Circuitry News

Nanowrimo 2009 begins! Day 1...

2009-11-01T00:36:00.000-05:00

The rain fell hard on the heathen plains. It was a cold rain, fat and heavy, soaking everything with doom and sorrow. The surrounding lands had given nothing but blisters and dust for over a month, and when the horns of battle finally rang out, the heavens shrouded themselves within a thick, grey shield and assaulted the earth with its icy weapons.

The ambiance of battle, once built of wave upon wave of challenges and shouting, the melody of swords against steel, and the percussion of rocks against stone, had at first dimmed into a foggy buzz in the back of the head, and now the rain had completely masked all sound. War had always been a fleshy sensation. The smells and sounds and sights were always the first casualties of mass conflict.

Pre-nano

2009-10-07T08:45:00.001-05:00

Deborah was all hair and glasses and bracelets and perfume. Her mane was all curly frills, which defied gravity as if charged by a Tesla coil and which seemed to shimmer in color from an auburn brown to a lemon yellow. Her glasses were stylistic to a fault, with dark rims that were almost as thick as the lenses they held. A myriad of cheap plastic clattered from her elbows to her wrist as she stepped out of the bathroom door and reached down to zip up her pants. The stinging aroma of antiseptic flora followed her, and I knew from experience that this scent came from her armpits rather than the restroom interior.

"Practicing your aim?" I quipped, annoyed to find her exiting the mens' side of the unisex bathrooms.

"Go fuck yourself, Dilbert," she casually replied.

"Why don't you use the stalls in the other bathroom? They are so much nicer in the other room." I tried to sound casual, but the stress of the morning had me wound pretty tight.

"Go fuck yourself," she said again, then turned down the hall, leaving me standing there like an idiot.

I am waiting for Hot Bread to Cool.

2009-04-30T23:33:00.002-05:00

I am up way way way too late. There is bread in a bread machine that is done, but way way way too hot to touch. I can prove that to you by showing you the red line across the tips of three of my fingers on my right hand: it is the melted line of skin that shows the bread is Too Hot To Touch.

But those fingers will heal, and life goes on. Bread goes on. Skin goes on. And you can let that life knock you down, or you can put your dukes up and fight it till the bitter, wonderful end.

Life is like bread, you know. It's chock full of recipe-book crap, and grows until it's baked. And then it's eaten, and all you are left with is crumbs. Wait, wait.

Life is like crumbs I mean. No, scratch that. Life is like yeast, and as long as it's kept in a warm, safe place, it will continue to grow and rise and make things. But the second you expose it to too much ultra-violet light, that yeast is up shit's creek.

Ah, screw it. I am not a baker.

Blogs are dead (dying?) dead.

2009-01-10T12:09:00.002-06:00

I am a selfish person. I am not as good as a friend to all my friends as they are to me. I do not visit them as I should. I make big situations for myself that really aren't that big, and therefore always have an excuse not to go do something. I am the stranger of a friend whom I always don't give much thought or time to.

I miss all my friends. They are all terrific people, and I was lucky to be able to have dinners with them and phone conversations with them and play games with them and kill zombies with them and make music with them and do projects with them.

I have no point to this. I'm just sayin.

Every. Single. Time.

2008-12-02T13:09:00.004-06:00

Every Time the phone rings. Every Time I see a (1) in my inbox. Every Time I think This Time it's going to be the lucky company that has choosen me to be their next star employee.

So far, I've been wrong Every Time.

But my chin is still up!!!

Nanowrimo 3pm: 43000 words

2008-11-30T15:04:00.000-06:00

"The children are slaughtered!" the priest screamed at her.

"Ha-ha! Revenge is mine!" she screamed back to him.

"Your brother's lifeless head is hung from a spear in front of the gates of hell!" he cried.

"I will drink his blood and roar my rage and feast on the hearts of my vanquished enemies!" she screamed, her voice cracking and raw.

"Good," the priest said. "This ends our first day of training. Rest a few hours and we will begin the second."

Last day of Nanowrimo!!!

2008-11-30T09:56:00.002-06:00

Okay. I am 10,000 words behind on the last day of Nanowrimo. I have a little under 14 hours to go. But I am not giving up. No. I have full support to spend this day trying to hit the 50k word mark. I will not cheat, will not type 'a' 10,000 times. If I fail, then I have failed and I'll try again next year.

But I am going for gold! !!!

Nanowrimo Day 25: 30k+

2008-11-25T07:50:00.003-06:00

My horrible, horrible line for the day:

"Ninjas are like amoebas: before you can kill one, they've already split into two."

Right now I'm playing super-catch-up. I wrote 8000 words last night, and if I can achieve even 75% of that today then I should be in okay shape to finish this thing.

Nanowrimo Day 19: ~20.5k

2008-11-19T14:01:00.000-06:00

She came into a dream of underwater beauty. Deep underneath a lake or sea or ocean, where the sunlight barely reached and cast little curvy illuminated designs all along the sandy floor, Dawn swam like a dolphin. The water was warm and comforting and rushed smoothly across her face and over her body. Here in the deepest depths of water, the shadows danced and played in every direction, making the ocean world a mysterious theater of silent movement. The shadows darted and sprang all around her. The only sounds to be heard were the quick swishes of some darting object past her ears. She would hear a swoosh, turn her head, but be too late to see what creature had made it. Another swoosh, another head turn, again, seeing nothing but the dancing shadows. Somewhere a million miles away, she hears the cry of a humpbacked whale: "myyyy armmmm... theeeey cuuuuut offffffff myyyyy arrrrrrrm!"

Nanowrimo Day 18: ~18k

2008-11-18T20:18:00.001-06:00

Dawn asked Peter as he started dishing some corn and beans onto a plate, "Is this your father?", pointing to one of the photographs on the wall.

"Oh no," said Peter, "That's just another son of a bitch. Our mother is kind of a murderous whore. None of our fathers are alive. Or the same." He gave her a smile without taking his eyes off the task of loading his plate with food. "You should eat something before it all disappears. And before we head to the train station. Have you ever been on a train before?"

Nanowrimo Day 17: ~17k

2008-11-18T08:48:00.002-06:00

A girl with dark bangs covering her eyes spoke up, "Do you live with the nuns? Your dress is absolutely sinful."

The boy with the freckles said, "Is that blood on your dress? Have you been eating wild animals?"

"Please, I am in danger," Dawn said to no one in particular. She walked along the group in a crouched, hunched way. The kids began to circle her as they moved along, slowly absorbing her into their center. "Where are you all going, may I ask?"

"We are going to school," said the freckled boy, "where they teach us not to be slobs and sleep in the woods and eat wild animals."

"Do you bite off their heads and drink their blood?" inquired a short girl with silky brown curls and thin-rimmed glasses.

"I bet she eats off their penises!" said the tall strawberry blond girl.

"She eats their doody!" laughed the small, mousy boy, and a few around him giggled and gasped.

"I do not eat animals," said Dawn defiantly. "I came from the mission up the road."

