Your Greatest Mistake

Invitation to Sup

2011-11-18T19:21:00.000-08:00

Shepherd -of-the-Twilight,
He found me in my tree.
He calls to me at night,
And bids, "Come feast with me"

Feral is my host,
His offers I decline.
And should I throw a roast,
I'd ask him not to dine.

He's gone again at day,
I take this time to roam,
To figure out my way,
From his banquet to my home.

From tree to tree I steal,
Crafty like a thief.
A battle of wits has no appeal,
When just one side has the teeth.

Strength in Numbers

2011-11-09T15:19:00.000-08:00

Strength in numbers!
We shall prevail,
Marching to one beat.
Their best efforts to no avail,
They’ll tremble at our feet!

Strength in numbers!
We quest for glory,
United in one cause.
We shall clutch victory,
Out of defeat’s jaws.

Strength in numbers!
Together make our stand,
We shall take our fate.
That noble day’s at hand,
To cleanse that which we hate,
And purge it from this land.

Strength in numbers!
If Jack can slay a giant,
Then man can fall a tyrant.
We only need rely,
On each man, each ally!

Strength in numbers!
We shall prevail.
We march to one beat.
We cannot fail.
They’ll soon taste defeat.

Strength in numbers!
Behold us now.
Strength in numbers!

United as one voice!
Surrender their only choice,
For not even a lion would chance,
The wrath of 10,000 angry ants!

The enemy is to be met.
Tyranny soon slumbers,
Should we not forget,
That we have strength in numbers!

Caleb

2011-11-08T09:04:00.001-08:00

Starving in our captors’ jail,
Caleb spoke to me.
His voice was rasp, his skin was pale,
Four and eighty days we’d not been free.
Of all the Charges to our name,
But smuggling was the truth,
And even then the saddest shame,
Was that they had no proof.
Proof was never needed,
Burmese law prevailed.
And the longer that you pleaded,
The longer you were jailed.
Of release there was no hope,
They’d hang us both as spies.
Our necks broken by rope,
Woven of their lies.
Caleb was in denial,
But my spirit they’d broken first.
Between the present and our trial,
With beatings, hunger, and thirst.
He’d attempted escape twice,
But twice he hadn’t made it,
They deemed his eyes the price,
And sadly Caleb paid it.
He stumbled eyeless round the cell,
Means of escape he’d vow to find.
While I sat there wondering how in Hell,
He had such hope while he was blind.
I had met my match,
My powerful need to eat.
Hard were the rats to catch,
And little was their meat.
Caleb’s one reliance,
That we would survive.
His idea of defiance,
Was to stay alive.
His hope was sheer madness,
But I would play along.
Instead of facing the sadness,
Of knowing he was wrong.

Then one day he turned to me,
Eerily he spake,
“I told you brother we’d be free,
And it is no mistake.
“I can see it all so clearly,
He was here, he came to me,
He held my hand dearly,
He told me where we’d be.
“Behold he has a table!”
Caleb stood suddenly,
How he was able,
Was vastly beyond me.
“Such a wonderful spread,
Finally we shall eat.
Warmth, joy! We’ll be well fed,
We need but take our seat.
“He is unlike any other,”
A grin formed across his face,
“It’s time to feast my brother,
He calls me to my place”
“I’ll see you in a while”
He fell and moved no more,
Just lay he eyeless smiling,
Upon the cold stone floor.

Gambling Borrowed Monies

2011-11-06T17:48:00.000-08:00

I owed a small sum,
I had to pay a debt.
To reduce the cost,
I played it on a bet.
All the funds I lost,
All I won, regret.

Party Crashers

2011-11-05T13:54:00.000-07:00

Death came to my door that day,
He came and would not go away.
He crashed my party with his friend fear,
Uninvited, they should not be here.
Their presence made us all quite sad.
Whatever shall I tell my Dad,
What will he say when he returns tomorrow,
To find the trio, Death, Fear and Sorrow.

From Whence I Came

2011-11-04T09:03:00.000-07:00

On a map you will not find,
My hometown, 'tis no physical place.
I dwell within a state of mind,
Where thoughts manifest into space.

To End a World

2011-11-03T04:25:00.000-07:00

Every life has it's own World,
A unique view through unique eyes.
To take a life, would end this world,
To say, "No more shall your sun rise."
To strike down a man through hate,
I do not deem that wise.
To hastily forge one's fate,
And so a world dies.

The Dress

2011-11-02T05:31:00.000-07:00

An empty chair where a husband sits,
A favourite dress that no longer fits.
Gone are all her favourite bands,
Faded like the youth within her hands.
Winter pain, it now lingers,
Inside all her tired fingers.
No longer able to use a sewing kit,
To mend a dress that does not fit.

Her

2011-11-01T01:15:00.000-07:00

I dream of her without a chance,
I look at her without a glance.
A million years could pass me by,
Without the hope I'd catch her eye.
Why pursue her who sees not me?
Love is my favorite futility.

My Father's Armour

2011-10-31T14:17:00.000-07:00

My Father's Armour,
He shall wear it no more.
An end to him,
But not to war.

If every Father gave his life,
Would that then put an end to strife?
It was the burden he did bear,
My Father's Armour,
Now mine to wear.

Salute

2011-10-30T14:24:00.000-07:00

Through those Gates,
And through those Jaws,
Where Flesh meets Steel,
To the sound of Applause.

TRIUMPH, GLORY, DEATH, or FAME
A way of Life, a simple Game

Surrounded by Eyes,
We make our Stand,
To shed not our Coils,
Upon the Sand.

And should we fall,
We best fall well,
Lest they forget,
Just how we fell.

We are those left,
The resolute few,
We who are about to die,
Salute you!

Oddly Specific Advice for Life a Small Strange Man Once Gave Me as I Clamoured Through the Woods on a Rather Cold Day

2011-10-19T04:34:00.000-07:00

Walking through the woods one day I found myself short of breath,
My knees were weak, my back did creak and I was freezing half to death,
To rest up and catch my breath I sat upon a great stone,
But in my haste I did not see that I was not all alone.
On this stone there was a small man, he lay there deep asleep,
In an attempt not to wake him, I tried to move without a peep.
But as I quietly tried my hardest to simply slip away,
He sprang awake from his rest and asked me what is the day.
I apologized for waking him, and stated today’s date,
He thanked me for my info, and asked me why I wait.
I told him I was resting, that my trek had made me tired,
He said life did the same to him so he sat here and expired.
I was confused by his words, they were cryptic to say the least,
He then listed everyone he’d ever seen, man, woman and beast.
Once my breath had returned I said farewell and was back on my way,
He stopped me for a moment and said he had more to say.
I listened to his parting words and continued on my walk,
Reflecting on this strange little man and our strange little talk.
Back at the cabin I enjoyed a fire, and let it warm my soul,
I brewed some tea, sat by the stove and slowly stirred the coal.
As the coal stirred, my thoughts did too on what had passed,
I remembered the specific words of what he said unto me last.
To this day I do not know if he was merely drunk or wise,
But I’ll never forget the words he spoke as I looked into his eyes,
“Do not live your life in waiting, sitting on a stone,
But rather take a path and walk it, and make of it your own.”
Maybe he slept there specifically, to give advice like that,
But who could say he’d known the rock upon which I’d have sat.
Either way the words matter, but not for how and when they were said,
They only matter how I choose to use them, when I replay them in my head.

2011-08-07T13:23:00.001-07:00

Little green men are on our streets,
If you see them you will go.
Then the red men, they step up,
And redirect the flow.

A Night of Self-Purgatory

2010-11-10T22:43:00.000-08:00

And in a time of joy and frivolity,

he turned his back on the festive mob.

Rather he yearned to be alone and free,

To sit and tend to his head's harsh throb.

Sequestered he sought to live that night,

A mind at ease and heart at rest.

Away from the group and their plight,

This solitude his one request.

Who could understand these feelings from him,

Normally one happy and loud was he,

But the night was long and his eyes were dim,

And on his own he had to be.

So he did retreat to a place they'd never look,

To lick his wounds and dwell in peace,

For rudeness his retreat would be mistook.

Hopefully these feelings would soon cease.

They could not understand his mood,

Or why he randomly felt down,

Just offer him drink, song and food,

So he wandered off, alone with a frown.

These people so well he could understand and read,

Yet never to them he could relate,

For it was the nature of his breed,

And therein was sealed his fate.

To know them inside out with but a gaze,

And detect in them emotions so fine.

But this gift does not work both ways,

The misunderstood life of a canine.

A Curmudgen and His Latch

2010-11-09T01:53:00.000-08:00

Prologue:

On number five of Marpole drive,
Old Rob McGudgen did reside,
In his home he did thrive,
A curmudgeon of great pride.
An aged carpenter extraordinare,
With crooked back and greying hair,
Nothing short of perfection he could abide.

But no tale is complete,
Without a challenge to meet,
A foe he had most foul,
That upon him grew a scowl.
And this is that very story,
Of how he met his match,
In a battle for firth and glory,
Against the gate with the creaky latch.
So now begins our tragic tale,
Of an old man who was sure to fail.

Part the First: A Creek at the Cul-de-Sac

Marpole drive was a sleepy little neighbourhood that seemed to be perpetually trapped in autumn. It was a quiet little drive, majority of it's traffic was orange sun-kissed leaves dancing down the street on a gentle breeze.
The Realtor's listing for homes along the drive read as default "an introverts paradise: quiet, serene, and impossibly cozy. "

Of all the quaint little homes one could argue that number five was by far the quaintest and most secluded. It sat on the end of the drive by the cul-de-sac. There was a sharp embankment on the lot, so it was elevated above the other homes. But it didn't stand out due to its natural camouflage; an army of stoic old oak trees surrounding the lot and obscuring the home from the street below. Down on the cul-de-sac, sitting between the cozy drive, and the enchanting home hidden in the trees, was a large mahogany gate with a mailbox designed as a miniature log cabin. The gate was the border between a small serene community and and even more secluded world belonging to one solitary man. All one could see behind the gate was a well crafted and beautifully up kept elevated walkway, weaving its way through the trees and up to the house above. A veritable stairway to heaven, hand cut and placed, and polished to perfection leading it's way to the hidden home.

The mailman would always swear the he caught glimpses of a footbridge traversing a small creek further up, all overlooked by a majestically fabricated gazebo. These rumors were of course unconfirmed as nary a guest had set foot beyond the gate. Perhaps the neighbours doubted the existence of such a creek out a jealousy as well, for surely it would be unfair for a brook to flow exclusively through only one of the homes at the end of the cul-de-sac. So often the mailman and his chatter of hearing the cool waters running through the yard were dismissed due to resentment. Only a group of secluded retirees could covert a creek.

Part the Second: A Curmudgeonly Craftsman

This secret suburban Eden was the dwelling of one man, Rob McGudgen. He was an old carpenter who had spent years crafting everything a man could construct from wood, be it a shed, a barn, a table, or a chair. But he specialized, as many tradesmen do in one specific sort of fabrication. For him, the pride and joy of his work was the creation of decks, verandas, patios, and porches. And if one was smart they would never let Rob catch them calling these the same thing, for he could lecture for hours the obvious and complex differences between these forms of platformed house-huggers. He took pride in his work, as would anyone who thrived at a single trade for six decades. And who can judge the career path of a man who shares his occupation with Jesus Christ? This was the mentality of the Octogenarian master craftsman.

Aside from what he did, few around knew a thing about the mysterious old man. He had lived at number five marpole drive for forty six years, and since the passing of his wife he refused to move out...and quite frankly refused to step foot out of his home.

However curmudgeonly he may have been, he was no crank. Granted he enjoyed his seclusion and solitude, as did most on the drive, but he just felt no reason to go out and meet people. Why would he? All he had ever known and loved resided on the inside of the gate st the base of the culdesac. Sure he was lonely, but his loneliness was outweighed by his love of his trade, and his appreciation of peace and quiet...something that Marpole drive was not in short supply of.

