I am currently bowling in south east Texas. Amazing, huh? The Big Lebowski references have been coming hard and fast, and I fully understand now that I suck at bowling.
So far the best method of bowling that i have found is the between the legs style, remeniscent of the little girl style. It's certainly more effetive than the throw it as hard as you can method i tried earlier.Clearly, bowling is golf for the violent.
I've been trying to come up with a business that myself and some friends could start, as they're all unemployeed and deeply in need of getting some sort of decent living going. We all seem to hate corporations, and we certainly can't maintain regular jobs, but we also work very hard and get a lot done when motivated. Therefore, this morning, I discovered within my brain a radical idea for a business.
There are a number of companies out there making lots of money through guerilla marketing campaigns. Campaigns like ilovebees.com and others are becoming quite the vogue way of selling products to an unwitting public. The key is to never mention the product by name, nor to let the target know that they're actually observing a covert marketing campaign.
What if we did this, but from the other side. What if we created marketing slander campaigns. We take money from Coca Cola to create a website that says horrible, slanderous, libel things about Pepsi? They pay us some obscene amount of money, and we start a meme that sabotages the hell out of the competiton. we create fake forums that allow users to write testamonials about buying cans of Pepsi that contained nothing but pubic hair. We plant stories in disreputable news outlets that describe horrible things lurking within Pepsi cans and bottles, hook the news outlets up with fake eye witnesses and victims of this particular phenomina or that.
I think we could make a bundle of money doing this. The only tough parts would be creating the marketing briefs and documents for the clients, and pitching the clients successfully. The actually web stuff would be a breeze.
I must say, Texas is a mixed bag. The salsa mines of El Paso are frighteningly impverished, and half of that city looked to be a electricity-less shanty town. About 50 miles outside of El Paso, we had to stop at a border patrol check point where they quized us on our destination and intentions. It didn't help matters much that CGBC, who'd been asleep in the back seat as we pulled in, sat bolt upright and shouted at the woman quizing us "Your papers, Please!" in a thick German accent.
But then, we were let on through and sent on our way. It took almost 10 hours to get across the scrublands of Texas and into some sort of civilization. We made many friends on the road, including one fellow in a special edition Lone Star Dodge pickup who played leap frog with us for about seventy miles. Each time we passed each other, we waved that driver wave of acknowledgement. Said wave is quite popular here in Texas, and it's an indication of how friendly these folk are.
We made it to Stacky's at around six PM, sometime. I'm not quite sure what time it is exactly, because we are in the central time zone now, and that's where they use metric. Currently, it's 75 minutes after eleventy three.
Stacky has quite the pad, a four bedroom house with all the trimmings. He also has a cat named Frank, and we're told that his backyard is filled with chameleons in the morning and afternoon. I should like to catch one, I believe.
Of course, the second I arrive here, the meetings I was after in Emeryville came through. Had to cancel. C'est la vie. I'll catch them when I get back.
We packed up CGBC today. It took eight hours, and we are leaving Monday morning. This is what it is like to move people. I, on the other hand, and a nimble little bugger, capable of packing myself off to any which place I choose in a fortnight. CGBC, however, has had notice for two months. Possibly more.
Today, he got about 80% done, and it took every ounce of strength that Job had. You see, Job is an excellent worker, and he was dissasembling furniturre and prodding the wagging visage of CGBC with his cyber-psycho powers in order to get anything done.
At one point, it was CGBC's firm intention to wash the dishes that would be thrown in a dumpster immediately upon his exiting Berkeley. Chez Fatoo de Guy, is in full effect as of 5 AM Monday morning. I think he fairly deserves it.
Moving people sucks. Moving me sucks too, but only for me, I like to think. When I moved into my current residence, I had everything in barring a bed and some shelves. Two truck trips, they took. The matress sucked, but the Aged P and I got it in there eventually. The V ninja hates moving. Despite there being only a set of stairs between her and the new residence, she took significantly longer than I. Of course, I moved whilst reasonably unemployed. At the same time as her move, the V ninja was offing adverdemons during the day, and at night she was chasing the firey visage of a one-time wet nurse of V I Lenin.
She found the wet-nurse, but she was dead, and the discovery left her shuffling madly to cover her tracks and avoid suspicion.
The odessy begins on Monday.
Oh, and my respect of many modern day techno/rap/whathave you musicians has gone waaaaaaaaaaaay down after seeing this.
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well, we're going to Texas. And it looks like it'll be one hell of a drive. I hope we make it in one piece. Ross seems to think that we can make it in one go, but I seem to doubvt that we'll make it back, just the two of us. I may require some serious coffee or Red Bull.