Nanowrimo Day 14: ~14.2k

2008-11-15T00:04:00.000-06:00

As the motorcycle drew parallel to the spot where Dawn hid, she noticed that there was a nun piloting the bike, and she noticed that the bike had a sidecar carrying a second nun. Both riders were wearing large goggles, and the nun in the sidecar looked like she was carrying a complex blanket in her arms. No, not a blanket, but a net.

The motorcycle drove on, continuing its wild back and forth pattern, into the village. A dog barked unconvincingly in the distance. Dawn reached into her tote and pulled out an old woolen shall and placed it over her head and immediately fell asleep.

Nanowrimo Day 13: ~13.5k

2008-11-13T20:40:00.002-06:00

They pulled her halfway up, and Dawn was able to position her feet under her bottom. She offered a little more resistance against the nun's pull, forcing them to grunt and lean back to compensate for the added weight...and then she sprung forward, pushing off with her feet as hard as she could. The nun's flew backwards, releasing their grips on Dawn and pinwheeling their arms to try to lessen their inevitable impact with the ground. There was a sickening snapping noise coming from one of the nuns as she slammed into the ground. The second nun landed on her side at an awkward angle, her head slamming into the earth with a thick slap. Dawn didn't pause to check on them. She had flung herself past the two nuns and broke out into a sprint back down the path that headed through the woods and back toward the missionary chapel and bunk house. Her legs drummed like pistons, her thighs and calves and knees and back and shoulders and chest on fire, but she did not slow down.

Dawn only had a few minutes head start, and had to make the most of it.

Nanowrimo Day 10: ~10k words

2008-11-10T11:27:00.004-06:00

Minutes faded into hours, and hours faded into days. Dawn's black dress sucked up the ground's moisture, the air's moistures, until it was saturated through and through. Dawn's knees began chilled, then grew sore, then painful, sharp, jabbing spikes of fire shot through her legs, until they became numb. Dawn's back, straight as a pine tree, strained under the stress of remaining upright. Her lower back ached and throbbed until it became a soft white noise of pain and enveloped her like a blanket. Dawn's arms shook, her muscles fatigued and nearing their breaking point, but her palms remained ever clasped, and her fingers never wavered from their direction toward God. Dawn's mind was relentless, cycling through every prayer she could remember, asking the heaven's for an answer to the Blood Amulet until her request became a mantra. She prayed the rosary after each round of asking for help, her voice speaking out to the empty, black room while her mind visualized and moved the beads. She prayed so long that even the mental beads gained a mass and weighed heavily upon her body. The physical representation of her limbs and breath and blood were lost to the comforting aura of extreme fatigue. The stillness of the air in the small sanctuary aided her, for if even the smallest trace of breeze had invaded the room and moved against Dawn's body, she would have crumpled to the ground in a heap of flesh and bones. As it was, only faith held her together.

Nanowrimo Day 6: ~6900 words

2008-11-06T17:53:00.004-06:00

Dawn looks up at the Sisters with respect and reverence. "Hello Sister Witchhaven, I hope you are having a blessed day."

"Explain yourself!" says Sister Witchhaven. Sister Sprites remains on her hammock chair, sucking and puffing away at her pipe, her eyes fixed on the young girl.

"Well," Dawn begins, "There appears to have been a problem at the bunk house last night."

"There will be a problem here if you do not explain yourself this instant!" Sister Witchhaven cries. Dawn is slightly taken aback, and doesn't understand where the nun's hostility is coming from.

"Well, there appears to have been a tad bit of killing, and an ounce of kidnapping."

Sister Witchhaven's caterpillar brows pull together so tightly they look as if they are kissing.

Dawn continues, unabashed: "It's a terrible mess. Everything is sticky, and bugs are starting to show up."

Nanowrimo Day 5: ~5100 words

2008-11-05T15:59:00.004-06:00

"The bunk house is transformed into a frenzied den of chaos. A small boy across the bunk-room takes one step out of bed and is immediately snared in a rope sling and sprung up toward the ceiling where sharpened spikes have been fastened. A red haired girl tries to run only to find her feet have been pinned to the floor by a pair of ninja sais. A pair of children fall from their bunks after a green powder is blown in their face, their little fingers clawing at their eyes and mucus pouring out of their mouths and noses. A lanky child is screaming under his blankets as he is swarmed by dozens of black scorpions. A flaming arrow whistles across the room and buries into the spine of a running girl, catching her blouse on fire and crumpling her into an ignited pile on the floor. A toddler walking on all fours is clubbed by a nun chuck and sent sailing through a glass window and out into the darkness beyond.

The shadows in the dark are as relentless as they are efficient."

Nanowrimo Day 3: ~3600 words

2008-11-03T18:58:00.001-06:00

Another gust of wind rolls through the mission courtyard, causing the two nuns to reach up to their crosses and lean forward against the stiff breeze. From a distance the two appear wraithish and predatory, like spectral vultures perched above their prey. A fly lands on Sister Witchhaven's cheek, flaps its wings and walks a jerky figure-eight there before a hand slaps down upon it and crushes its body. Sister Witchhaven takes the mangled fly and rolls it back and forth between her index finger and thumb, unconsciously destroying the thing while she keeps her focus on the children.

"Tonight will be very exciting then, don't you think?" she says. A corner of her mouth twitches slightly, her mouth's best representation of a nun's smile.

"Tonight will suck shit." says Sister Bachova. "But I'll be glad to be done with the whole thing."

Nanowrimo Day 2: ~2000 words

2008-11-02T11:35:00.001-06:00

"Inside the chapel the temperature seems to drop ten degrees, and the bright sunlight is dampened through the dark reds and blues of stained glass windows. The chapel here in Croatia is smaller than most of the other chapels Dawn has visited, but it feels as welcoming as any. A large bronze Jesus attached to a darkly stained cross is suspended by thick strands of rope above the small alter at the back of the chapel. The two rows of pews that fill the floor are split evenly down the middle. Warbling coos echo down from the rafters to mix with the clips and claps of Dawn's shoes as she skips her way to the front row of pews. These sounds assemble to form a techno soundtrack for God."

Nanowrimo Day 1: ~1000 words

2008-11-01T10:46:00.001-05:00

"A chime sounds, chirping like a tiny, metallic bird, and the delivery chute opens up. A baby wrapped in a sky-blue blanket spirals down the conveyor belt and into a padded tray near Benny's lap. The baby appears to be very young, its eyes pinched shut, flabby baby-fat reaching out at all the corners of its face. A thin tuft of black hair circles its crown. It remains completely unmoving for a moment, probably dazed by the recent decent, and then the mouth opens up and the razor screams begin. Chinese babies sound like American babies sound like Russian babies sound like Vietnamese babies. At Baby Dump Depot, all the babies speak the same language."

Nanowrimo 2008

2008-10-29T12:24:00.002-05:00

Well, I am still unemployed and looking for work (and things to kill my time that aren't TV or Video Games), so I am looking forward to November to attempt Nanowrimo once again. This will be my fifth time trying it, I think, and every year I get a little bit further. I've never cracked 10,000 words though.

Anyway, we'll see if I last 2 days or 2 weeks or actually finish this time. I'll post a snippet of my story every day if I keep up with it. This year I think I am going to try to write a Christian Adventure-Romance story. I'm only now starting to get a horribly vague sliver of a plot. Who knows what will happen!