The only time he would venture beyond the boundary of the mahogany gate would be to retrieve his mail, and his delivered grocer goods. All these items he would procure not three feet beyond his sanctuary, from the quaint log cabin mailbox. Some say at night they could hear him sawing and sanding away, working on his walkways or repairing his gazebo. But these rumors, much like the tales from the mailman were lacking in proof and verification, no matter how intriguing and likely they sounded.

Glimpses of him gathering mail described him in brief simplicity: He stood slightly crooked from a lifetime of hard work, and sported a wild tuft of grey and silver hair. Only one thing was certain, for a man of Eighty Three, he was very shrouded in mystery, and surely quite agile; for he seemed more elusive than Bigfoot.

Part the Third: A Lecherous Latch on a Gorgeous Gate

One morning while quickly slipping out to retrieve the contents of his cabin on a post, Rob was confronted by the most heinous of noises. A creak. A creak so eerie and shrill it sent a shiver down his spine and a furrow up his brow. On his attempt to open the mahogany gate he was greeted by such a sound. And it wasn't alone, the noise was accompanied by a sad groaning attempt for the gate to open. It seemed that the hinge and latch were on there last legs, and very near a melancholy demise.

Not one to stand for anything short of excellence in his trade, Rob vowed to momentarily amend this issue. He turned with an unnatural spryness for a man so old and crooked, and scurried his way back up the winding path towards his hidden home. He left in such a hurry, with his mind so focused on repairing the gate, that he left the newly delivered bottle of fresh milk near the log cabin receptacle, where it was sure to sour.

Moments later he re-emerged triumphant from his home brandishing a box of tools, and sporting ratty old pads on his knees. He knelt beside the gate still as night, unflinching. Just remaining there studying the problem, the old clock like gears in his mind hidden under the tuft of wild grey hair (not unlike the way the house was hidden by trees) turned away. He stayed there for minutes, long enough for one to mistake him for a piece sculpted by Rodin himself. Then without warning, he sprung from his assessment to life. Pulling tools and supplies from his box with a fervor of determination. He grabbed an old lugnut and an old bolt and began to size them up for the gate. He worked with the experience of a man his age, but the vitality of a lad a quarter so. He truly was in his element. Things were going well.

Half way through removing the old latch he hit his insurmountable roadblock. his old Phillips head screwdriver snapped, its head lodging firmly within the grooved bolt with which it had been jousting. With the true nature of an old curmudgeon he muttered a curseword from generations long lost at his misfortune. He equipped himself with the hammer, and careful to not bash the mahogany his wife so admired, began to thump some sense into the bolt. However, it did not break free, and moreover it got worse. Trying to keep his cool he attemped to pry the whole thing off, risking slight marks to the finish of the wood. But alas, in the cool seemingly ever-autumn air it would not budge.

Once again be turned to scurry back towards the house, determined to repair his stubborn yet stunning gate latch. For he was atleast twice as stubborn as an creaky latch could be. Unfortunately, his heart wasn't as stubborn as he, and halfway up the path it decided to stop beating. Rob McGudgen fell flat from a massive heart attack on the beautiful woodwork of his pathway. His eyes struggling to stay open as hee peered at the glorious view of his gazeebo by the creek. Blinking to focus at the beautiful birdbath surrounded by roses at the foot of the creek; a serene detail the snoopy mailman could never have imagined. But luckily for Rob, his new neighbour was twice as snoopy as any mailman could ever have been.

Mrs. Gladys Fullbrood had just purchased a home on the gorgeous selling point that her Realtor had described it as "An introverts paradise: quiet, serene, and impossibly cozy" and that morning she had been drawn from watering her lilacs by the curious sound of Rob thumping away at the latch. Knowing only what she had heard from the gossiping mailman since moving in a week prior, and being curious as many old ladies who own cats are, she wandered over. Peering over the lovely mahogany gate she spotted Rob, looking more cozy than curmudgeonly as he lay on his walkway. She lingered for a moment to attempt to spot the gazebo and creek the mailman had mentioned, but being to petite it eluded her spectrum of vision. She promptly turned and moseyed off to call for help.

Later on the paramedics would say that they had little hope of getting to Rob in time, for his gate was simply too formidably constructed, and the latch was sealed shut tighter than a jar of gerkins. By the time they had smashed the gorgeous mahogany to splinters to get to him, he was seconds away from death. A double edged sword of being with the woman he loved, but being away from the home he had built for her. There was but one saving grace for old Rob McGudgen, his master craftsmanship and constant constructional vigilance. The paramedics were quoted as saying that the footpath beyond the gate was so well kept and smooth and level that it took them mere moments to rush a stretcher up there, load Rob and rush him back down. Proving that as stubborn as that latch had been, he had at least proved more stubborn by outliving it.

His gorgeous gate one innocent casualty of his struggle with the latch. But he vows that as soon as he gets out of the hospital, Rob sill construct a new gate in memory of his wife, one that simply swivels on a peg with no latch. Making it less likely to betray him, and easier for guest to come over. His home to be a welcome haven for visiting neighbours, with a very warm and inviting gate out front.

Fin

Epilogue:

Now the story is finally told,
Of a carpenter crooked and old,
Who by a latch was tested,
His old heart heart bested,
But he proved strong in the end,
And his heart opened wide,
Now he's made a new friend,
And letting others inside.
They'll view his lovely place,
Beautifully crafted and great,
A mysterious tree-shrouded space,
Just beyond a mahogany gate.

A neighbour's snoopy ways kept him alive,
On number five of Marpole drive,

Bruce Banter

2010-04-02T20:13:00.001-07:00

We're casting pods left and right, check it out!
New Blog to come soon!

http://reactivesolutions.net/brucebanter/

Lyrical Justice

2009-12-23T10:36:00.000-08:00

For a scaley man-fish Kevin Costner sure drowns in a lot of movies.

I am excited for my voyage to Stockholm, since now laureates get awarded for precognitive measures, I will be receiving the Nobel prize for Chemistry, because I said I was going to cure cancer. Once posthumous awards were king, now replaced by the preposterous!

Robert Rodriguez needs to stop being the drunken uncle who promises to take you fishing for your birthday only to vanish for two years then show up in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner to yell at your whole family. Translation: MAKE A MOVIE! Your empty promises can't keep my eyeballs enthralled Uncle Robert Rodriguez! Stop having sleepovers at Quentin Tarantino's house and get some work done! Your Sin City cast is slowy starting to die off! You can't make sequels without a cast! And he's dropped other projects he was slated to direct onto other people's laps and is taking the backseat as a producer. For a guy who made Sin City in a month, he's sure taking his sweet time! It seems all he can get around to these days are projects catered for his kids. Don't get me wrong, I loved Sharkboy and Lavagirl, and Spykids is on Imdb's top 10 films of all time list...but Shorts? C'mon Rob! Please, grace us with your first epic project since Grindhouse, which was amazing! So I guess the odd sleepover and playdate with QT is great if that's one if the byproducts...but he's already gone on to gift us with his masterpiece since then! And we keep hearing promises of a Red Sonja film, but "Rose just isn't in the perfect shape yet" Maybe if she worked out at the gym instead of your bedroom! BRAH!

Brendan Fraser is always an outsider of bizarre circumstances who has to adjust to life in modern America. ie. Blast from the Past, George of the Jungle, Encino Man.

Editors Note: I have never seen The Adventures of Sharkboy and Lavagirl

2009-10-20T21:35:00.001-07:00

Every broken bone,
I only mend some
A futile defiance,
to the dust they all become.

2009-10-13T02:27:00.000-07:00

Today's the perfect day,
But it's the day I die.
At least I got it right,
On my one and final try.

Uncle Stranger

2009-09-14T20:05:00.000-07:00

The Afterparty

2009-04-27T02:25:00.001-07:00

When the last bell tolled on the hour of ten I swept myself in a hurried fashion from the study. It had become apparent that I was now alone, the party guests who’s arrivals hours ago I had anticipated with a scurried eagerness had now ebbed to a departure. My thoughts and breaths echoing alone together about the now empty manor walls. Beneath my footfalls the creak and cry of floorboards my sole escort about the lengthy dark halls. A lantern in hand flickering dim, spectacles on face squinting thin, I peered and paced the great hall in search of one last evening farewell. Alas, as a lonely hope faded to a grim dismay, there was no living flesh inside this vast citadel, beyond the aged groans of my own heart there was not an ounce of life. Beyond the beat beating a dull rhythm therein, just enough to move my blood, but not enough to move my soul. Tired and alone yet again in this giant catacomb of art and class. What purpose would my timid old heart have to patter away if I had not a person to hear it, if there was no other to share the beating of my heart with. I sighed a lonely groan and groaned a lonelier grunt. Would this truly be the last of my time with friends? It seemed years since I’d entertained the notion of entertaining guests. Had these past hours gone by on a calendar rather than a clock? The hour of ten came so swiftly fast that I felt it surly had twice surpassed the days and months since my guests had come and gone. Have I really been alone so long? Dash it! Think not of this quagmire of pain, my internal monologue piped resolute. Come, there is much you can do upon these grounds that’ll put some breath into those old lungs. “Nape”, I hissed aloud, instantly regretting the resonation of such an ugly sound. Lucky thing no guests were about, for such a lack of manners would surely offend, and ensure I’d be alone. But I was, so why dwell upon it. “No loss” said I and ascended the stairs. A good nights sleep will end this rut! And off I clamoured through the hallowed lonely halls, the residual ring of a festive evening fading from my old grey ears. “A Demain” I muttered. A garden needs attending, a fountain cleaned until the sun kisses it with reflective light. Yes, Shining that water bearing stone should surely shine my heart to a warmer hue. A demain it is, a day to behold the manner in the sun light, so that it may cast a better light upon my predicament. My emptiness inside a large empty home. Mind as well trade it for a tomb, at least therein I’d be comfortable interred. What a thought? Dare I let such mad wishes grab a hold of me? Not two hours past I had the most sensible notions about me. Shame, how time and space unfilled by one small man can take its maddening toll! Alas again, off to bed. And up the stairs I hopped hoping to awake for another day to recommence my lonely call. But only the night can decide should I again see day, and so in his hands I place my humble heart, and on his pillow rest my balding head. Shall bells first toll beckon my sunrise, or shall the boatman beckon my soul?

Life Unlived

2009-04-13T01:48:00.001-07:00

Had I but more time to live this life,
And more time to sing your praise.
Grow I closer to the morticians knife,
With my impending end of days.
I struggle to write and for my mind to be free,
Grasping at words I soon forget,
For instead I struggle with mortality,
My lifestyle Death's aide and abet.
Far too often I dwell in a macabre den,
Pierced by fears of the strange unknown,
My minds own makings of a cold prison,
These thoughts force man to live alone.
The brief sands of my time flowing fast away,
As I sit and cower in a frightened haze,
Passing swiftly each God given day,
Plotting escape from death's steely gaze.
Would I but take my eyes off his,
And live a life happy and free,
Then I'd dwell not on his business,
And need not live for eternity.
For a life can be big even if short in size,
After all, is brevity not the soul of wit?
So instead of fearing my demise,
I'll enjoy life by actually living it.

Cerebral Fallout

2009-04-07T12:04:00.000-07:00

Vin Diesel, or as the English call it, Diesel Wine
Has anyone else noticed that Crank is just Speed? I don't only mean the drugs, I also mean the films. If a bus slows down, it will blow up, that's Speed. Then Crank took the same basic premise but changed the bus into Jason Statham. If Jason Statham slows down, he will blow up.
In that theory, I could take Poseidon and switch a giant flipping over boat to a giant flipping over Kevin James. A movie about Kevin James rolling over in the tub and the fight for many to survive. That was mean. I'm sorry Kevin. It's not you, it's just Paul Blart. I saw the trailer, and it hurt me. It stinks. It stinks like genocide.
Let's remake Apollo 13, but instead of a journey to the moon, it can just be Tom Hanks running to the store when suddenly he turns into a man, A man who is Terminal with aids. And maybe write in a volcano.
I took Crank and Speed today
Apologies
-D.A.N.