Houston.
Evidently, I shamble when I walk. It's hard for me not to. At 6'6" and 350 pounds, even a human would shamble a bit. but I am no human. The bright red fur that covers my body quickly eliminates the possibility of my being a man. And upon closer look, if I'm not covering my face with a cowel or hood, you'll solidify your forgone conclusion by seeing my spiked, upward pointing teeth and beady yellow eyes. My horns slope backwards, thankfully, so I can hide them with a hat or scarf. But my bulbous pink nose is impossibly to mask, and was often made fun of when I was a youthful creature.
I am a monster, in the truest sense of the word. I was found on the steps of an orphanage as an infant, wrapped in a large cloth note describing my heritage as one-half human, one half monster. In those heady days, the keepers of the home for lost children were well equiped to take care of all manner of young beings, and they did not turn me away for my breeding. Fortunately for me, I was born over forty years ago. Were my small form to have appeared upon the doorstep of an orphanage today, the discoverer would likely have sliced me into ribbons and fed me to the animals of the nearest farm.
Today, things are very different. I am safe from the torment and hatred that most people feel for monsters. Wearing clothes and speaking English are two surefire ways to make friends when you're a big hairy beast. The truth is, most humans want to be friends with a monster, but due to the war, they find it almost impossible to find any with which to socialize.
And so, they find me in bars, in stores, on the street, and shake my hand and smile at me. Then they go on their merry way, happy that they now have a large, shambling monster as a friend. A perfect friend to have if you're ever in a sticky situation.
But today, we are all in such a predicament. Today, we are preparing for the final battle. The great calamity which will either end this war once and for all, or prolong it in a tattered and defeated form for all of humanity.
I stand on the prow of the massive Victoria, a life float larger than any yet seen by civilization. The boat (though calling her this is an enormous understatement) is ppowered by a fleet of wizards, on rotating duty 24 hours a day, funneling their magical energies into her, keeping her afloat, moving, powered, and water-tight.
It is one of these wizards which stands before me now, handing out olive leaves soaked in sacred juices blessed by the Emperor. The men around me calmly wait for their leaf, and as I accidentlly grabbed two, I hand my extra leaf to a nearby archer. These leaves, we are told, will heal us, but only once. They must be saved for our most dyer moments.
I walk to the edge of this group of men and look down at the railing along the edge of this platform. Below, the sea churns. Above, men shuffle through an almost infinite row of weaponry. Some is ornate, some is desperately old, some is rare and of unknown origin.
I have yet to choose my weapon. There are some guns here, but most are old and rusted, or wildly underpowered. I pick up a small, curved black sword, and playfully spare with a nearby man who must be at least sixty. After our breif fight, i decide that the small sword I've chosen is not adequate for my needs. Instead, I choose a long barrele'd rifle with a rectangular slotted box at the bottom. I hold it up in the waning sunlight, checking it from top to bottom. i've never fired a gun before, nor held one, for that matter.
The words inscribed upon the hilt of the thing read "Cathcart." A nearby man explains that it's a fast shooter, but the bullets don't go very far. I shoulder it and fire a few rounds over the edge of the ship. They splash into the water almost 50 feet away. not far at all, and th shots fell quickly. But seven of them launched when I pulled the trigger for but a second. This could surely do some damage when the enemy is up close. I pull the strap away from Cathcart and sling it over my shoulder. The strap is stretched to its most distant point by my bulk. I don't need a sword yet. i'll return and get one later, when the choicecs are easier.
I turn and wander off the deck, shambling through the thick crowds of men. They part for me as I wander through their midst. I am the only monster on-board who has agreed to fight. The others work down below, in shops or as traders. Then there are those even further below who row. But I've never seen them. They are not allowed out. They are slaves.
Underneath the deck of the Victoria, a bustling city exists. Open markets, restaurants, schools, offices, and government outposts line the streets here, though now they are all mostly empty. A few stragglers man their shop stalls, and the women flutter behind counters in their flowing and hooped dresses. I wander, aimless in my direction.
Through a port window, I can see rows of the emperor's ships lined up on the shore. Their red-coated soldiers stand at attention along the deck. These are the proper armies, unlike the one onboard the Victoria. These red-coated men will likely form the first waves of attackers upon the shores of our destination. These red-coated men will be the first to fight the ravenous monsters that plague our lands. And these red-coated men will be the first to die.