The End is Near

2008-08-26T15:20:00.002-05:00

Jaxney walks into my office with a burning rage in his eyes. He marches across the expanse that exists between my door and my chair and bends at his waist so that his nose touches mine. Our noses slip and slide against each other while Jaxney stares into the depths of my retinas.

Through my heavy prescription glasses, I can't see shit at this distance.

Jaxney growls at me, "You keep putting your closing brackets in the same line as your Return statement. You KNOW that C++ coding standard demands that your closing brackets are placed in their own line!"

Jaxney's breath tells me he ate Spaghetti-Ohs for lunch. His carbon dioxide exhalations moisten my mustache. I hold back the urge to lick his chin.

"It saves space while decoding," I explain to him. Jaxney jumps backward in frustration. He pulls his hair, spins in a circle, and talks to God. Jaxney fondles his forhead, bites his lip, and then points both his index fingers directly at me.

"BUT... IT... IS... CODING... STANDARD!" he delivers. His cheeks pulsate colorfully. I cannot tell if he is about to cry or explode. I decide to diffuse the situation.

I stand up and put my arms around Jaxney and begin to walk him back toward the hallway. I tussle his hair, and coo into his ear. "I tell you what," I say softly. "You go back to your office, and I will continue to code my way, and then we will save space while we decode. How does that sound, young prince?"

Jaxney puts his thumb to his mouth and wanders off toward the restrooms, and everyone lives to see another day.

A Tragedy.

2008-08-05T20:40:00.005-05:00

Here is the first banana bread I ever baked. It was perfect. I mixed the ingredients exactly. I baked it for 1 hour and 20 minutes. My house smelled like heaven. It could not have turned out better. And here I set it on my counter to cool, and I took a quick picture to share with my friends and family. I was so proud. This was my first bread! I was about to start loading the picture from my camera when I hear: CRASH!

My dogs had pushed themselves up on the counter where the bread was and flipped the plate to the ground. My kitchen floor is clean, but not THAT clean. There is dog hair in small quantities. There is are broken shards of glass. My bread, only minutes from it's oven womb, was killed.

I tasted a small part of the crust before buring it in the trash. It tasted perfect. It was the finest taste of banana bread my mouth had ever savored. This loaf was meant to be shared with the world, and now it is just another sack of baked fruit and flour and sugar and eggs... gone too young, before it had a chance to impact the world for the better. Banana Bread Loaf, I mourn for thee.

Office Trolls

2008-07-25T13:28:00.003-05:00

The thing I hate most about Fridays at the office are the trolls. I don't think anything can be done about them: no amount of bug spray or steel-sprung traps seem to reduce their number or deter them from coming out into the open.

I cross the hallway from the small office kitchen back toward my work sanctuary. I have a mug filled chock to the brim with an oily, skunky office coffee, and I must navigate slowly to avoid upsetting the brew. One step. Two step. I march down the hall like a North Korean arms-bearer submerged deep in an icy ocean. Left foot. Right foot. And then I see it.

A dark discoloration in the carpeting. A half-liquidy, half-slime puddle of darkish ooze. It has soaked into the flooring and splashed against the baseboard molding. The sickening sweet and musky odor of the substance overpowers the stench of the office java. Troll droppings. Great.

I pick up my pace, sacrificing some coffee drops over the side of my cup for slim hopes to reach my office sans confrontation. But luck be a scorned lady today: the troll is at my door.

Hunched over and exhaling white plumes of dusty disease motes, the troll eyes me up and down with hungered interest. Sour-apple saliva drops from its lips. Whistling sores pucker its face, opening and closing their mouths in a symphony of decay. "The copier needs a new toner cartridge, my pretty..." it groans with a voice like fracturing limestone. It shifts position and flies and cockroaches pour from the flaps and folds of its skin. Mimicking the sound of blended infants, the troll cackles wildly into the expanse of office hallway, and then dashes into the shadows of a nearby office.

A slimy trail of troll-filth remains hanging from the door of my office. I work myself a few feet into my office, but the place already reeks of a corrupted odor. I feel the blood draining from my face, and my stomach begins to clench. I splash the hot coffee in my face to try to settle myself.

TGIF. In God's name we pray.

Wednesday is here to stay.

2008-07-23T10:35:00.005-05:00

Petronox crashes into my office, breathless and agitated. One hand rests against the frame around my office door, the other points down the hallway toward the front of the building. He is trying to tell me something, but all I catch is:

"Look...(pant)...dark...(gasp)...quick...(huff)...now...(rasp)!"

"Is it a monster?" I ask him, reaching across my desk for the small box of raisins I had placed there this morning. One by one I separate a raisin from it's smooshed brethren, waiting for Petro to regain his composure. One by one I place a wrinkled bit on my tongue, and then mash it between my teeth, while Petro doubles over coughing and gagging. I use a #2 pencil to pry some raisin from between my molars as Petro spits foamy saliva onto my office carpet.

There is no way I am going to clean that shit up.

Precise Instructions for Murf's Summer Stew

2008-07-13T22:30:00.004-05:00

This recipe entry is dedicated to a special chef out there who, through some delicious creations of her own, has inspired me to improve my culinary techniques and methods.

Now, on with the show: MURF’S SUMMER STEW (recipe based off a recipe from Murf’s mom, who is an artisan stewstress.)

Why is it called ‘Summer Stew’ you ask? Well, because I made it in the summer. BAM! That’s why. Now here is the ingredient list. If you want to recreate this stew for yourself, then you must follow these instructions with the utmost precision. Luckily for you, I wrote them all down. And by ‘wrote them all down’, I mean I will vaguely recall what I think I threw into the crock pot this morning.

1 cup of Stew-beef-meat. Maybe it was half a pound? It was one good-sized handful of those chunks of beef that are already cut into big pieces. It was two small-sized handfuls of those chunks of beef that are already cut unto big pieces. If you have medium-sized hands, then I will trust in your own interpolation methods to figure out the correct amount of beef.
14-17 baby carrots from one of those bags of baby carrots.
2 red potatoes chopped into potato chunks.
1 can of diced tomatoes with the basil on the label.
1/3 of a softball-sized white onion, chopped into onion chunks.
1 and a half cups of SANGRIA BOXED WINE (angelic humming queue here) Maybe 2 cups. Heck, just use as much as would fit in a small crock pot to fill it up to an inch short of the top of the vegetables.

Directions: dump all of the above into a crock pot. Make sure you dump all the juice from the can of diced tomatoes in there as well, as it, combined with the boxed wine, makes the perfect sauce. Cook on High for 8-10 hours.

How it tastes: Friggin amazing. It’s as good as a backrub from the Queen of England.