He-Man's Intuition

2009-03-24T04:04:00.001-07:00

There is once again sun in Vancouver. A rarity of late, which probably explains all of the vampire related film and tv that shoots here, and not to mention the 3 vampires I killed in the park last night. All the fog we’ve been having only adds to the business of my park killings. Nothing eats up time like having to punch a spikey, tentacled kraken like beast to death and yelling at Marcia Gaye Harden to chill the hell out while attempting to navigate the thick air descending down from the mountains near the old military base. Just saying it get’s hard to socialize enjoy one’s evenings when it’s spent running around cleaning up after a city. But at least it is satisfying knowing you’re doing some good…unless you’re the Spirit, in which case you suck!

Speaking of sucking and vampires and the basic way those two words go together, Eli from Let the Right One in needs people to cut her some slack. It’s not easy always needing to quench one’s eternal thirst for blood. I know this problem well..not blood, but I hunger. The cheetahs are never satiated. The cheetahs always crave more. Curse my metabolism! The swift sound of racing mammals, roaring back and forth across the grasslands. The clang of robotic arms. These are things I have long suffered.

End Transmission

A hearty slice of word pie

2009-03-15T11:32:00.000-07:00

Grappling hooks should still be commonly employed...just saying
My favourite part about pretending to be a writer is the savage lack of consistency. Writing is like riding a bike, except instead of getting pushed by my mother across a soccer field so I can learn to be either a pedestrian or motorist and cut both off at an intersection I sit down and slap black plastic cubes with my fingers to build word temples to the Gods. And wearing a helmet while writing is really tooly. Basically I think that whole loose analogy was meant to say a few statements:
1.Writing is easy to get back into
2.Most cyclists are pricks
3.My Mother is amazing at teaching people to ride a bike
Things like this.
Essentially I beat myself up, (physically hence having to wear a helmet while I type) every time I neglect writing. Since it’s something I love and it’s not as if I get worse at it by practicing…unless I’m Thomas Harris…please sir, leave Hannibal to what dignity a brilliant cannibal man can retain. NO MORE REINVENTING MASTURBATORY PREQUELS ABOUT HIS YOUTH! That anger tirade is a few years late…but I think Hannibal Rising needs to be ridiculed as often as possible.
My point is, I love writing and I’m a foolish knave every time I stray from it. I truly do love to write. Yet I haven’t had a formatted or pre-planned blog in several generations of coon’s ages. Basically everything I do spew here is impromptu free writing. Which is fine and dandy too, but much like a problem child a writer needs some structure from time to time, or those attention seeking outbursts become sadistic cries for help that end in cleansing fire, fearful shrieks, spattered blood, and a novel that ignores beautiful pre-established back-story in a shameful attempt to shake more pennies out of an iconic character.

I do find time to write structured things and delve into different creative styles and formats, hence my poetry, and screenplays, and short stories. But those too find they are my red-headed stepchild far too often. And I haven’t posted a short or poem in a vast amount of many moons. My point is, regular intervals of writing are needed. And that’s what this is. An attempt to satiate my desire to unleash verbal (technically literary) fury upon you all in my never ceasing quest to build scripted monuments worthy of writings forefathers and deities. So since I am no longer a full time student of the dramatic arts program, I will attempt to throw a blog up much more often. (I’d promise the frequency of said posting…but then you’d be disappointed like a timid athletically challenged child peering into the stands in vain for dad during his little league game. He’s at home drunk! Point being I wouldn’t deliver my promised quota. I’m like a politician that way) rhetoric aside, I will increase productivity. And I’ll also be doing A&E live by request short stories for those interested in throwing out a premise and seeing how masterfully I can butcher it!
Any one else worried about all the bizarre allusions to traumatic childhoods in this post?

Breakfast of Champions

2009-02-06T02:33:00.000-08:00

New and Improved Honeycomb Cereal

Now with a thousand Angry Bees in every Box!

Here - We - Go

2009-02-04T23:49:00.000-08:00

Being a regular eye visitor (reader) of my fanatical mind refuse (blog) is a true testament to one’s character and patience. Since it seems I have the consistency of two bipolar drunks on a teeter-totter. There are solutions to my absences of writing: A) Don’t wait until I have the perfect blog mind mapped out before I write it (or at least take notes so I don’t forget parts of it and give up) B) Stop being a procrastinating and lazy bitchpunk C) Put a .38 in my mouth and take the cowards way out. C sounds good. It requires the least amount of work, yet the most amount of regret…but being a procrastinator that’s regret I won’t feel for a really long time. Plus fingers crossed there’ll be a phoenix down out there with my name on it.

One paragraph in and already a self administered one man suicide pact? Macabre, I like it. Morose perhaps as well, and Morbid…just pick an M-word, they all work. Gotta love it. Since I’m on the topic of such things, I figure I mind as well stick to it to make up for how literarily attention-defocit and word-tourettes my last post was.
So death? It’s around the corner eh? Shame we can’t all have the longevity of a Hugh Jackman character. So, how are ways you can leave a legacy behind…aside from the obvious like naming your son Jr. or genocide. Well, let me enlighten you to a few ways it can be done.

Firstly, build something, building something is always cool, but risky. You can’t just keep building lots of things, because then you’re just an architect, a common civil servant. No, you need to build one thing, and make it massive and awesome, and unpredictable. Like when Emperor Constantine crafted his mighty ice palace. That’s a big one. And now he’s in all the texts. And you also have to try and not just build something…or you’ll be the guy who built that one thing…you need to also do other manly feats of epicness. But the cool part of building stuff is that years later you’ll watch a film maker pretend to blow it up for his movie, and if you built something epic enough, well then instead it will surely blow him up!

Invent a cool phrase or exclamation that sweeps continents. For example, if something really cool and badass happens, that has a nostalgic and semi comic feel to it, would you rather say all that to explain it? Or just say “That’s so swashbuckle!”

Defeat an animal with a propensity for rage twice your girth in single combat. If it’s mythological it’s even better on you.

Lead an expedition to an awesome uncharted land. (we’re running out of those) This can also tie in to the animal fight. For example, I have the goal to hunt the world’s largest marsupial. Or the whole Bearshark legend. (A time I bested a frightening monstrosity. I know it sounds unbelievable, but I’m bonafide)

Come back to life after dying. That’s the hardest one to do

Be an angry recluse who teachers an inner city black kid to write/escapes from Alcatraz/train immortal swordsmen/bends around lasers with Catherine Zeta-Jones…Douglas. Basically any Connery Role and you’re good

Blow up a small planet

Punch a whale

Buy a whip and use it often

Found an entire culture that is set to living in a different time period. Always fun. Starting up a secluded village that thinks it’s the renaissance. A good way to practice is if you have kids, just convince them there has been an apocalypse and they live in a tragic “Islandesque” future, minus the Michael Bay explosions. This is also a good way to become reknowned with Child services.

Cure or invent a major disease. Either works really, just pick one. flip a coin. Go

Fight a natural disaster. Sounds stupid, but wouldn’t you love to be known as the guy who roundhouse kicked an avalanche? Or the lady who went all Pecos Bill on a tornado so bad that Helen Hunt crapped her pants?

Leave behind creepy audio tapes or old videos of you giving people clues to stuff. It’s eerie and a great sub plot

These are a few of the really cool ways to leave a legacy behind you, and become the stuff of legends. Other ways are in your death itself. Going in your sleep is hardly a way to be remembered. Some think taking out as many people with you as possible is a good way to, but I politely think that is the dumbest idea a moron could possibly have…yes, polite. Why is that? Well, because you have to share the memory of the death with all the others lost. What you want is a stand alone venue, like staying behind to blow up an asteroid so that many others may live…except not that, because you’ll be angrily remembered by all those who know that you let Ben Affleck live instead, especially so if the god of short straws decided it was his time for self sacrifice. (note to self, 2 Michael Bay references in one post are 3 too many) If you add the resurrection legacy points to any of these deaths, then not only have you achieved a double whammy, but you get to live to fight to die again another day. (sounds like a kinky James Bond movie) And try to avoid something that’ll get you a Darwin award. Instead you’d want a death that would be soo cool that Darwin himself would have to give you an award of “BADASS” when you meet him in science heaven. Here are some “guuuoooohd deeatths”

Backflip a dirtbike into a volcano

Fight a bear. Maybe even joust a bear? Joust a bear on a bike? Joust a bear wearing armour while you ride a bike? Basically any sort of bear-combat related death. Preferably a firebear…it’s a win-win situation, if you best the beast then you attained one of the other legacy points.

Drawn and quartered by horses

Crash a submarine full of dynamite into a fifth story building

Climb inside a lion. Literally, force yourself inside the animal with out being technically eaten. I’m sure you’ll both eventually die.

Collide into the moon with some sort of single manned spacecraft. Make it a highly televised event as well. Man vs. the moon? I don’t know, I’m not a spin doctor

These are some of the many ways you can gain some awesome legacy points as you cease to live.

Congratulations, you are well on your way to becoming legendary. Gain enough legacy points and you can even get into some really awesome exclusive clubs. Most have a scarf check that is completely different from their coat check, just because they can. Now that is awesome and exclusive.

The elusive and often volatile firebear

Marching Orders

2008-12-18T01:32:00.001-08:00

Orders have come down the pipe. A new post. Well, popular demand (one comment) has overwhelmed me. So now here I sit composing away, a single coal behind me not quite feeding, but rather teasing the appetite of the small fire gently flickering away, creating the warmth and light I use to unleash this post.

Change, it's important, ask a tadpole, ask a busker. There are many types of change, some are good, some are bad, either way they're less boring. Change puts a plot in life, change stops things from being too stagnant, unless that change is of a pool going from fresh to stagnant water. But now I'm just arguing semantics with myself. Basically my point is that instead of thinking up a post with any creative forethought I just decided to free write about the first word I heard said. That word was change. A word I hear a lot lately, in fact it was the six letters that elected a president. I just wonder if that word is more than just six letters to him and perhaps means a great deal. And if so will it all be good change or bad change? Bit of a mix? Neutral thought. Just throwing it out there. Throwing, like a deadbeat father who decides a game of catch consists of 3 full force back and forths, 9 swear words, and 1 rage blackout that ends with an overturned bbq, broken padio set and 6 dollars exchanged to make up for the 4 month gap since you two last played. See that, that's the math of family, add it up and Jim Carrey will probably knife a hooker.

I want to play a game. I'll start out and we'll see how many of you follow me all the way to the end. See what happens. Let's make it a Christmas game, seeing as how that badboy is just a calendar's leap away.