There are thousands of them, too. A dozen ships sail out to meet the Victoria now, all of them lined with soldiers. They come from the starboard side now, too. They follow us into battle, into our long journey towards destiny.
The onyl ones who remain below deck now are the women and the monsters. I find a tall, blue fellow standing over booth in the center of one of the market roads. He is chiding someone who sits in the booth, eating soup. There, below, is a small green monsters. hIs head is shaped like a football, and his black mouth opens occasionally to admit a spoonful of thick orange soup.
What are you doing, eh? asks the blue monster who stand over him, frowning, with his arms crossed.
The green fellow says nothing. He continues to eat his soup.
I stop, look down at the green guy. "What is your name?" I ask
But I don't need to ask, really. I know this green fuzzy fellow's name already.
This is Oscar the Grouch
V got a Sponge Bob game for Playstation 2. She's playing it right now. It's kinda annoying to be in the same room, but I'm sure she's put up with my annoying and repetative game music too, so I'll just sit here and write a little bloggie woggie.
I heard back from Chris Baker on the Andre LaMothe piece. Dunno if he's gonna bite, but at least he's writing me back.
I have a feeling my email box will be flooded with responses this week, since no one returned them last week. This, however, can likely be attributed to the fact that last week was both MacWorld and CES. Therefore, all the tech geeks at my favorite magazines were nowhere near their home PC's. However, I would expect that since this was the Consumer Electronics Show, that these blokes would have had a chance to actually check their email on their hiptops or Palms, or laptops or what have you.
I always liked Uncle Buck. Funny movie with macCuley Culkin's first real appearance. Same mom as in Home Alone.
I broke down and got V the engagement ring I'd been meaning to get her. Now I just need to offer it to her at the right time... Not sure when I'll do it, but soon, I'm sure. She never reads this, so she'll never know that I got her the ring froom The Abyss. She loves that movie, and has been watching it a lot recently. Still, no matter if tis commercialistic, sappy, or just plain uncreative, the ring is cool, and will last long after we're both dead and gone. Titanium, you see.
It's the day of the underrated. Today I got a The Maxx figure, a copy of Mark of Kri, and I'm watching Uncle Buck, the most underrated of John Candy movies.
MacWorld is taking place this week, and I must say, I'm already bored. it was nice to see Ian, and there were some interesting things to see, but overall, the smaller size and less interresting Apple offerings (no movie iPod? No portable G5?) made for a significantly less exciting show, for me. This would be my sixth SF MacWorld, and every year the same deluge of hot-headed Mac nuts shuffle through, staring at each others badges and mentally placing each other on a large ladder of Mac coolness. the highest rung is reserved for Apple emplyee badges and Apple VIP badges, though the latter is slightly less exciting since it is sometimes given to school representatives flown in as an enticement for keeping Macs in their respective systems.
For me, the most excciting thing is to see the archetypes. Lots of these exist within the MacWorld mileau. There's the kid who's too cool for his folks, often wearing Hot Topic's latest and greatest. The mother or father always leads the way, and while the kid is obviously a Mac geek just like his or her parent, the kid's always trying to look like the whole event is incredibly boring.
then there's the mother daughter or father son pairs that are completely in concert on their geeky bliss at coming into the city to see all the beautiful Apple stuff. Often, it seems as though the child is skipping school for the first time ever, and the parent has called in sick specifically for this event. They oo and ah at everything and find all boothes to be equally intriguing.
The hidden celebrity is always present as well. Typically, these folks are of the C-list and has-been variety. MC Hammer and Sinbad always come out for this event. Others were likely present, but with only one day's viewing under my belt I couldn't find too many. But then, I can't usually recognize people in movies, let alone on the street.
Then there's the scene icon. wherever he goes, the crowd parts and lets him through. Clingers approach and inquire about all manner of things. People like Peter Cohen, The GameRanger dude, and a host of others I can't identify fall into this category. These are the guys who've held up their end of the Mac advocacy bargain by writing software, books, and articles that keep the insiders abuzz.
Finally, there are the booth drones. These are typically the marketing guys from the larger companies, or the software engineers at the smaller ones. As I wandered oout of the conference, I passed a herd of these fellows exiting Jillians from their lunch break. I forget their company, but they all wore the same corporate-issue collared shirts with their logo above the right nipple. At once upon exiting the bar/restaurant, all five pulled out cigarettes and lit up.
My sentiments exactly
I should probably find a better way to make money online than my normal "send me money for no good reason" campaign. This has worked before, oddly, but since I didn't run myself into credit card debt, it's not so successful for me.