Office Dream

2008-07-02T11:35:00.002-05:00

You know that dream where all of the sudden you are naked at work, and everyone is staring at you? That dream where, one moment you are in your pressed khakis and your sunset-pink button down, standing in front of the big dry-erase board trying to explain to your colleagues some pulse-width correction scheme, and then the next moment you are completely unclothed, chest hair undulating with the breeze from the ceiling fan, naughty bits hung akimbo, your heart's quickening beats visible for all in the conference room to see. That dream where you slowly turn back to your presentation, intensely aware that your pale buttocks are surveying the room, and that every freckle, every hair, every imperfect inch of your skin is screaming out to your audience for attention. That dream where you can feel the heat of those dozens of eyeballs burning through your body, hungrily devouring your every movement, lapping at the lines and angles of your exposed flesh as you shift positions and try to concentrate on explaining your thoughts on time-gain control and multi-trigger levels.

Do you know this dream that I speak of? Well, today I plan to live the dream.

Post Coffee, Pre Demerol

2008-07-01T09:33:00.003-05:00

Dillian walks into my office this morning and comments on my work attire.

"Are those grenades on your shorts?" he inquires. His eyes protrude from their sockets. They pulse with greedy desire. "Are those actually orange grenades all over your shorts?"

"No Dillian, those are pineapples." I correct him with all the patience of atomic fusion. "And these aren't shorts, they are jams."

Dillian stutters and convulses in my doorway. He shapes his mouth into a grimace of mental anguish. "Would HR approve of this?" he guffaws at me, his teeth vibrating in his skull. My hand moves slowly toward my bottom desk drawer, where a real grenade sleeps, but then Dillian turns to leave. I can hear him bouncing and sliding down the hallway.

Highway to the danger zone, Dillian old buddy old pal.

An Amorous Essay on Potatus-Totius.

2008-06-30T18:16:00.005-05:00

I love tater tots. I have to start off with that statement, because every other statement involving the small deep-friend ground potato bites simply pales in comparison. I love them. I don’t think you understand how much I love them. I love them fondly, mentally, emotionally, and yes, sometimes in the privacy of my home kitchen, physically. Do not judge me yet! Please! Listen to my tale of the tots.

You see, when I was a child, I belonged to an adventurous family. My Mother was an Amazonian big-game hunter. My Father was an esteemed tribal Psychologist. Before I had learned not to shit my pants, I was trouncing along in ancient rain forests on the backs of camels or hippos or albino pygmies. I could delouse a baboon before I knew my ABC’s. I could strike a fire using python fangs against a boar skull before I had even seen a picture of a bicycle. It was a quaint existence.

But life in the wilderness has the unfortunate side-effect of greatly lowering one’s life-expectancy, and it was only a matter of time before my parents were devoured (after a cultural misunderstanding in southern Peru). Luckily for me, I was young enough not to remember the incident well, although sometimes in the evenings when the wind rustles the leaves, I can vaguely recall the soft, meaty smacking of lips as the cannibals set in on them.

Partly due to the whims of the nearest trading port, and partly due to the tattoo of the Irish flag I have on my left buttock, I was shipped off to Ireland with a cargo of cursed Cougar Gold to learn a trade in the potato fields. At the age of eleven I was reunited with a village of distant relatives and taught how to seed, sow, and harvest potatoes. I learned the hundreds of different ways to prepare potatoes to eat, how to tile a floor with potato skins, how to shoe a horse with potato-pads, and even learned how to brew special love-potions using the eyes of potatoes and special leprechaun dusts. By the time I was sixteen, no man in the village could claim a stronger potato-ale than what I brewed in my small cellar room. Potatoes were my life!

It was that winter that the Mongol invaders sacked our village. They were lost at sea for years, bound for India, and somehow found themselves at our meek little seaport. They wasted no time in reigning destruction down upon our town, setting fire to every building and running down every man, woman, and child. I was asleep in my cellar when the screaming woke me up, but by then it was too late. The mill above me was set ablaze, the horrifying aroma of sweet potatoes and flesh pouring down on me, fallen rubble blocking my escape. It must have been the potato-powder bins above me that ignited and exploded, but all I remember before being knocked unconscious was a deep, loud bang and then a warm, delicious softness covering my body.

By the time I recovered, the raiders had already left, apparently tired and full on potato products. I found myself covered in soft, fried potato shreds, warmed from the explosion and baked a golden-brown from the heat of the fire above. This was my first introduction to tater tots. You see, they had saved my life. They had cushioned my fall, had kept me warm, and blanketed me against the heat of the barbaric destruction. As I ate my way out of my glorious tater cocoon, I began to realize that I was the only person left alive in the village. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I mourned the loss of my friends and family, and I sat and hugged the mounds of warm totness, taking solace in its silky embrace.

My sorrow was short lived, however. Growing up with adventurous parents, and then earning my way in the potato fields had instilled a strength of spirit inside me, and I knew then where I had to go: America. I built myself a mighty potato ship, sealed it with potato oil, and drew up a mighty potato-skin sail and set off across the ocean towards the Land of Opportunity. If I had things my way, it would be the land of Totportunity.

Two months later I arrived in America, and was welcomed with open arms. I had eaten my ship down to but a small tot-raft, yet my desire for the potato treat had never died. Much to my surprise, the crafty Americans had already discovered the magic of the tot, and the cultural movement I had been prepared to set in motion was as needless as a scarecrow in a tater field. I had arrived home.

But sometimes in the evenings, when the brisk autumn wind finds its way through cracks in the walls, or the soft outside breezes smack meatily across the tree limbs, I find myself compelled to fill the bathtub with warm, fresh tater tots, and then allow my naked body to become absorbed by their embrace. And when you see me with greasy pockets filled with tots, think to yourself “Don’t I have photos of my loved-ones in my pockets?” We are the same, you and I. It is human nature to surround yourself among the things you love. And well, my friends, I love tater tots.

Typical Monday

2008-06-30T15:57:00.004-05:00

I awaken at my desk from what appears to be a year-long coma. My eyes adjust sluggishly to the pulsing florescent lights of my office and on my computer screen I see hundreds of pop-up system messages telling me I need to Update Programs Download Security Files Resister Software Restart Computer? Click Here to Enlarge Manhood.

My face is sticky and slathered in drool, and a foot of facial hair is matted around my chin. I hope to myself that none of the office ladies have taken a picture of me in this state. I reach up to scratch my head and notice two-inch curved fingernails protruding from my digits. Gross. I look under my desk and see that the toes protruding from my sandals have also sprouted talons. Good thing I wasn't wearing shoes, because I'd be embedded in them now.

All around my desk are stacks of paperwork, data sheets, multi-colored sticky notes with phone numbers of reps who I'm supposed to call back. How could I have slept this long? Why didn't anyone wake me?

The secretary jaunts past my office and, upon seeing me alert and upright, pauses long enough to say "Can you change the air filters before you leave today Thanks!" I can't remember her name, but I think I remember it sounding like Petunia, or Old Glory, or Stitch. My head spins and I reach to rub my forehead and almost accidentally gouge out my eyeballs. Youza.

My joints explode and bones creak as I retrain my body to stand upright. I'm going to need some coffee in me before I start to call back these sales reps.

I google searched my future...

2007-06-21T14:08:00.001-05:00

...and found out I will become a hardened, hairy, gruff man. YES!

Typical Thursday

2007-06-07T17:00:00.001-05:00

Don came in to my office this morning and told me we were going to switch microprocessors again for the fourth time in two months. I tried to be a gentleman about the news.