Christmas is near, you all know my thoughts on that. I love it, minus these sins <http://dayman.blogspot.com/2007/12/holiday-cheer-indeed.html> As far as times of the year goes, it's top notch. The family, the friends, snowman Michael Keaton, sledding until you freeze to death like casper. Good stuff the lot. So while sitting in my room and reading "The Mechanics of Chewing" by Braugdenhurd Klaust, I tried to think of a better way to make this Christmas more special and unique than the last. Themed Christmas perhaps? Nothing says happy holidays more than a pirate with eggnog, or perhaps a palm tree decorated with ankhs as you unwrap your sarcophagus full of presents, and scarabs (they always find a way in) left for you by the jackal headed Anubis Santa. Perhaps. Nothing says good times for children more than sneaking a peek to find an anthropomorphic man-wolf pouncing down your chimney brandishing sickles to eat cookies and milk. Don't scream, you'll wake the dead...or join them Anubis Santa is unpredictable like that.
Okay, so that's a big no for themed Christmas. This year I'll just stick with seeing what would happen if I was never born. That way I can run around town and violently shake people and ask them if they know me. Carolling for badasses.
Presents are also fun. I like to make mine. That way there's not only the effort involved, but the personalization...and being a starving and poor artist it doesn't hurt to spend less money gathering the elements necessary to craft a gift rather than just buying Ev the complete Grace Under Fire dvd collection. I like receiving home made trinkets. Beats anything money can buy. Except a timephone. Nothing beats punking the past with that thing, or giving Ramses some sage advice to go easy on the Hebrews. Egypt Again? Tell you what, you start your own blog and ramble aimlessly on it, then you can pick what ancient culture you refer to. Timephones make talking history fun! Think of all the time and effort you could save Moses by just going "yo, Ramses, chill out man. something tells me this just won't end well, yeah, yeah. Uh-huh. Yeah, just, you know, don't do it. Yeah, I know it's easier, yeah...listen, I understand constructing a pyramid is hard...yeah I know, I saw the dvd...yeah, it was Omar Sharif. Yeah, a real wizard at bridge. So yeah, you just cool out on that and tell Hugh Jackman I say hi. Yeah. Okay, gotta go, T Boone Pickens walked in...just joking. No Ramses, don't tip the owner of the salon. Later Gator...worshiper. sorry. bye" That was easy. Sure saved Moses trouble. Who wants to turn their walking stick into a serpent. Yeah that's cool and all, snakes are pretty scary. Showed them, thanks God, now I'll just wander through the desert for 40 years without my walking stick. Good one. That'll be real good for my old Heston hips.
Still with me?

More movie posters on the way

Movie Posters #1

2008-11-23T21:02:00.000-08:00

What happens when you combine an almost half funny joke with a half-assed effort of photoshopping?

Pleased to meet you

2008-11-18T03:17:00.000-08:00

This introductory title doesn't just apply to anyone out there reading this, It applies to me as well. I am truly getting to meet myself and know myself as of today, And I am starting to like myself. How did I meet myself? It all started when I was stuck by a bolt of lightning, and unlike most of the lightening in my life it didn't come from mighty Zeus, it came from God. For those of you who didn't know I'm a Christian. Not always a very good one, but we all make due and try our best, at least that's what I told myself, but tragically it was untrue, I really was falling short, not just by the standards of others, but even by my own. I've been a Christian of convenience, or a closet Christian for years now, only truly expressing the way I feel in certain crowds or when it was beneficial, why you may ask? Well, I don't truly know, maybe the reason is one of the following paltry excuses: I was ashamed by my faith? I didn't want to push my beliefs on others? I truly didn't understand what it meant to fully and truly believe what I do? Who knows all these reasons are pathetic and inexcusable.

Being ashamed of or embarrassed by my faith is a ridiculous notion, the whole point of beliefs is that it's something you believe...that's probably why the two words share the common letters "b-e-l-i-e" Something you truly feel and trust, something that you know to a certainty and do not compromise no matter what because it is a line in sand, it is what guides you, you know it to be true, thus works belief...there are those letters again.

All you reading this, I don't know if you believe in God or not, if you do that's great, hopefully for all the right reasons, if you don't, that's your choice too, and I'm not going to force you or try and convince you to believe in him during this post, I'm just going to tell you a few facts I know about me and so on, and hopefully whether or not you agree with anything I write here tonight, you will still hear me out and respect my opinion just as I respect yours, and should since we are all entitled to our own opinions and beliefs. Worst case scenario for you reading this, is you find what I say so outlandish that you get a good laugh out of it, in which case I finally have managed to write a post that is truly funny (well, for you anyway.)

Here's the scoop, God isn't cool in this day and age. There I said it. I don't feel this way myself. I think God is plenty cool, I just notice a heavy movement to a more progressive viewpoint of the world, one in which people find something such as believing in God silly. You may agree, you may not. That's up to you. But I notice that things that aren’t justified or proven in our magical world of science are sometimes seen as silly. After all, isn’t religion just an argument to science?

Well, take this from me, someone who loves science, and believes...yes that B word again, heavily in science (although my report cards didn’t always reinforce that fact.) If you don't believe I believe greatly in science, then I just dare you to challenge my knowledge about Dinosaurs! Childhood passion segways aside, I think Science and God can both exist in our world. They have their own places, and in my opinion, any matter or instance where someone pits them against each other is just plain silly. Because clearly Science and God are not two rivaling theories. But yes, I feel that it’s unhip to like God to many people, especially youths. But you know what? If I can’t proudly declare my faith than it’s a pretty piss poor faith. And I don’t just mean when it comes to theology, clearly you must agree that anything you believe isn’t worth believing in if you can’t say it out loud, or especially to yourself when alone. So yeah, I love God, and am thankful for everything he’s done for me, because if you read my last post (likewise a realistic departure from my usual bizarre ramblings) I have a wonderful family. I have a wonderful life. I have it just plain wonderful.

And I will tell you right now, this lightening that hit me, well, it filled me with light and hope. I am extremely happy. In fact, before I decided to brutally murder precious hours meant for sleep writing this, I spent a good 20 minutes crying, tears of joy. And I am notoriously ridiculously macho. So, so very manly. And to be honest, I don’t think there is any salt left in my body now. Anyway, masculine ego stroking, asides aside, (alliterations are fun!) I haven’t been happier than I am right now, because frankly I’m looking at a very big picture, and I’m looking at it from another perspective, one that is detached from myself so I have the luxury to see myself in the picture. I’m holding the camera, so I know my place in it, and I can see what I look like and ensure that when the photo is taken I don’t have a goofy grin on my face. (My apologies to any English majors, avid readers, or just right minded people who just endured me changing a bigger picture statement into some weird photoshoot metaphor...but apology aside, I’m sticking with the imagery...And yes, I’m aware that “imagery” also suggests more photos and pictures.) But yes, unlike a frightening myspace profile picture I’m not holding the camera above my head on a downward and blatantly unflattering angle (to all who have this picture...IT IS unflattering, and that’s not just something I believe, I’m pretty sure it’s a well established fact) I’m also not holding the camera to a mirror, which is also a stupid stupid picture. And both of these shots are made worse by the “pretend I don’t know the camera is there” trick. I am outside myself snapping this photo so that I can see myself posing along with the rest of the posers, and we’re all posing, because we are just big old posing posers. Pose.

Anyway, this camera rant actually at one point had a purpose, and that was to explain that I got a good look at myself and at my life. My life, and my Faith.

My faith, it isn’t something that I should enjoy in secret. It’s not delicious cookies that I’m eating and don’t want anyone else to know I’m hiding a box of, for fear that my dragon hoarded pile will be greatly reduced with the introduction of other cookie consumers. That’s just stupid, cookies are meant to be shared, or at least offered, you don’t force someone to eat a cookie if they don’t want it or don’t like cookies...although who doesn’t like cookies? Well, maybe they don’t want the carbs, or perhaps the cookies contain raisins, which I’ve been lead to believe some people don’t like, or maybe this person can’t eat gluten (Braleigh’s maladies amuse me, because deep down, I’m just a bad person) Point is, you don’t force cookies down someone’s throat, if ever I discovered a cookie I didn’t like, I wouldn’t want it forced on me, and that’s for sure. Not everyone is a fan of all cookie types, and some people prefer brownies to cookies. Now I’m not even talking about anything besides baking. But can you blame me? I mean baking is so delicious, unless of course you can’t stomach gluten, in which case I feel bad for you...unless you are my sister, then I’m sadistically amused. And for those diabetics out there, pretend these cookies and brownies are sugar-free, that way you can be included in my tasty example about faith. At least I think it was about faith. Yes faith, I’ll come back to cookies later, in fact, I expect people to comment on this, or e-mail me with a delicious recipe for cookies! But back to the topic at hand. Faith isn’t a secret cookie stash (I love cookies) and it isn’t some society I should practice in secrecy that has a handshake and cool robes, nifty rings, benefits and crap like that, or fight’s in the basement of bars, or is ruled over by Luke Wilson and his posse, or insert other film reference. Or cookies, it isn’t some kind of secret cookie society. Have I made myself clear about cookies yet?

The point is, faith is something I should be comfortable mentioning in any company or it truly isn’t there or working for me. That’s the point of beliefs and faith, you needn’t fear persecution or death...or today’s equivalent which is much less dangerous but much more embarrassing: ridicule and/or disagreement. Two frightening words for any high school student who wants to fit in with Emilio Estevez and the other popular jocks. Faith and beliefs are something you wear out loud and proud no matter what, that’s the point. And I’m sure you already knew this and I apologize for beating a dead cookie(?) senseless, but it’s a fact that I’ll admit I’m just truly understanding for myself right now at this moment.

I don’t care what kind of cookie flavor you eat, it might not be the same as mine, but guess what, you’re entitled to your cookies and I am to mine, so let’s just eat them and enjoy. Hopefully we'll be able to discuss what we like about our respective cookies or even eachothers cookies, and perhaps the ingredients they share, or the special touches that separate them and add oh so much flavor. Like cinnamon perhaps. And if you don’t like cookies, good for you, you don’t have to. Maybe you like brownies...brownies mean science. And if you don’t like brownies, hey that’s cool too. I happen to love cookies and brownies, why? Because I’m aloud, I feel the two delicious treats compliment each other. They also share some common ingredients. And whether or not you agree will not effect how much I love eating them together and washing them down with a cool and refreshing glass of milk. Okay, I’m sure you were following me up until there, you got that cookies are religions, theologies, philosophies and such and brownies are like sciences, and ingredients are beliefs and practices that fall into your specific flavor. Check! You followed that, and I compliment you for it considering I opened this painfully long metaphor by saying faith isn’t a pile of cookies to be hoarded, then went on to weave an intricate illusion of faith being cookies. But I’m sure I lost you at milk. Well, it’s not your fault, because honestly milk was me just thinking about regular old cookies again, rather than faith and such. So we’ll just quickly damage control by stating that milk is the great “je ne sais quoi’s” of life. The unknowns that factor into everything.

So where are we so far? Pictures and cookies? Right, so basically this post can be summarized as me doing luscious promo photography for a bakery, but I digress. I am proud of my faith. I am a Christian. I believe in God, I love him, and I believe Jesus died for my sins...and guess what, I believe he died for your sins too, whether or not you agree with me and believe in him..Tough luck, I’m aloud to believe that, just like how you are aloud to believe what you believe and there is nothing I can do about that. Isn’t the freedom of believing what we choose to and come to feel ourselves great? No one’s the boss of what we can feel. You can even live as a slave and you can be told what you can and can’t do, can and can’t say, sometimes even can and can’t think...but what you can and can’t believe? Well, that’s up to you to choose yourself, everyone else be damned. And I truly, truly understood all this out loud for the first time when that cookie-lightening hit me. And this is just a tiny notion of the many things I felt and when I had this great revelation, because tonight I had a great experience, a reaffirmation of my faith, and not just my religious beliefs, but I deep deep strengthening of my overall morals as a human being. I only hope that I can continue to live every day of my life with the amazing joy and clarity I am feeling right now, a lot of which would take too long to describe, suffice to say that within these past few hours I have had the greatest, most touching and moving moments of my entire life. I feel closer to God right now then ever, also importantly, I feel truly like a better and happier person.

So to everyone who made it from that introductory title to here, thanks. And to those of you who don’t believe in God, and find the notion silly or dumb, then I thank you twice as much for listening to what I believe even when you didn’t share my opinions and feeling. And like I said, maybe you got something out of this, whether it be belief, a better understanding of beliefs, a good laugh either with me, or at my beliefs, or a craving for cookies and brownies, That’s cool.

If you got nothing..well come on, everyone at least got that craving, even Braleigh, and she can’t eat either of those things. Hahaha, Braleigh. Hilarious! I hope you feel free to share this post with anyone and everyone you so believe you can share it with. Pass the plate around my friends.

