women smashed on tequilla margs and end up falling into an endless mood of unremitting melancholy.
Oh yes. I saw it drifting down the danube.
Then noticing that the faint silverlight glints like a razors edge I'm going to request the braised hamsteak, fall on my shadow, and end up failing in love with the waitress.
Whereupon if the mood pleases it is some kind of occams shadow loving to fall upon a glinting request back into the moon.
And now, in shadow, in light can the sun and moon stumble in a crazy dance like a drunken women smashed on tequilla margs and end up falling into an endless mood of unremitting melancholy.
Oh yes. I saw it drifting down the danube.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Electric storm
Today the taquitos won out. Ham sammiches may be coming, but they will not be coming without a fight. In the interests of saving money and maximizing profits little things like good cooking and tasty food are getting in the way. Solution: get rid of both. Result: Maximized profits! Actual Result: Pissed off customers who stop spending any money whatsoever.
Someday I hope that taquitos are available to all and that Santa Claus will even bring them to everyone on Halloween instead of having chocolate eggs with some white cream type filling which grosses me out.
Oh yeah, then there is this thing that taquitos and magnetic waves got going on. Harmonic resonance or something like that. Both can do it so you got ubar taquitos and luzor taquitos and everything sliding up and down between. Just like with magnets except I'm not sure that it's like that. Sure works for all the other waves though.
Someday I hope that taquitos are available to all and that Santa Claus will even bring them to everyone on Halloween instead of having chocolate eggs with some white cream type filling which grosses me out.
Oh yeah, then there is this thing that taquitos and magnetic waves got going on. Harmonic resonance or something like that. Both can do it so you got ubar taquitos and luzor taquitos and everything sliding up and down between. Just like with magnets except I'm not sure that it's like that. Sure works for all the other waves though.
Rogue Post
tHE MAC address (excuse my lack of caps lock skill and extreme apathy in using the backsapace key) is connected to the IP header is connected to the TCP header is connected to the HTTP header is connected to the buffer is connected to the memory allocator is connected to the interrupt handler is connected to the driver queue is connected to the memory manager is connected to CPU is connected to the clock is connected to the power supply is connected to the wall is connected to the wire is connected to more wires is connected to the power plant is connected to another power plant is connected to another wire is connected to all and everybody reading this on a computer is connected to a mess of humanity connected to all.
Valar
Skipping more than a few generations between incarnations into this place would be pretty weird. Say you were like a forest dwelling, shamanistic, polytheist, animist and next the next thing you know after falling off a cliff is waking up in like the 20th century. That would be quite a trip. What's going down with all this monotheistic personality worship, living in big cities, the death of nature and all that? Bet it would be more than a bit confusing. You may even write a book and like channel all your past experiences and beliefs just so you could stay sane and not end up really cracked and like being forced into further incarnations where you're working back out of that pit. Maybe though, you just read up a whole bunch on stuff and filled your head with like eastern and Germanic paganism until it all overflowed into some kind of epic watercolor of washed together memories which in the end looked pretty good when you stepped back and viewed it from afar. Possibly the Valar actually sent you into this manifold after they got new orders played to them in anew strain of the old tune they were being forced to live. There is a chance though that Raval Penchoit an obscure and not well known type-set salesman from the late 18th century really authored all this stuff and somebody later was renovating their house in Kent, knocked down this wall, discovered some old manuscripts and next thing you know... instant author and celebrity. Though my money is the Valar, but unless you all get to cracking on some mystic dances right quick, the best that is gonna happen is for you to wait and ask when you meet them. Pro tip: bring along some donuts. chocolate glazed, and sugar.
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
Testament
Funny thing happened on the way to work this morning.
Driving along somewhere between home and work the realization struck that virga is like what 99% of all businesses base their operating principles on. The precipitation never hits the ground. It all just dries up before really getting anywhere. Makes me wonder how VC firms end up making any money at all. Once in a great while maybe there is some freak storm and they end up recouping their investment. Otherwise it is kind of like the ultimate in trickle down economics, well except that part where there is something left over. Virga is more accurate. It all dries up and then everybody is sitting there wondering where it all went. Well it freaking disappeared. One time I saw this magician. I think he was called Siegfried (not important to the story). He was very lame. Except he had these really big white tigers behind this glass wall with all these waterfalls and lush plants and stuff. The tigers looked pretty happy and everything. Probably they were high and drugged. Later I heard they tried to bite the magicians head off. If it had been raining and they had been outside they wouldn't have cared one bit about the magician. They would have already ate him long ago. Next thing I know I'm in a violent braking skid trying to miss this crazy dude who was walking down the middle of the street bright o' early in the morning. Next time I'm going to pull a rabbit out of the glove box and give it to him. He clearly was in need of one. Good thing I packed my lunch in a ziplock bag this morning too. The tiger in the backseat didn't have an inkling it was there and I had a wonderful lunch. Now if I only could make the dents in my grill that that damn magician made when I ran him over accidentally after noticiing the tiger in the car I'd call it a banner day. As it is though... it was mostly normal.
Driving along somewhere between home and work the realization struck that virga is like what 99% of all businesses base their operating principles on. The precipitation never hits the ground. It all just dries up before really getting anywhere. Makes me wonder how VC firms end up making any money at all. Once in a great while maybe there is some freak storm and they end up recouping their investment. Otherwise it is kind of like the ultimate in trickle down economics, well except that part where there is something left over. Virga is more accurate. It all dries up and then everybody is sitting there wondering where it all went. Well it freaking disappeared. One time I saw this magician. I think he was called Siegfried (not important to the story). He was very lame. Except he had these really big white tigers behind this glass wall with all these waterfalls and lush plants and stuff. The tigers looked pretty happy and everything. Probably they were high and drugged. Later I heard they tried to bite the magicians head off. If it had been raining and they had been outside they wouldn't have cared one bit about the magician. They would have already ate him long ago. Next thing I know I'm in a violent braking skid trying to miss this crazy dude who was walking down the middle of the street bright o' early in the morning. Next time I'm going to pull a rabbit out of the glove box and give it to him. He clearly was in need of one. Good thing I packed my lunch in a ziplock bag this morning too. The tiger in the backseat didn't have an inkling it was there and I had a wonderful lunch. Now if I only could make the dents in my grill that that damn magician made when I ran him over accidentally after noticiing the tiger in the car I'd call it a banner day. As it is though... it was mostly normal.
Butterfly TEacup
At least toast is pretty. Melba toast; not so much, more it is the red-headed stepchild of toaster products. Van Gogh probably was a fan of toast. Van Gogh was probably a fan of toast. Toast was probably a fan of Van Gogh. Why not, right? What makes toast unable to appreciate the rendering and expression of fiery humanity on canvas. Certainly it is not the yeast. We're covered in bacteria and yeasties, they swim in us like some great earthly ocean, our cities are their galaxies. Bacteria and yeast are toast fans for sure. This I know, they have done their best to eat all my toast before I can. Usually they succeed. Which is sad. Like not even cockroaches are that efficient, but these little guys flail around all day and end up winning. It is like that thing where somebody paints enough stuff and then viola out of some period comes the Sistine chapel and stuff. Not like yeast or Van Gogh were at all crazy they both just had a different appreciation of art than most. Toast well all can agree on.
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