"What in God's Holy shithole are you trying to pull with all this microprocessor swapping?" I asked politely.

"I am having trouble with the new compiler so I thought we'd try another brand," replied Don dumbshit-bastardly.

He sent me a datasheet on the new microprocessor, and a list of what pins he wanted to use as I/O.

I used his address on a dozen internet porn sites, then photoshopped his head onto a man taking sex from a goat and mailed it to his wife.

Typical Tuesday

2007-06-05T11:53:00.000-05:00

Today Stanley came into my office with a giant booger hanging from his nose. It was the slimy, white-ish kind of booger that looked like it could have been used as ooze in a movie. The kind of snot that you can slowly pull out of your nose and wind around a tissue and actually feeeeel the snot being pulled out from back in your sinus cavity.

Anyway, Stanley came into my office today with this giant slug of a booger hanging from his nose and I just couldn't take it. I reached behind me to the little library of reference books I have stored there and grabbed my heavy "Error Control Coding: Fundamentals and Applications" book and whisked it at Stan's head. I threw hard. The corner of the book connected with Stanley's cheek, and he let out a silly yelp and stumbled backwards and hit his head on the wall of the hallway and then said "Shit, Oh God" and covered his face in his hands.

I wasn't born to put up with this kind of abuse. I pushed my computer monitor off my desk, put on my sunglasses, and left my office, having to step over Stanley's legs as I went out.

The Most Dangerous

2006-10-05T12:03:00.000-05:00

Soo, I overheard a conversation on what would be the most dangerous creature to come across.

"Bears," she said.

"Sharks. Definitely sharks," he said.

"Bears will knock your head off and rip your limbs from your body, Sweetie."

"Sharks will bite you in half and rip you to shreds, My Love."

"A bear will come at you out of nowhere and maul you where you stand, Idiot."

"A shark is a silent killer, and will devour you and your family before your comprehension even sets in, Fuckwad."

...

They were both only half correct.

Oh Julia

2006-09-15T13:14:00.000-05:00

At summer camp back in 1981, she called me a nerd. She teased me in front of her friends about the size of my parts. I had lived a sheltered life up until that camp experience, and she introduced me to the concepts of ridicule and shame.

The year after, I introduced her to the concepts of chemistry and fear.

God spelled backwards is....

2006-09-06T02:43:00.000-05:00

So, God created dogs, right? He clapped his hands together and a turbulent air parted the clouds and lightning struck forth and begat Canines.

And Eve took a bite of the apple and ignored Adam, and Adam was a brat to Eve and got the "talk-to-the-hand" routine, and then Eve went skiing in the alps and Adam was pissed off and sad and came across a puppy and his heart was mended. A little bit, at least.

And then Karl Marx sailed upon Adam's shore along with a Chinaman named Confucius and Confucius said "It is easier to clean poop off the carpet than clean matters of the heart."

And that adage lives on to this day.

I have kids!!!

2006-05-02T12:59:00.000-05:00

Two puppies were abandoned at our office last night, and I've adopted them! I'm very excited about the prospect of having some companions to take care of and keep me company.

They are both boys, and I've named them Malcolm and Jayne. Jayne's not a girls name!

PS: I now have a dog and a banjo, so I can play banjo for my dogs!

It makes purrfect sense.

2006-03-21T13:07:00.000-06:00

You can go fairly far with a new kitten heart,
Its fluffy young paws pushing platelets and stuff.
But don’t expect love to come crashing in droves
And don’t think your mom will still want the same hugs.

The truth is the fur and the whiskers and tail
Will only sustain so much life as it takes
To let you run miles or swim laps all your days
And let you see clearly your old heart’s mistakes.

Hybrid

2006-03-16T10:20:00.000-06:00

Electricity
Mixed with some gasoline for
Cleaner emissions.

Some corn on the cob
Cross bred with many flowers
To withstand the cold.

My sister's baby
Born with blonde hair and grey skin
And black bulbous eyes.

Lunch today

2006-03-15T15:54:00.000-06:00

Today for lunch I drove down to the little Subway shop in town. I didn't know what type of sandwich I was craving, but I had time to think as the woman in front of me was being very precise on how she wanted her sandwich constructed. She was being very precise, and very rude.

There is no reason you need to snap at the young lady making your sandwich because you told her you wanted pickles, when in your head you meant cucumbers. The young Subway lady is not psychic.

Anyway, the rude woman said she wanted ranch on her sandwich, and when the young Subway lady started putting ranch on the sandwich the rude woman said "NO NO THE ORANGE SAUCE! MAKE ME A NEW SANDWICH, THIS ONE IS RUINED!" The young Subway lady looked like she was kicked in the nuts, if that were possible.

Finally, the rude woman had her sandwich contstructed to her acceptable standard, and it was my turn to order my sandwich. I didn't want to give the young Subway lady any grief, so when she asked me what I wanted I told her "Um, will you make me a footlong sandwich of whatever the heck you want to make? I don't care what it is, as long as you have fun making it."

She looked at me dead on for a few seconds, and then said "Sure, I can do that." And then she made me a sandwich with lots of weird things on it that I would have never ordered for myself. It was about as off my usual sandwich as you could make. When it was done, she asked if I wanted the chips-and-a-drink combo, and I said Yes Please but asked for the two-cookie substitute for the chips.

She gave me an extra cookie, and smiled.

There is a moral to this story, but all you friends who read this blog already know how to properly treat people, so....

All things must end!

2006-02-27T20:55:00.000-06:00

I died and went to heaven. I floated up through glowing, glittering, silver clouds to arrive at a small bamboo platform. There was a simple bamboo seat waiting for me, and I sat in it.

Across the way there was a sign. It read "And the dogs have eyes."

At least, I thought that's what it said. My eyes were hurting, maybe due to the new altitude. They were burning a little. I rubbed them, and read the sign again.

"And the gods have bees."

What the hell? I stood up, and immediately felt dizzy. My stomach tightened, and I wretched dry nothing into the clouds. I reeled, fell, and hit my head against the side of the bamboo chair.

Hugging my legs and rocking, I cried and cried.

Valentine's Day!

2006-02-13T21:42:00.000-06:00

Race! Mitch connects pedal with foot and he is off! His car zips out of the office parking lot, onto the expressway, heading for the little flower shop before it is too late.

He catches the store owner closing up, and by flashing some cash and showing genuine excitement the store owner lets Mitch in to purchase a big box of chocolates and a single red rose. The chocolates are housed in a big red heart-shaped box. The rose has a cheap plastic wrapper around it. Mitch pays the store owner a fifty and tells him to keep the change.

Race! Back on the expressway, heading downtown, Mitch cranks his heater to full blast. The February air has been especially chilly this week, but cannot match the climate controlled interior. Steering with his left hand, Mitch uses his right to open the box of chocolates and place it on the edge of his passenger seat. His right hand angles the air vents to blow on the box.

"Liar, liar", thinks Mitch's brain.

"Liar, liar", whispers Mitch's lips.