And to those of you who miss my old bizarre ramblings? Fear not, they’ll be back, and to prove it, I’ll interrupt a mostly socially acceptable entry to tell you my favorite terrible and thankfully fake tv series starring Charlie Sheen: “2 1/2 Men, 1 Cup”

Now send me cookie recipies!

Thanks

2008-10-13T02:04:00.000-07:00

Now that ThankJackman day is over, and Thanksgiving Monday is here, I shall cast aside my quips and as an aside, I shall address those who give me so much to be thankful for.

For starters my parents. They are both wonderful people, and I wish more often I would convey how much I love and apreciate them. They do a lot for me, much more than I rightly deserve. They're two of the best people I know and I couldn't be prouder of them. They're a source of joy, faith and guidance.

My Grandfather. He's such a brave and honorable man. I draw a lot of inspiration from him, when I think of all he's done, and all he's said to me, I truly couldn't model my ideal moral compass off a better man.

My Eveleigh. She's great. I give her a harder time than I should. It may be my job as a brother to razz her now and then, but it's also my job to look out for her. I need to work on that better. She's hilarious aswell. She's the person I can run something by to find out if I truly like it. She's very grounded and much more generous than she may realize she is. Also she's very tall. look into it.

Braleigh. She's by no means my Braleigh. Brales is her own free entity of a sibling. Not so much my sister as I am her brother. I don't know what I mean by that. I guess I mean there are times I slight her that will always haunt me despite how trivial they may seem. She's the reason I do the things I love. Acting. Writing. It's because of her. She has an amazing talent that pushes me to try my best.

Basically my family is a great family. And I neglect saying this. Whether on this blog, or to them, or even in my head. They are all great moral support, and wonderful people. I am very thankful for them, and I always will be.

Sorry to any readers that were expecting a fun rant about something ridiculous or whatever it is I do best here, but these things needed to be expressed. I needed to say out loud what I keep all too quiet. How lucky I am and how thankful I am for everthing I have and have been blessed with in my life. All the more evidence that God loves me, because let's face it, I have it very good, and I'd like to think you do it. If not, then I wish you the best. Thankyou for whoever you are and how you equate into my life, one way or another I'm sure you have. I wish I could thank you all, but you're so many.

Thanks

Satirical Ropeladder

2008-10-04T12:37:00.000-07:00

My favorite dessert is self-indulgence!

I will attempt to avoid uptyping during this following post since I’m somewhat opposed to Tony Alcantar putting the barrel of a Colt 1911 in my mouth and telling me to die like I want to live, so there will be no Andy Rooney styled sentences that end on a note so high dogs and Michael J. Fox (and sometimes Jason Bateman) will recoil from the shrill whistle it causes.

Has anyone ever noticed how the most dangerous people in Vancouver are usually armed with buses? I guess a surefire way to prevent someone from stabbing a lot of people is to employ them in public transit. That way they’ll mostly just run people over, only stabbing those who politely enquire how close to Helmcken the bus route is. All things aside, there are several great bus drivers around I’m sure, I myself have met a few who were delightful people, and if anything should have stabbed me for not being nearly as cool or nice as they are, but they were so nice in fact that they spared me a justifiable shanking. I have also crossed a few that were terrible though. Like the token corrupt cop in a bad movie (Softcore for example? ZING!) They’re just...they’re just all kinds of evil. And bus drivers drive their buses, driving like maniacs. Bus drive drive bus bus. The right of way always goes to the larger animal, or in this case, automobile, which in this case, is a bus. And you can’t get mad at public transit for cutting you off because the vehicle is full of bystanders. And you feel safe on the bus (I’m leaving that one alone!) because if you hit stuff you’ll probably just bump into other bus patrons like Night at the Roxbury clubbing. Unless you’re in that little fleshy divider on a b-line, what is that? A batwing? Felt? How is that going to withstand the impact of a hearty rain let along a t-bone for a sauced up Ted Kennedy? I am however frequently worried when I turn around while waiting to hop off at Broadway to see Keanu Reeves standing across from me, gazing intently while tightly gripping the hand rail. Let me tell you. Never a good sign. So in short, only ride on non blowuping buses that you won’t get stabbed on, and stay away from the veiny batflesh! Yes...blowuping is a word.

Jason Statham doesn’t leave fingerprints, he leaves explosions

epilogue: So in a fond farewell, rather than waving, I will just elevate my hand, and spit in it...you know who you are!

Uncommon Wealth

2008-10-01T20:18:00.000-07:00

It seems with financial woes inbound man must now adapt to a new way of life...I do not speak of elongating ones neck through Darwinian law to browse from the taller savanna trees or starve to death (although that is a nifty notion for anyone who has a real throat fetish) No, I simply speak of altering one's survival strategies in their day to day living. We must all change now, except the homeless, they will flourish in this time of uncertainty. And they've been waiting for it, believe you me. The year two double zero eight has given rise to a smarter and deadlier breed of vagrant. Used to quip after quip of "Oh sorry, I only have debit" or "do you take visa" being fired at their flanks in response to inquiries of spare change, they have now evolved. I have witnessed on several occasion a bum retort with neither word nor emotion, but the simple withdrawal of an interac machine from his petticoat. Swipe away you jester, swipe away! That’s right, now we must be wary of how we respond to the humble demand for pocket coin. Any clever jab and a transient will be chastising you for sliding your card the wrong way when paying from your savings or chequing account. And those who still dwell on monetary metal are more ruthless than ever, going to Warioesque lengths to acquire ones spare cash, in fact I had an encounter in a restaurant the other day, going to show that no venue is beyond their ken. As for the rest of society adapting? Well, I didn’t say I’d have any answers for the regular man, so put your hat in your hand or you’re hooped!

Projectile Passion

2008-09-17T20:39:00.000-07:00

How come passionately arguing couples in cinema always hurtle glass objects hap-harzardly at each other? It's either a drinking glass, bottle, vase, or some sort of crystalline missile meant to harm. But never truly harm, as the throws are intensely executed with gripping emotion, yet always graceful and lacking in direct aim or any form of striking intent in general. And always the individual on the receiving end of the throwing gently bobs and weaves ever so slightly out of the way, causing the object to shatter into a thousand shimmering shards on the mirror behind them. Perhaps there's just something riveting and sensational about the colliding forces of glass on glass that always prompts one to lob items towards an individual in front of a mirror. Such a beautiful gesture of anger. From now on I will always make sure to express my rage with a woman by launching my brandy snifter across the room, just shy of her head, so she needn't truly dodge it (but she will) and watch with eyes aflame as it erupts into a sea of fragmented glass on the bureau mirror behind her, then without word, I will turn and sweep out of the boudoir in a huff.
Exeunt

2008-09-13T12:02:00.000-07:00

School is glorious and Vancouver life in general. And for once I'm actually making headway on my projects. YIPPEEE!

But I hate coming home to my apartment to be greeted by Mark Wahlberg wearing bags on his feet!

Celebrity Contract Stipulations

2008-07-24T15:22:00.000-07:00

Phase 1 of many actors non-negotiable demands when getting roles in films

Rufus Sewell

-Rufus must play a shifty villain and/or cuckold in a period piece.

Fun fact: He doesn’t have eyes in real life; he merely focuses his acting energies to obtain those beauties

few survive staring contests with this man

Hugh Jackman

-His characters whether subtle or a heavy part of the plot must all have amazing longevity, having lived for hundreds if not thousands of years. Many speculate that these stipulations are so Jackman can achieve immortality through his roles. Perhaps his goal is to rival Anthony Hopkins throughout his never ending life.

Fun fact: if you pay close attention during the movie Scoop you’ll notice the most miniscule evidence that he’s an ancient Egyptian Pharaoh who has adapted to modern life.

encorporating his dance skills into Wolverine...who is probably the same man as Van Helsing

Keanu Reeves

-Keanu has to die and come back to life in at least half of his films or people will start dying in real life.

Fun fact: Keanu claims an ancient prophecy foretold that if these demands are not met it shall bring on a cataclysmic end to earth not unlike the one from the Matrix, or Devil’s Advocate or Constantine, or Day the Earth Stood Still, just to name a few of his apocalyptic robot/devil/demon/alien films…This prophesied devastating future is similar to the effects of repeat viewings of The Lake House.

Funner Fact: Anthony Hopkins swears to having been present the day this was foretold

I'd slit my wrists twice too if Shia LaBeouf drove me around popping out one liners

To a Comrade

2008-04-02T23:50:00.001-07:00

Happy Birthday Ghost of Sir. Alec Guinness!

Fire down below...and I don't mean the Lindsay Lohan kind

2008-03-02T00:21:00.000-08:00

John and I are survivors, having triumphantly pitted ourselves against the untamed savagery of Nature. Mastering the elements we emerged victorious from the fiery jaws of certain death. We reached for the latch to the dairy door cooler with a deep jabbing sensation of unease. Something felt different, something was wrong. As we pulled the door open we were struck with awe and an immense wave of heat. We starred upon the marvels of a flowing, glowing sea of molten crimson. It seemed the floor was made of lava.

With the combined grace and agility of speed-tweaking parkour spider monkeys, and Kurt Wagner if bitten by a radioactive arachnid, we navigated the room. Using breathtaking leaps, bounds, climbing and various other shocking acrobatics, we bested the magmatic soup brewing beneath us. Not once faltering, we executed the tasks within the cooler, ever cautious in case the heat-resistant superalloy structures harboring us were to give way to the fiery chaos dancing below.

All was going well, then we heard the footsteps of someone approaching. Mark slipped into view, striding towards the doorway, which now acted as a portal to a gruesomely flaming death. Each step he took unaware that he drew ever closer to drowning in the liquid fire of the cooler. His eyes fixated on us perching high amid the rafters, rather than seeing why we were forced to take the sanctuary of the high ground. We both frantically turned towards Mark and issued a cry of “THE FLOOR IS MADE OF LAVA!” He stopped dead in his tracks and finally looked down to realize he stood at the edge of a swirling incendiary abyss, his feel firmly glued to the threshold between life and death. “Holy! I came to get eggs…and…how in the name of Christopher Columbus did this happen?!”

Deftly I traversed my way across to him with a crate of eggs. He bid us good luck with our quest and regretted having to leave, having to venture back to his Chinese fortress, but civil unrest dictated his return.