These were my thoughts when the door flew open, and a small band of happy midgets came tromping into the living room. They wore Wendy's uniforms, and carrying spatulas in their stumpy little hands. They attacked me and tried to drag me out the door and down to the fast food joint to buy a burger.
This has happened before, you know. The previous attempts by corporate America to pull me into their stores for forced commerce had failed thanks to the exploits of my love ninja, V.
And this time, I was to be saved once again by her, but not thanks to her violent and deadly arts of Kung Fu. This time, she used her love to save me. You see, she loves midgets, and upon seeing this torrent entering the apartment, she squealed with delight. The midgets stopped and looked at her with fear in their eyes.
She built a shelter for them in the back yard tonight, and thus, she herded her newfound midget tribe into this hovel at knife-point. I asked her if she thought that the Wendy's people would be dissapointed that she'd coopted their entire tribe as pets. She just smiled and replied:
It's what Dave would have wanted.
Gramps looked over at me from two seats down the bar. "I been workin' at the docks for fifty years this December. My dad worked the docks in the summer of 41, then came home to Arkansas for the winter and spring, helped get the crops into the ground."
Fooly sat next to me, mouth wrapped around fermented Ginsing exrtract soaked in vodka. I sat and stared at the illuminated walls, thinking of how I could get the East Bay Express to pay me to write about the woman who keeps dishing me out free drinks.
"I moved here and met a fella, had a 1957 Ford, and two wives. Told me he worked the docks, got anythign he wanted out of the containers. Wooooie, I said that's for me. They keep them containers locked now, though. They watch yo ass, keep an eye on ya so much I done forgot about that all together."
Hey, the mob does that shit, why not poor black folk?
"Thank you," he said, raising his glass to me. Fooly leaned over and smashed her glass into his, knocking me to the floor as she shouldered be out of the way.I'ts my birthday! Wish me a happy birthday won't you?
I stood and replaced my hat. Gramps smashed his own glass, bourbon and soda, into hers. They slumped onto each other's shoulders, he, more than twice her age. At the other end of the bar, the matron looked at her best friend, a suave Korean man in sunglasses and spiked hair.
Ms. Kim left him, then, and came to us. After a mish mosh of unintelligible half Korean half English, we had a nother round of drinks all over the bar. Gramps and the K-Gent were waving fistfulls of twenties, and Ms. Kimm was handing them back and reminding them they'd only bought one twenties worth.
I reclaimed a new seat, one closer to Gramps, one further from Fooly. Fooly shlumped over closer to me, and began a dialog with Gramps.
Fuck workin, I like drink!
Gramps slammed his own beverage into hers once more, though this time, I had my own, and as I leaned out of the way of their colliding glasses, I had my own to connect at the nexus above the bar.
It took six songs, but tina turner finally came on with "Proud Mary." Our evening was at an end. We waved good bye, then I walked Fooly home, keeping her arm tucked within mine so that she wasn't run over by a bus as she staggered home.
My thoughts turned to Edgar Allen thoreau, then.
When I awakened this morning, I was alone. The apartment wwas empty, save for the fattlings, the butter, and the lord master of the domain, the glorious fat fatty fat fat fat. Or so I thought.
Wipeing sleep from my eyes, still stuck halfway in the hyper world of dreams, I was confronted by the vicious visage of a coniferous death machine, hell bent on my destruction. It lumbered forward, shedding needles as it lunged for me. I was terrified. I'd cut the fucker down a month earlier, and I knew it would be pissed at the ritualistic decoration and illumination. But I'd never expected it to attack me.
I ran into the bathroom and locked the door. It banged on the door, causing a tinkling sound as fifty little red balls clattered against drummer boys, hobby horses, birdcages, wile e.'s, and straw angels.
I heard a door open outside, just as I was contemplating a window escape route. There was a loud scuffle and a cloud of green needles exploded under the door and filled the bathroom. I cracked the door open slightly and peaked through.
In the hall I found V, katana in hand, standing in a pile of shredded wood and needles. She stood, lopsided, arms crossed, katana dangling at her side. I smiled and blushed, then placed the toilet brush back in its stand. It was the only weapon within arms reach.
This sounds like a bullshit toy. It sounds like a lie. it sounds like somethign that can't really do what it says.
It is, however, remarkably observant, powerful, and guesses correctly about 80% of the time.
It guessed Godzilla correctly. It guessed booger correctly. It guessed cat correctly. It guessed car. Amazing.
Noticing a pattern? Leif is dicking around with panasonics, but I like the Mobotix. Very popular around European nations.
CityBoy, these are fun!