The car is accelerating. The speed limit is 55 mph; Mitch is now driving 60. His left hand steers, his right hand fumbles the plastic away from the rose. The plastic catches on a thorn, but only for a moment. "I can't wait to kiss you", thinks Mitch's brain. He carefully puts the rose in his mouth and holds it with his teeth. He reaches over to the heart-shaped box and removes a candy with his thumb and pointer finger. Mitch squeezes the chocolate and feels an inner goo run down his hand. Nice!

Foot to pedal, pressure increasing: Mitch can't drive fifty-five. He feels the rose stem with his tongue, feels the alternating smooth and rough patches of its stem, feels the rising bump of the thorns. "Liar, liar, pants on fire", thinks Mitch's brain.

"Panch on firrr", mumbles Mitch's teeth.

"Tree", thinks Mitch. "No, telephone poll." Calf muscle tensing, pressure increasing: Mitch's car hums a lullaby. The expressway lights go by by by. Mitch slides his tongue across the rose stem until his tongue catches a thorn. His eyes dilate, and he presses his tongue harder against the point. "I'm going to kiss SOMEthing tonight", says Mitch's brain.

His left hand steers, his right hand unzips the front of his tan cargo pants. Eyes on the road, tongue on the thorn, Mitch exposes himself to his warm car's interior. Foot to pedal, Mitch tops 80. With his right hand, Mitch scoops up the box of chocolates and holds them to his nose. They smell pretty good. He smiles, swallows a small amount of stem and blood flavored saliva, and thrusts the box of chocolates face down into his crotch. He presses the warm, melting morsels into his loins. "I'm going to fuck SOMEthing tonight", says Mitch's brain.

"Hmmm", hums Mitch and his car, in perfect harmony.

"A telephone poll", thinks Mitch. "No! A gas station!"

And there it is, shining in front of him: a glorious tower of fuel storage! Pedal touches floor, and Mitch is racing out of control. "Liar, liar!", shouts Mitch's brain.

"Heart on fi..."!

It was too cute....

2006-01-06T07:18:00.000-06:00

Here's a picture of a little mouse I saw this morning. I took it using my TX-94 Alpha ASCII Cam.

.................
.....#####.......
....#########..#.
\.//############.
.-/######.###oo..
....###=...#=##..
.................

Where have you gone , Sarah Michelle Geller?

2006-01-05T02:48:00.000-06:00

I see trends and I
See progress and
I see signs
That hint
Doom.

Sometimes doing the
Best you can do
Is just not
The very
Best.

Being the "nice guy"
Has it's moments,
But they total
To like
Six.

Now
I have
Grown sleepy
And my subject
Was not even touched.

First Recording Session in the New Studio

2005-12-24T18:42:00.000-06:00

Well, to call it a new studio is stretching it. I still have no heat and no plumbing, but my brother James came into town so I had to wire up two special outlets in which to plug in a computer and some amps. Then, a co-worker of mine had a special request for some punk-a-fied versions of Grease songs for his lady-friend.

How could I resist such a request?

So, here for your listening enjoyment, are some rough covers of Grease songs.

Grease: Murf doing vocals and drums, James on guitar, Josh on bass.

Summer Nights: Murf on drums, James on guitar, Josh on vocals.

Summer Love / Grease Lightning: Murf on drums, James on guitar and bass, Josh on vocals.

Prepare for first take brilliance.

A Christmas Diary

2005-12-22T15:58:00.000-06:00

It’s getting hard for me to tell what the weather is like outside. As my tires grind over bottomless depths of ocean, the backsplash of water laps against the underside of my car. The condensation spreading on my windshield creates the illusion of a foggy Atlantic night.

I shift into fifth, and set my cruise control. In the failing twilight, I cannot see the dolphins I am following. When I crack my window, I can still hear them chattering, so I know my bearing remains sound. Just before dawn I’ll recheck my star charts and correct my heading by sunrise.

…

My sister told me I should fly, but I can’t stand that rushing feeling in my gut during liftoff and landings. And I’ve never minded a long road trip, or ocean trip, as long as I could drive my car. I have hours worth of mixed CDs and books on tape, and my cooler is packed with juice boxes and turkey sandwiches. Six days on the water, and then I’ll be home!

…

I stop for gas at a small island station somewhere south of the equator. It’s a bit pricey, especially for the fish/nut blend they offer, but their restrooms were nice. I pick up a postcard for my sister, and purchase a few plastic tree-frogs that are supposedly native to the station. Maybe the kids will enjoy them? I wonder if they will even recognize me after all these years….

…

Rotten luck has struck me! Less than 20 hours from port, and I’ve hit an old World War II buoy! My front passenger-side tire is destroyed, along with the axel. Traffic has been light, and it may be an hour or two before someone finds me. Hell, it’s Christmas weekend, so it might be days. Who drives the Atlantic the weekend before Christmas?

Only stepfathers and fools, it seems.

I have a few juice boxes left, so I’ll just put on my hazard lights and listen to my jazz mix. I wonder if they will even recognize me when I get there?

The Future Is Not Bleak!

2005-12-19T13:59:00.000-06:00

I cut my thumb.
It bled bled bled.
The wound. The sting.
The red red red.

Hum riddle diddle dum.

I split my lip.
The pain. The pain.
You kissed to fix
It back again.

Hip riddle diddle dip.
Hum riddle diddle dum.

I see today
Is gonna end.
I worry not
My friend my friend!

Hey riddle diddle day.
Hum riddle diddle dum.

The thumb I cut
Is on the mend.
The lip I split
Fixed by my friend.

Hum riddle diddle dum.

Update Filler

2005-12-12T09:27:00.000-06:00

I am one of two monkeys,
Or Maybe one of three.
On every second Sunday
I kindly take a knee.

I form one hand to hail you;
The other forms a scoop.
I grunt I smile I wave and
Prepare to fling my poop.

Um, fin.

Untitled

2005-12-05T11:01:00.000-06:00

Always the whaler, never the whale.
A harpoon in hand, but ne’er through tail.
Aloof on the ocean, eyes to the sea
I peer thru the spyglass; it ne’er at me.

Detailed Instructions on Snowman Disguising.

2005-12-02T01:00:00.000-06:00

Have you ever hidden inside a snowman? Have you ever taken the time to plant yourself right in the middle of a large ball of snow rolled from the layers of flakes spread across your lawn? You cannot easily manage this if you are wearing heavy layers of jackets and snow pants.

Wool scarves will be your downfall if you desire to hide inside a snowman.

No, you must first strip naked. You must remove all those abrasive textiles that catch and stick to the snow. Then, you must cover yourself in oil. Cooking oil will do. I haven’t had cooking oil freeze to my skin yet.

Once naked and oiled, you need to find a stick or maybe a good sized stone to burrow out a little hole at the top of your biggest rolled snowball. This is your entry point to the inside of the snowman.

But wait, I am getting ahead of myself. Don’t try to enter the first snowball until you have the second torso-ball rolled and also a good-sized head snowball ready and waiting nearby. It’s hard to prepare these after your initial snowball entry.