Finally the task was complete, John and I emerged triumphantly, the victors in a harrowing conflagration of man vs. nature, besting one of the most turbulent and colossal environmental forces: The floor is made of lava.
Fini

Fitness

2008-01-31T23:59:00.000-08:00

Escalation

2008-01-30T22:32:00.000-08:00

Alert the Fashion Bobbys

2008-01-29T22:35:00.001-08:00

Avocational Hazards

2008-01-28T23:28:00.000-08:00

Reputable Rencontre

2008-01-27T23:43:00.000-08:00

Glorious Opiates

2008-01-26T22:59:00.001-08:00

The Machinations of Arthur Thorsbrury

2008-01-25T13:44:00.000-08:00

Attending Aegis

2008-01-24T22:31:00.001-08:00

Courtship

2008-01-23T21:07:00.001-08:00

Parlour Accusations

2008-01-22T13:28:00.000-08:00

Advanced Zoology

2008-01-21T22:35:00.000-08:00

Current Events

2008-01-20T22:53:00.000-08:00

Business Dispute

2008-01-19T05:12:00.000-08:00

Alleyway

2008-01-18T16:31:00.000-08:00

Taunter Transfixed

2008-01-18T00:33:00.001-08:00

Downsides of the Underworld

2008-01-17T17:58:00.000-08:00

Fix Filching

2008-01-16T22:31:00.001-08:00

Joy of Slander

2008-01-15T18:09:00.001-08:00

Browned Off Telegraphy

2008-01-15T15:45:00.000-08:00

Encounter in Pharoahs' Hall

2008-01-14T19:23:00.001-08:00

Industrial Revolution

2008-01-13T19:02:00.000-08:00

Marital Bliss

2008-01-13T14:50:00.001-08:00

A Merry Christmas

2008-01-12T12:31:00.001-08:00

Advanced Research

2008-01-11T20:31:00.001-08:00

New Beginning

2008-01-10T20:26:00.000-08:00

Light Chores

2008-01-10T20:16:00.000-08:00

Antidepressants

2008-01-10T19:33:00.000-08:00

Inspection from Afar

2008-01-09T14:50:00.000-08:00

Funded

2008-01-09T14:16:00.000-08:00

Hobbies

2008-01-09T01:23:00.000-08:00

An Uncomely Lass

2008-01-09T00:30:00.001-08:00

Trophy

2008-01-08T23:46:00.001-08:00

Begrime

2008-01-08T23:19:00.000-08:00

Proposition

2008-01-08T22:32:00.000-08:00

Boundless Fortunity

2008-01-07T23:30:00.001-08:00

Parenting

2008-01-06T22:04:00.001-08:00

Prominade

2008-01-06T19:19:00.000-08:00

Accessorizing with Rapiers

2008-01-05T00:17:00.000-08:00

Africa

2008-01-04T23:39:00.000-08:00

Victorian

2008-01-03T17:25:00.001-08:00

2007-12-30T16:16:00.000-08:00

Holiday Cheer Indeed

2007-12-25T15:47:00.000-08:00

Now that the joyous time of Christmas is here (that’s right you secular progressives…I said it) It is a wonderful season of sharing and pretending you care for your fellow man. Gifts are given, food is eaten…dessert time permitting, sweaters are worn, things are hung by the whatchacallit with something and so forth. But the seasonal Mammoth I’ll be spearing today is that songs that are sung, and the heinous nature with which some of them betray the true meaning of Christmas.

Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer:

If this song isn’t exploitation at its sleaziest then I just don’t know what is. This cheerful Gene Autry jingle seems fun and harmless enough, but if we peel back the veneer of Christmas cheer we see the true ugly particle board of deceit and bullying that lurks beneath. It teaches us what? That if you have a physical deformity others will pretend to like you just because they can take advantage of any side affects of your affliction that may hold some potentially beneficial outcome for them? Crass, singing cowboy, crass in the 3rd degree. What we have here are selfish reindeer belittling and bullying Rudolph, only pretending to tolerate his existence at the very end when there is gain for them. I hope they all become venison, sweet sweet delicious venison. Don’t worry kids, all your lives as a freak of nature people will be horrible and forbid you to join in their reindeer games (hehe Seth my boy, those were the days) until after years of torment and emotional damage they realize that you have a bizarre gift that will serve a purpose one month a year…so they’ll be nice to you then. And I don’t see what George Washington has to do with this song either.

I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Clause:

Mommy is nothing more that a common whore. Father slaves away at the factory for 12 hours a day throughout the month of December to provide his family with a joyous and wonderful Christmas…and what? His wife two times him with a fat, red home invader. So he’s magical big whoop, not only is he married but he’s gotta be at least 400 years old. And where is the stability in that relationship? He’s around one day a year, oh yeah, I’d definitely toss my name in that hat, sounds like a real caring guy. This deadbeat elf hitter bursts into how many homes to violate the women that live there…I can’t even count that high, that’s how many. And what is with this peeping voyeur son? Laughing away merrily while the honor of his parents marriage is besmirched by that very man who helped exploit Rudolph. FORSHAME! Baby Jesus is rolling in his manger! “What a laugh it would have been if Daddy had only seen” Laugh indeed Daddy would have opened his cabinet and made Santa’s twisted mom lust a three-way with mister shotgun! If you think that’s funny kid you deserve the next round. So in the end I guess we all have reason to laugh and sing about a broken home during this the most family oriented time of year. Yeah a distraught man’s murder suicide family massacre sure is funny, and all because his wife is but a two-bit floozy. Mother’s out there, please avoid any presents that sadistic old chimney hopper brings your way, for they are wrapped with malice, and tied with a bow of horror. So Merry Christmas Santa, and thank you for all your perverse sub-tree lust you peddle to us.

And that, good people is why I move to have these shanties stricken from the Noel catalogue and replaced with those really old ones that no one knows all the lyrics to…you know the ones that actually have some pretty violent parts about curses, and Bing Crosby forcing his way into someone’s home, inacting violence and refusing to leave until he has sated his desire for figgy pudding.

So Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

Birthday shout out to my man Jesus!

Proximo’s Folly

2007-11-17T11:24:00.000-08:00

Giraffes have been known to be exceedingly gay

It’s nice knowing I share the physique of nature’s queerest mammal. But even worse is the notion that this Gladiator of old doesn't get the arena-grade ungulate torture-porn he pays good money for, "They Won't Mate!"

Richie Rich has the most negligent parents alive, I’m sorry but any child growing up in the 50’s reading that pilf must have been terribly offended. Who goes away for a week to some money convention to leave their son with a fun loving butler, a robot, and in a key situation to be attacked by a man with an onion for a head? Try actually being a father you dead-beat rich man. And you Mrs. Rich, you consumer whore, can’t you skip a gala so your son doesn’t have to invent a friend. And while you’re at it where’s his support and praise about all the great things he accomplishes. Instead you leave him with a bowtie and an enemy with his hands on a mind control ray your crackpot husband invented. For a retired billionaire he spends an awful lot of time “at the office” scandalous if you ask me. He’s probably out doing rails off of the small of a stripper’s back with Reggie Mantle. Heart to heart father son moments should not be left to Casper the ghost, Nuff said!

Also, prior to writing this,
Damn you Cortez!

...just for good measure

"I don't have time for these fools"

2007-07-27T13:35:00.000-07:00

Role model of the day is Ev, for her jive talking, street smart, cool-cat ways

Today I found my face gracing the medical journals yet again. I smell another Nobel Prize...cha-ching! This time it was due to my efforts in discovering and fighting a new disease. Tom Hanks Syndrome. THS as called by friends is a terrible and tragic complication that can alienate any boy from his family and social peers. It is terribly hard to find understanding with loved ones when over night the effects of THS set in. One might feel stranded and alone in life, like a castaway, feeling different and strange. For those of you not familiar with Tom Hanks Syndrome it is essentially the movie Big. Transforming over night into a 40 year old man. There is only one reported case as of yet, but I feel it soon shall engulf much of mankind. However I am ready for the fight, and an antidote looms in the near future.

I finished reading "Deathly Hallows" shortly after I started, and let me say it was the best of the series by far. The only thing that could have made it better was if it had transformers or other giant robots in it.

But I ask a sincere question: what are we to do with our lives now that we've read the final Harry Potter book? What do we live for now that tales of this wonderful world of magic have come to a close? I guess we can all just writhe like pigs in filth, wallowing in the decadence of our own poorly typed shameful excuses for Potterverse fanfic that I'm sure the internet is flooded with, causing Dumbledore to roll in his grave. I for one am at a loss, and guess the movies will tide me over, keeping me alive long enough to find new meaning in my own wandless existence. (because frankly I use a scepter)

So in closing: Thank you Harry Potter, for making me cry myself to sleep every night wishing I was a wizard, and Thank you J.K. Rowling for bringing him to life...and for saving me from drowning at the public pool.

Counselor Thermadon commands it!

2007-04-01T12:57:00.000-07:00

Happy birthday shout out to my mother and father. Thanks to them for being born to make me...and to give me an excuse to eat delicious cake.

But April 1st isn't just their birthdays, there is also a less important holiday on said jour, and that is April Fool's Day. So keep a look out loyal fans for my first publishment of the new year hitting shelves hard "Life Threatening Pranks Volume 2: A Guide to April Fool's Day" its bigger and better than the first and all new!

Hands off buddy, daddy's tool box

2007-03-30T15:25:00.000-07:00

Billy Bob Thorton didn't know he was an actor until about a year ago. Most of his films are candid shots of him in which they mingle other actors. Even the Alamo. That was just him getting drunk and shooting at mexicans. So thats why all his latest films are bad comedies where he tries to teach a loser something then ends up their rival. Frankly I miss the days of him being a silly drunk who beats on people, swears, slaps children for the low sum of four dollars, and throws together bad sports teams lacking Corey Feldman.

Who would win in a fight, the 3 muskateers or Zorro? this one is tougher than you think, because sure individually Zorro has them, but as a trio, could he take them? And is it the Kiefer, Oliver Platt, Charlie Sheen muskateers, because if so you have a powerhouse of alcohol fueld swordplay there...and don't forget that Kiefer also can use his cowboy skills from young guns (not Charlie though...he died right away.) I'm sure that if this battle did ensue it would be too lengthy, visually stunning and all around glorious that surely one's eyes would bleed profusely and the victor could never be known.

Okay, can we talk about Brady? the fun loving special needs brother that was on 24. I think he and Jack need a spin off series where they solve crimes...and maybe fight those talking polar bears from the golden compass. That is must see tv. And thats why I'm an HBO executive and none of you are.

Mad points to Gerry for doing what all of us dream, lodging a suspender blade into the hydrocephalus skull of Hilary Swank.

Prepare For Glory!

2007-03-08T10:07:00.000-08:00

T-minus 1 day until 300 opens. What has to be the greatest film ever made. Why is that you ask? well 1) it stars Gerard Butler who's been my favorite actor for years now. 2) its a period piece which is always good fun. 3) the visuals are mind blowing. 4) it's an all around well written and beautifully exicuted piece of art. now lets delve into reason 1 a little.

Gerry is a great actor who seems to always get such epic roles. From Attila the hun to Dracula to the Phantom to Beowulf to Leonidas king of Sparta and potentially Robert Burns (fingers crossed it pans out now) he seems to get to portray some of the coolest and most powerful roles today. And when he's not a mighty warrior or an entrancing, misunderstood recluse with the ultimate power of song he still comes across with magnanimity and strenght, such as in Dear Frankie or as André Marek in Timeline or Terry Sheridan in Cradle of Life (roles which in my oppinion made those films.) Or as Creedy in Reign of fire (if only we could all play Christian Bale's best friend)

300 should be a huge boost to his already prominent career, giving him a broader choice of roles and potentially letting him finally do that back-burnered Burns project that was so dear to him. Now that he's becomming a house hold name though it just means more people will mispronounce Gerard, which will also make me angry. And many people who will cling to him now perhaps don't deserve it...get in line behind loyal fans.
Yes this whole post may come across as a bit obsessed, but I am far from stalking him, it's just the fact that someone who enjoys film as much as myself and fancies themself an actor (as I pretend to) can see when someone is very talented at their craft. And its a nice bonus when that person is also humble and modest and doesn't like the superstardom many actors claim to have, succling from the tit of the paparazzi and media.
So no, I am not overly obsessed, but just enough to run around my house playing best friends with a newspaper cutout of Gerry. Who subsequently has been mentioned in the paper every day for the past week and a half. (must be the abs)

So cheers, and here's to only one more sleep (or in my case insomnia due to giddy anticipation) until the release of 300. I urge all to go, and probably more than once since it's soulgasmic (thanks Braleigh for letting me borrow that) cinematics and stunning visuals will probably nees a few viewings to fully breath in.
looking forward to Priest, Butterfly on a Wheel, Therese Raquin, P.S., I Love you (even if Hilary Skank is in it)

fingers crossed for Watchmen and Burns

Can I have one job without having to slay a mythological beast?

2007-02-15T10:06:00.000-08:00

There is a Manticore nesting somewhere in the Safeway.

For anyone who wishes to make some money here is a tip. I have gotten away with this stunt all of 9 times now. Simple rob your place of business and then claim it wasn't you. Because who would be dumb enough to do that? The police have been searching for a doppelganger in my form for 8 months now.