Okay, you are nude, oiled up, and have all three of your Snowman’s parts rolled and ready for assembly. You have dug out your entry hole to the base, and are ready to jump in. Now, you can enter in one of two ways. The first is to carefully climb up onto the big snowball base, bend your knees, spring upwards and then point your toes to the earth. Think of doing a “Toothpick” dive into a swimming pool. Think of trying to make as small a splash as possible. With some luck, you will get good depth on entry to your snowball. With just a small amount of wiggling, you can work your way fully into the snowball base. The second entry approach involves you rubbing your feet together, quickly, for about ninety seconds. This will generate enough heat friction on your feet to just melt a path all the way to the bottom of the snowball.

The difficult part is now over. To finish your snowman disguise, just bend over and pick up your torso snowball and slam it over your head. Since this snowball is a bit smaller than the base snowball, it should fit snuggly over your torso. You don’t want to pre-drill a hole in this piece, because if it fits too loosely, your snowman may rattle and you will be discovered. Just take the torso ball and mash it down onto your body. You can pop your arms out the sides… we won’t worry about them just yet.

With the snowman head, just do the same thing: pick up the snowball and just pop it right over your head. Make sure you’ve removed any hat you might be wearing, because that can ruin the whole thing, and you will have to climb out of your snowman and rebuild from scratch. Do not worry about your vision being blocked by snow. Snow is a natural sound amplifier, and you will be able to function using just your ears. It’s very similar to how bats use sonar, but not really.

Ah, what to do with your arms now? You thought I’d forgotten, didn’t you. Well, now that you are fully immersed inside your snowman, nobody will suspect your oiled and glistening arms will be REAL arms! You can just leave your arms limp and at your side if you like, or if you want to really get into character, you can stick your fingers out at odd angles. Don’t be alarmed if a bird or squirrel climbs on you or your arms, because they will be as oblivious to your hiding place as anyone else.

With luck, and a little practice, you and all your friends can spend the winter hiding inside snowmen.

Ah, pardon my arrogance: Snowwomen too!

The Supermarket

2005-11-30T13:39:00.000-06:00

So, in this dream you are running supermarket isles in first person view. As you take corners, the world swings left-to-right, right-to-left, and then scrolls beneath your feet. You see a store clerk stocking melons and immediately a rusty crowbar floats into your field of vision. You Half-life 2 the store clerk in the head with the crowbar, hear a digitized scream as his face explodes into a pixilated cloud of red, and keep on moving.

Behind you, following you, is a woman carrying two very full grocery bags. When you stop, she stops; when you move, she moves. She is relentless in her pursuit, and every time you swivel your vision to see her, her face becomes a mask of Hurry-Up-I-Don’t-Have-All-Day.

Another clerk spawns beside you, just inside your peripheral vision. He is holding a plate with little tooth-picked cheese samples. You swivel, pound him with the crowbar, and watch in high resolution as his body slumps against the far wall. The little cheese samples roll on the floor in a pleasingly realistic fashion. The woman behind you stares blankly ahead. Clearly she is unimpressed.

Once the deli isles are cleared of riffraff, you head toward the front doors of the marketplace. They open as you draw near, allowing you passage to a misty street that leads to nowhere. Nothing breaks the hazy horizon. The store is gone. You are left alone in a blank world with the woman carrying two very full grocery bags. This time when you move forward, she does not follow.

Turning to face her, you see her give a polite smile. Her face becomes a mask of Thank-You-For-Helping-Me-Out-Of-The-Store-Now-Go-Away. Her eyes are closed as she smiles, and all at once she is the sweetest and least sincere person you have ever known in your entire life.

In your dream, this realization scares you awake.

My Last Day at the Rodeo

2005-11-28T16:13:00.000-06:00

I craved a Snickers bar and a Sundrop,
But I only had one quarter and five dimes
And three pennies in my wallet.

My last day at the rodeo
Was all of six seconds
Give or take a tenth or two.
Holding my rope
My gloved hand straining
Fit to burst.

I remember checking my office drawer for spare change
Only to discover an old red pen
That I used to love to calculate with.

Use your body or use your mind:
Both are physical enough to stress.
Both can feel the pressure of the rope.
Six point one seconds lets say...
He passed that six seconds mark lets say...
Not bad for his last day at the rodeo.

My need for chocolate and sugary water
Was perhaps symbolism for something deeper?

My desire to ride the eight-hundred pound monster
Was perhaps foreshadowing of my eventual destruction?

All the Ooohs and Aaahs of the crowd
Slowed and slurred through my arcing decent
Satisfy my hunger.
The snapping of bones and joints,
The ripping of tendons and muscle:
All audible proof that I existed.

My last day at the rodeo
Was all of six seconds.
But to a bug, a wave,
A thought, a dreamer,
Six seconds can be a lifetime.

For your listening enjoyment...

2005-11-04T16:06:00.000-06:00

Here is the hurricane tribute song recorded by The Michaels, entitled "You Can't Drown My Heart". It is a 20 minute long song, and it is encoded in the Apple .m4a format (it's the only way I could rip it... sorry!) but it DOES play in Winamp if you don't have I-Tunes. Your best bet will be to right click on the link and "Save Target As" the song, then open it in your music software. It's a 20.1 Meg file, so for those of you on dial-up, it may take you up to twenty minutes to grab the thing. It may be well worth it though!

You Can't Drown My Heart

Michael A. does Vocals, Acoustic Guitar, Electric Guitar, Electric-Violin-Bass, Jazz Bass, Moog, Mandolin, Slide-Guitar, Honky Tonk Piano, and discovered and edited sound samples.

Michael M. does Vocals, Acoustic Guitar, Acoustic Bass, Violin, Drums, Electro-Jazz-Flute, Moog, Banjo, and laughed at edited sound samples.

EDIT:
Produced by the Michaels and recorded at Michael A's Octopoidland Studio, Austin, TX, October 2005.

We would like to thank the makers of cheap instruments and musical equipment everywhere.

DISCLAIMER: if you have a heart you will be offended by this song. We apologize in advance for the hardcoreness of this project...but we felt it had to be done. Enjoy the rock.

A poem about Texas.

2005-11-03T01:16:00.000-06:00

Texas, you are a very big state. It takes forever to drive across you, and your gas stations are a bit scary.

Austin, you are a good city in Texas. Your skyline is beautiful in the evenings, and you have bats.

Dallas is dumb and chaffs my bum. Dallas, you go to hell and you die.

The Murf is on vacation!

2005-10-30T01:44:00.000-06:00

Hello, this is interim Circuitry News Editor-in-lieu of Jan Simeopop. The Murf is waiting for his auto-detailing and super-trim to be done in the TX and cannot blog. For the next several days, we ask that you enjoy the above picture, taking into full account whatever tender parts you may be in possession of. Thank you for your time. Tool.

More work-inspired pics...

2005-10-19T09:10:00.000-05:00

My new desktop background:

And man, I may bet getting pwnt at work, but not as bad as THIS guy! Damn!

Two quick things of note...

2005-10-10T20:18:00.000-05:00

Number One, I found a fun, new internet toy. Check out my painting here: Rita

Edit: I am going to add paintings as I mess with them. It's too much fun, really.
Un-Self Portrait
Black and White Face

Number Two: I think my webpage (themurf.com) is no more. I don't know how or why, but it is gone, and I cannot access anything to get it back. 'Tis a sad day. Maybe if we make some kind of petition, we can...I don't know... garner support for it to be put up again?