After downing an opponent nothing is more humiliating than walking back and forth really fast over their crouching body. Just ask Captain Sensei, together we humiliated enough people to make them leave...or maybe it was annoyed enough people to make them leave, either way we showed Josh.

And now it's time for a question addressed to you, the viewer. If you could have one power, what would it be? I'd choose the power of speech, because it's true that if you word things properly you can accomplish anything. For example:
"let the earth quake and the ground tremble, let man know that he is but a pawn to the mighty forces of nature. Let a great tremor rise from the depths of the turbulent godforsaken abyss of this alluvium, and break loose revealing to all the true cataclysmic powers that rend mountains to stone and man to dust!"
yeah, if you say that right you can summon an earthquake. No lie. And that’s why freedom of speech is the greatest freedom we have, not so you can scorn out a political power, but for the fact that if you can shape and bend words to your will you can manipulate all that you see fit with the flick of a tongue.

To anyone who enjoys Pride or UFC you will love the lineup for this spring:

George St. Pierre vs. a komodo dragon
Bob Sapp* vs. the unbridled imagination of an 8 year old boy
Mirko Cro Cop vs. zombie FDR
Fedor Emelianenko vs. himself
Genki Sudo vs. decency
Butterbean vs. 183 gallons of custard
rematch: Tito Ortiz vs. a gila monster*²

This post was made possible thanks to viewers like you

*the biggest joke on earth

*² the last match was won by the gila monster with an arm bar (aka, biting off Tito's forearm) so he's looking for some payback

Only Jack Bauer can reduce terrorism by holding up a store, instigating a prison break, and highjacking a plane

2007-01-14T12:56:00.000-08:00

...they named it highJacking after him

Jack Bauer neutralizes any terrorist situation by killing all parties envolved, James Heller neutralizes one by attempting to kill himself

2007-01-11T17:13:00.000-08:00

3 Days and counting fair citizens of the world. 3 days till the glorious 2 night 4 hour premier of season six of 24. For those of you who don't watch 24, Kiefer Sutherland is on his way right now with his Sig to shoot you twice in the sternum. 24 is by far the greatest television show and that’s not just my personal opinion, it’s a fact. And it's not just a fact either, it’s my personal opinion. And I'd like to think that counts for something.

He starred unblinking into my eyes, piercing my soul then pointed to aisle 7 and in a haunting voice said "Please, may I take you there"

2006-11-26T10:13:00.000-08:00

I shouldn’t be aloud to listen to music. The other day while driving to work a suspenseful song came on so I immediately started tailing the car in front of me. After I followed him home, I was about to and silently break into his house and reconnoiter the premises when it changed to a slower song so I left. There have been several other instances of events such as this when I listen to soundtracks for action films.

Last night after closing we found an old lady scuttling around the store. She’s a foreign lady who comes to Safeway almost every night and its hard to make out what she says. This time it was 20 minutes after closing then I saw her pass by the end of the aisle I was looking down. We’d only just glimpse her cross our paths from a distance then vanish. It was eerie. Finally Tony captured her and released her into the wild. Which still doesn’t explain how I found her in the back of the deep freeze at 7:00 am when we opened.

You Don't Truly Know Someone Until You've Beaten Their Children

2006-11-08T17:39:00.000-08:00

I have a degree in lycanthropy.

I think we should elect a ventriloquist to office…or his dummy, or a puppet. (And I better not get a comment from Matt about there already being a puppet or a dummy in office or else…)

Ryan and I have been dispersing vigilante justice, street vengeance and swift retribution, cleansing the scum of the city...sadly their is a lack of super villains in the Okanagan, so we've resorted to striking the fear of god into jaywalkers now that we've dispersed of the true criminals. But if we do meet any we have the key dual distraction dual strike move. look, "smoke on the water", over there! "fire in the sky", then wham "DEEP PURPLE!" double deuce action to the eyes. It’s deep purple for a reason. And of course Ryan is always happy if we pull off a face, it brings out the most childlike giddiness in him. And those are just two of the numerous moves in our fight library. And now that we have several nights a month to hang with Batman things are sweet. Batman enjoys his tea.
Who would win a a scientific decathlon between Batman and Sir. Isaac Newton? Well, Batman would try to learn from Newton and Newton would try to stab him in the back…but they can’t even face off as it is since Newton is dead…but if I were to revive him then they could. Mind you bringing Isaac Newton back from the dead would probably make me the greatest scientist. Meh, I’d rather spend my time inventing some kind of self heating 12 layered chocolate fudge tart with caramel whipped cream, ice cream, coffee flavor, nougat and strawberry…that or clone cowboys. What would happen if Jack Bauer and Batman had a team up adventure? I’ve been told that they must exist in separate mediums because their combined force would be so great that the universe would implode, having it’s energies drained towards them in an attempt to pay tribute and bow to them.

Don't worry son, the dark's more afraid of you than you are of it

2006-10-28T00:38:00.000-07:00

Braleigh has left, torn away by a bus driven by Alfred Molina. She will be missed. And as for Jay “dee-doop adah buddha bay”
I don't know why they call it Safeway. Since I have worked there a man has lost both his parents and his daughter was mauled by a bear, and the fact that some mysterious force has set the alarm off every night...well, that’s a contributing factor to the suspicion that nothing is safe about Safeway. Besides that the job is fine, and it is another outlet for my quest to cleanse humanity of those too weak, corrupted and not worthy of the coming onslaught. The drastic change that will shape the earth for the best. That speech makes me want cookies. Thus begins two more sagas: Braleigh vs. India, and my quest for cookies! GODSPEED!

Blog in E Minor

2006-10-10T11:27:00.000-07:00

“Rejoice at the death of the Bearshark. Through valiant combat it has been slain”

A common theme in nature and inner city gangland warfare is the notion of challenging the leader for dominance and becoming the new ruler, or alpha male if I may. I wonder if it would be possible to challenge a bird the next time you see it. Say "I call upon you to bring forth the leader of the birds that I may challenge for dominance over all avian-kind." If it works that'd be sweet. Unless the bird king is a Phoenix, Phorusrhacus, mythological giant eagle or some crazy kind of bird I've never heard of the challenge should be pretty sweet. All you'd have to do is punch a penguin around or smoke an eagle with a tennis racket and poof, all the birds in the world are yours to command. I should ask uncle Erin, he'd know. In fact, what if I call out the bird lord and he showed up, that would be awkward. I mean, as nice as it would be to have birds do my bidding I wouldn’t take him on. He would most likely destroy me with his Fury 3 skills. Hmm, so I guess the whole point to this entire train of thought is don't get on uncle Erin's bad side because he has mastered aero-steal technology and the Ave family. Maybe I'll just challenge broad-leafed trees or something.

Now that it’s October Ev has been telling me her plans for Halloween, I almost have enough information to have a federal case against her. Once she’s said a little more about her sinister plans to celebrate “the true Sabbath” (her words not mine) I’ll give a docier of facts and felonies to senator Half-Cat as leverage for my recent slew of time crime. That should knock down my sentence, and with Ev off the streets it should also reduce the number of Halloween related deaths 140%.

Speaking of Halloween, I must take leave to resume my itinerary I have Liberace costumes to make, and apples don't just razorblade themselves.

-OG

Don't Fraternize with the Enema

2006-10-01T17:02:00.000-07:00

My absence from the blogging community is now at an end, coinciding with my release from a triple maximum extradimensional security facility. It started off as a few simple divulgences on my behalf pertaining to the time space continuum. Well, it seemed that due to most heinous offenses originally instigated by yours truly during my first unbridled adventure through the time stream there is now an enforcement agency that polices reality. So, when I set off this year to travel through a timeportal anomaly to an alternate future where Mayan’s rule the earth to steal a magical scepter that I've been planning to use in an elaborate plot to kill Zac Effron's true form with my accomplish Aislinn...I gained their attention. It wasn't just that, it was also the fact that to enter the trans-dimensional fluxuation to the Mayan earth I had to steal a gate jumper from an interstellar nova-corps official. To get to the nova-corps and acquire the gate jumper I had to break into a top-secret government base where I highjacked a prototype time machine recovered from an advanced android being held there. As a diversion I set the android loose on the base causing wanton destruction so that I could make my way to the time machine. I used the time machine so that I could travel into the future to gain the use of an interstellar vessel with hyper drive capabilities so that I could travel through space in our current time stream to the nova-corps home world headquarters on the planet Kandar in the Kandar Cluster of the 001 Verge System. but alas it had been destroyed by an interdimensional scavenger who was only a fictitious marvel character known as Annihilus until years before, when I had inadvertantly set him loose through a combination of magic and a series of experiments. Still with me? So I had to pirate a time gem from an advanced race of universal eternals know as the eldar to make my way to the Nexus of time. From there I was outside of time looking in, so I chose the perfect moment to go to the nova-corps home world where I retrieved the gate jumper so I could make my way to the Mayan earth of an alternate tomorrow that our timeline will never see. All this to destroy a teen actor who will be immediately replaced by a replicant of himself upon his death...but in my defense the replicant will not be as evil nor will it grow in size and power each time its films are watched. So, somewhere in this hodgepodgery of my quest I seemed to have broken some minor laws such as but not exclusively theft, interstellar theft, treason, illegal use of a gate jumper, interdimensional theft, Mayanverse high treason, Mayanverse theft, Mayanverse regicide, unauthorized pan-galactic transit, 28 counts of trans dimensional homicide, time influx distortion, intergalactic genocide (apparently in my travels I threw a fellow time traveler off course altering the events of an entire galaxy which led to the death of 18 trillion people), many crimes due to releasing Annihilus upon open space, oh...and assault for punching Terrence Howard before I left. So I spent a good deal of time being incarcerated for these petty crimes in the netherverse in a ruthless penal colony known as the Bloc. So here I was outside of dimensional existence locked down and isolated in solitary (because I killed a prison mate for putting his tendrils in my gruel) contemplating a way to get back to earth before anyone noticed my absence, because I wasn’t sure whether time was relevant in the netherverse so I figured if it is, my parents may wonder why there are fewer presents under the tree come Christmas, which might lead them to suspect I am missing. So while alone in the pit, deep within the depths of the Bloc, my new triple max home, I thought of a way I could escape, or at least something I could use as a bargaining chip to gain my freedom. Having most of my possessions been seized upon incarceration I wasn’t sure what I could do to get out of this jam escape wise, and seeing as how I killed two enforcement officers during the struggle in which they arrested me, I was certain they wouldn’t be too eager to just let me go without something colossal in return. Luckily I caught a break. Seeing as how they didn’t care too much for the well-being of their more extreme prisoners, the pits they used for solitary weren’t well kept and were little more than potential watery graves of chasms carved deep within the bowels of the facilities underground sections with multi-layered plasma infused titanium-vibranium fiber alloyed doors. So in the corner of my pit I found a small dank tunnel that was little more than a crevice in the side of the scorched rock. I ripped my shirt to form makeshift hand and knee covers to climb my way through the dry smoldering tunnel, which burnt like a sauna leaving a think heat in the air that singed the nostrils and left the pungent smell of brimstone. At first the tunnel was a welcome change compared to the dark, wet and cold cell I had called home for what seemed like months (but was really no time at all since I later discovered there is really no time in the netherverse) but the heat gradually became unbearable exhausting my muscles and overpowering my eyes and mouth, drying my body out as my own sweat burned my flesh. Eventually I made my way to another pit, and there I found a life form that called itself Surge. Surge apparently could phase through solid matter, but through intense electro-pulse neural inhibitors his powers were rendered useless. So I struck a bargain with the malicious otherworldly entity and removed the inhibitors and stashed them in what was left of my shirt incase they’d come in handy later. Surge passed through his door and began to attack the guards stationed there. They had weapons thatcould render his abilities useless, and he was immediately replaced in his cell with a more intense inhibitor that would destroy him if it were to be removed. The Whilst all this took place I hid in the mouth of that hot cave that bridged our cells, not intending to make the 3 mile journey back to my own. When he was back in his cell I reemerged from beneath the underwater opening to the tunnel and used the power supply from the old inhibitor to overload and temporarily black out his current one. I removed it before the fail-safe could be activated, then I combined components of the two, shorting out the energy field on his door. I then agreed to let him posses my body so we could overpower the guards outside. (But fearing a double cross I kept the core parts of his initial inhibitor handy should I need it) Phasing through the door as one entity we disposed of the guards and took their weapons. Knowing full well I couldn’t leave the Bloc’s extradimensional existence without the materials only the more elite officers possessed I concocted a scheme. I led Surge down towards a fusion boiler where he fed off its power absorbing more energy for his uses whilst he still inhabited my body. From there we planned an all out assault on the lower level barracks where the guards for the pits stationed. After overwhelming the guards I stocked up on supplies and weapons that I could easily hid upon my person. Then on the captain of the guard I found a pocket dimension, used for storing supplies such as extra ammo and food, I ate his lunch which I hope was roast beef, then stored all my essential supplies in it, and put the synthetic transmitter to the pocket dimension inside my wrist near my prisoner tag where I could activate it easily, and it would remain undetected due to the tags pulse which masked it. From the guard station I activated a com with an elite sub-warden and negotiated to hand over Surge with the return of being integrated back into the main prison system. He saw it as a mutually beneficial agreement that would spare further fighting, and potential loss of more of his men’s life, which would go on his record, so he accepted the terms of our agreement. I had no guilt for turning in Surge, who had already planned on dumping me anyways, because he wouldn’t make it out of the prison as it was, plus he was too dangerous to be out of confinement for another minute. He left my body and attempted to kill me, and I simply game him a dose of the inhibitors.
Later I was transferred back, and escorting me to my new cell amongst a slew of guards was my key to freedom, an agent with an interdimentional waypoint beacon. I broke free and attacked the guards using one of their energy batons against them. Then, I unleashed weapons stored in the pocket dimension to finish the fight. For a moment I was worried when I saw that the bioforce of the agent. Then I heard more guards coming so I hid by actually entering the pocket dimension attaching myself to a captain who came to investigate the commotion, I reemerged outside of a holding area and from there fled up a corridor and gained clearance to the storage facility where my items were being held. of a after having reclaimed my personal effects and overpowering an agent who was there to deposit some kind of planet decimating weapon they found on a prisoner I stopped to rest for a moment and plan my strategy of escape. Then through a clumsy and potentially fatal bumble I accidentally touched the end of an energy baton, which surprisingly had no effect on me. I realized that there was residual power left in me from Surge, so I tapped into the bioforce of the agent to power the beacon and open my way home. I set the coordinates to the site of my initial arrest seconds after it happened, and there I found a few remaining guards preparing to impound the interstellar vessel I had acquired. I set course for earth and then transmuted myself back through time and space to right now. And this is why I haven’t been blogging. But more important that writing this down are my two upcoming quests. The assassination of that retarded lady-boy actor, and my return to the resort for thanksgiving: my final impending confrontation with the Bearshark.