The end.

Another day of work.

2005-09-29T11:33:00.000-05:00

Every day it seems I
Want to wake up even
Later than
Yesterday.

My boss came in today.
Into my room he came
And poked me.
Just for fun.

Some days I just stare at
The little analog
Clock with its
Arms so still.

Watching the hour hand,
This is how I pass time
When time is
Not passing.

My desk is so sterile
It is hard to even
Think of girls
Or movies.

This is what will fill my
Autobiography
Chapters six
Thru Thirty

This is what I will tell
All my good friends' children
When they ask
Of my life.

I am too bored to work.
I am too scared to leave.
A zombie
Of a man.

Only nine more hours
And then I can go home
Where my boss
Will poke me.

Just for fun.

Robotical Inspiration

2005-09-14T12:34:00.000-05:00

To help inspire Andrew in his robotic endeavors, I am going to post the lyrics to my never-recorded song: "I Am Robot".

I am Robot: hear me beep.
And under this metal sky I sleep.
I am waiting to upload
A million gigabytes that you have told me

Of life...
And youth...
The stuff eludes me.

I am Robot: a thing of steel.
Cold to the touch but adamantly real.
You sit there staring at shiny skin,
But what matters is the circuitry within me.

The miles...
Of wire...
The sparkplugs fire!

Woo! Woo-wee-oooh-ooh!
Woo! Woo-wee-oooh-ooh!

I am Robot: the metal man.
Won't you reach out and hold my robot hand?
I'll take you places you've never been
We'll explore the universe from end to end.

To search...
To see...
To find what we need.

Woo! Woo-wee-oooh-ooh!
Woo! Woo-wee-oooh-ooh!

These things happen.

2005-09-07T16:54:00.000-05:00

She slapped him hard across the face.

"That will teach you to mess with me, you jerk!"

He stared at her, mouth askew, his glasses dangling from his ears. Slowly his fingers opened and the multitude of roses he was carrying flopped onto the pavement. What the hell had just happened?

She glared at him, her face screwed up with the tension of fury. Her left hand, which had just imprinted itself upon the man's cheek, was now digging around in her purse, spilling ointments and candy wrappers around the roses. The twitch of her eyebrow showed that her hand had found what it was looking for.

I think I love her. Don't I think I love her?

Her hand left her purse clutching a six-inch switchblade. She snapped it open, and with a swift jabbing motion she plunged in into the man's chest, cleverly aiming it between the ribs. The blade felt cold against the muscle of his heart, and then a heat leapt out of his chest. So this is what it feels like to love?

The man had enough presence of mind to hold his hands out to cushion his fall. He rested his throbbing cheek against the pavement, and stared at one of the dropped roses. In the distance he noticed a pair of red high-heeled shoes, and saw their owner reach down and pick up three of the flowers, carefully avoiding the thorn in the stems. His mother was right: women were beyond comprehension.

Update.

2005-09-02T10:01:00.000-05:00

In September
House still broken
Plumbing broken
Wiring broken.
In September
Work still broken
Social broken
Head still rattled.
In September
Car not broken
Gas price broken
Travel broken.
In September
Shoes are broken
Style is broken
Hair is broken?
In September
Music broken
Health not broken
Month is young tho?
In September
Some things broken
Murf not broken
Murf has spoken!

(Haiku)^2

2005-08-10T10:17:00.000-05:00

Andrew got me thinking about Haikus, and I wondered if I could take them into the second dimension. So, here, for the pleasure of the scientific community, I present you a working model of a haikubox:

Engineering work . Though the pay is somewhat nice . . . The hours are crap.
From dawn to dusk it's endless . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . How can I spend all this time
Maybe I should teach? . Rowdy kids can't be worse than . Fixing lines of code?

See, with the haikubox, you get four haikus, held together lightly by covalent bonds. This model is slightly unstable, but should last for at least a few days.

Now, I ask of you, the scientific community, this: Is it possible to extract the haiku into the third dimension? Can a haikube actuall exist in the bounds of our verbal laws as we know them???

A true story...

2005-06-07T23:50:00.000-05:00

I knew this man who drank a lot of oil for breakfast and got really, really sick.

He wasn't drinking motor oil, but vegetable oil.

And he wasn't really a man, but more of a raccoon.

Anyway, I had to take the man to the vet and then got in big trouble when the nurse told me they only worked with domestic people.

Bitch.

Official Chocoffee Recipe for the New Year!

2004-12-27T13:26:00.000-06:00

Let us all thank Michael for inventing and sharing his wonderful recipe for Chocoffee!

"For authentic dorm chocoffee, you need these ingredients:

-instant coffee (any brand)
-hot cocoa (swiss miss or something else in a single-serving package)
-sugar preferably cubes
-little marshmallows

First, place little marshmallows and some sugar cubes in bottom of cup (to taste). Pour in contents of hotcocoa packet. Pour in amount of instant coffee required to make one cup (the directions will tell you). Add hot water, or fill with water and microwave. Stir, and then cover the top with little marshmallows. Enjoy the rush.

For slightly less-authentic chocoffee, use real brewed coffee in place of instant.

Watch out for bouncing off the walls and feeling of boundless energy!"

Thanks Michael! Happy Approaching New Year to you and Maggie!

Oh, and yeah, and Happy New Year to the rest of ya's.

A Holiday Request:

2004-12-23T19:39:00.000-06:00

Mr. A! Would you, could you post, for us simple folk, your holiday recipe for Chocoffee?

I think it would be a tasty treat for us all during the winter months.

Pwetty Pwease?

Thanks!

More fun with my ASCII cam!

2004-11-08T18:07:00.000-06:00

I tried to take a photo of my face, but I held the camera a little too close, and all I got was a kinda blurry photo of my eye. I would have taken another photo but I ran out of Fylm Bytes....

./DDDDKDKKKKDC'''''''''_-===/=]''''\\'''
IDDDDDKKKKKD('''''''/===/''___]I''''\\''
IDDDDKKKKKKD('''-/==//_/--\..7]I'''''\=\
IDDDKDKKDDDDC''/X['''/IE()3)/'I['''''''\
.DDDDDKKDDDDK//''['_/.(EWW_/''/I''''''''
.\DDDDKKDDK//K'''M\/G__--/''''/'''''''''
..\DDDKKK,/KDK'''\M''''''''''//'''''''''
...\DDK-//KKKXK'''\\'''''''-//''I'''''''
....C/''''~KKKK''''\\==-__//''',-'''''''
....C'''''^KKXKK'''''\====/''''(''''''''

I need to find some higher grain Fylm, maybe?

Here is another picture I took while on vacation in Hawaii:

2004-11-03T19:42:00.000-06:00

And this time, I brought my color ASCII camera!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/I\~~~^^~~~~~~~~
~~~~~\~/~~~~~~~~~~/oI~\~~~~~~^^~~~~~
~~~~- O -~~~~~~~~~~~I~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
-----------------------------------

I wish I were in Hawaii right now....