Leaf is just a fancy word for tree feather

2006-07-30T22:07:00.000-07:00

Now that I am no longer at the resort the lives of many are in peril. While there I was hunting a deadly animal that was killing many. An amphibious machine bent on death and despair, part mammal part fish, all chaos, the Bearshark. I was tracking it down in an attempt to end the slaughter of those it fed upon, and I alone am the one who can stop it. I fear for the safety of all those at Christina Lake during my absence and pray that they may be safe from its voracious marauding appetite.
As for affairs here, Braleigh’s play was awesome, she kicked arse with her amazing acting talent and the subtleties of the role were great. Breathtaking reactions, solid character development. Her improvisational skills added to the character and her sheer ingenuity accentuated the plot. I enjoyed watching her the entire time when I was there once. But out of the 5 times I saw the play the results of super grandure were the same…the trophy goes to Jason, because he is a kingly pile of acting manliness. Bewop dewaddupb dup dup bedup gewahey! DEEEEYUM!
Since I’m already in the trophy donating mode…then the sympathy trophy goes to Colin, who in the process of making us laugh terribly hard paid a great price. When crashing into that post he did more than “buggering up tha fence” he crossed the wrathful path of angry cowboy Chris Cooper! “Damn it all! You’re Jackin’ Around!” also, he had to put up with Justeleon, a attention deficit nerd beyond repair, but most of all, he has to work hand in hand (mouth in mouth) with Gail (Gale?) either way you spell it, it spells the same thing “sinister.” She’s a little tooo old to be working there, and has a degree in retarded small talk. She eats over 3 pounds of cherries a day (we actually calculated these numbers) and she steals some to make jams, pies and other various neurotoxins. Also…she’s just plain creepy and annoying.
My trophy for Godly Calf muscles goes to our common law wife Kap, who is just swell in a half-fatherly-half-intimidating way.
The Best trophy (the Dayleigh award) Goes to Ryan for being straight up the coolest, nicest kid I have known. He is accommodating and wise, and I will be taking advantage of that hospitality in Victoria…sorry buddy, but that’s the sacrifice you’re making for me. yet at the same time I shake my fist at him for amplifying Bra's DVD collection to ten times the glory of mine! SHAKE SHAKE SHAKE!
And now I must go to plan the acquisition of my own trophy... the head of the Bearshark!

You're pushing my buttons, pretty soon you're gonna hit self-destruct

2006-07-11T09:56:00.000-07:00

The lake is the place to be, at least it is for me. I've been chilling with my posse composed of my right hand man Bandersnatch, and the newly formed gang of flunkies including Werebear, The Clap, The Juicer, and many more...oh and Just Trevor...but he's nothing special.
On a more important note, there was a question revolving the earth on who would win in a fight, Yul Brenner, or Mt. Everest. Well, sufficive to say that without the King and I there would be a giant angry colossal mountain roaming the earth devouring us all. That triumph aside there resides as of yet one great enemy threatening the safety of all, and that enemy is the Evil Pizza Parlor. That’s right, a pizza place that can appear from nowhere and fall upon citizens crushing them. It vanishes from the cops. And God rest the souls of any man who enters there looking for a large pepperoni and some cheese bread for his whining brood. Like the urbanized venus flytrap it is, it lures in innocent bystanders to their doom, where they are devoured with one last shrill scream that sounds not unlike Kate Winslet falling down a flight of stairs.
For all the television fans out there, a new show will be premiering next fall, it’s called “K-man and Sludge”. It’s the hip and cool adventures of two smooth and sly, rough and tumble fifties style private detectives donning fedoras and a vengeance against crime. Look for special appearances by Captain Sensei, a superhero trapped in the world of man.
Speaking of upcoming attractions, two more stories are on the way, they’re ready to be typed out by my 12 words a minute mad style.
Well, all that aside I am off to continue my work on the “Children of the Tool Shed” documentary. A little surrealism in a world of fantasy, nothing beats an in depth look at the world of the Albatross and its gang of missbeings.
-Until we meet again Dayleigh “Thor’s Hammer” Nelson

The Colonel and the Fly

2006-06-09T09:44:00.000-07:00

Colonel Archibald Roddick was a tough old man. He’d been the veteran of many a war, and had fought in many a country. He was past his prime however, and felt that sooner or later he could no longer be useful to his nation in the event of a war. Now that the Great War had just come to an end, and he had led his men to triumph on the battlefield, he saw it fitting to take his leave from the military spotlight on a high note. And so he hung up his uniform, polished his medals one last time, and had his service revolver sealed in a glass case and proudly put on display atop his cabinet. His transition to civilian life however, was a matter far less simple than stowing or saving his belongings. Having been a high-ranking official he demanded order, civility and above all else, respect. All these requirements made life in his niece’s home quite laborious and strenuous for him. His niece had a tendency to birth loud, obnoxious and ill-mannered offspring. With her husband having recently passed on in a terrible accident that needs little description suffisive to say it involved a tapestry, there was a severe lack of discipline in the house. So she was left alone to tend to a terrible trio of hellions, hell bent on misbehaving. Her three young boys, William, Donald and Filmore were the bane of the colonel’s existence, as they did whatever they pleased, and what they pleased was always contrary to his wishes.

Colonel Roddick had the second story of the townhouse all to himself, but there was little peace, privacy or silence there for him. The flight of creaky stairs with the locking door at the top proved to be a highly ineffective barrier against three rambunctious youths. If anything it was seen more as a challenge to them than a deterrent, and they made it their business to evade detection, until they breached his living quarters that is, then they would make their presence very well known. If they couldn’t get in through the door, then they’d promptly climb the laburnum tree in the back yard, and come in through the window. Their intrusions into the colonel’s space grew in frequency and vociferous inconvenience with every request, order or shout to the antipode. The incorrigible incongruous behavior of the boys was contradictory to everything the colonel had known and loved about the army, and it pained him each time they breached his second story sanctuary. The boys’ propensity to pry into the affairs and possessions of their great uncle was so intense and well honed, that he had to lock his medals and pistol away in his armoire, out of their reach, and sadly out of his proud sight. The armoire was the one secure place of solitude he had from the menacing ways of William, Donald, and especially Filmore, who as the youngest misbehaved the most, to prove his valor to his sibling compatriots. The colonel would often boom from atop the staircase his great dislike of the children’s insubordination and disregard for his privacy.

This hectic and stressful lifestyle for the colonel made Sunday evenings extra special, for every Sunday from precisely three o’clock to eight o’clock pm he had the house to himself. At that time, on that night of each week, his niece and her brood of unscrupulous brigands would be off to town to visit her brother and have a quaint family dinner. Ironically this very same time was the least favorite for her brother, who shared the colonel’s distaste for the children’s nature, especially Filmore, who insisted on mishandling his cat. So, every Sunday evening colonel Archibald Roddick could relax to his paper, his pipe, and a glass of vermouth before bed. It came to be ritualistic for him, and he’d count down with delight, the minutes until his niece and the boys would trot off to the bus stop to take the number 10 across town. Then alone at last, he could sit comfortably in his worn leather chair, and reflect with great fondness his years spent serving his country. Happily at rest he’d lean back and dream as wafts of smoke rose from his Peterson Dublin, perched in his mouth.

On one Sunday in particular, the colonel’s tranquility was riven with the presence of a persistent and annoying fly. He was adamant on Sunday evenings being his sabbatical from an otherwise unbearable week. It started out as a petty irritation as the fly would circle around the room, buzzing loudly and flying within the parameters of the colonel’s personal relaxation space. But with each passing minute it grew more and more frustrating for him, and the petty irritation quickly grew to an all consuming vexation. The colonel had gone from perturbed to enraged as the loud low buzzing grew within his ears. No the colonel being a man who required a hush ataraxia to get through his week, was not about to let some miniscule insect ruin his furlough , so he took after the fly as if it were the Kaiser himself. Calling upon the repository of his accumulated years of military training, he hunted the fly, employing a number of strategies and techniques that would inflict pain and fear on any rival army. But this was no ordinary fly; it was cunning and calculating, the volume of its buzzing surpassed only by its failure to die. Frantically the colonel executed a campaign of leaps and swipes, attempting with all his valor and military prestige to destroy his unrelenting foe. The fly would careen around the room, swerving with acrobatic grace, to avert every newspaper swing of the colonel’s offensive. To Mrs. Fenniman across the way squinting through her spectacles, the colonel’s leaps through the air, looked like some sort of spastic interpretive dance, as he flailed about trying to smite the elusive fly.

The colonel was certain that the fly had an evil agenda and was out to get him. He figured that this fly was in no doubt a tool of his sinisterly obstreperous nephews, whose primary target was to inflict chaos on his leisure time during their absence. The constant unignorable hindrance of the fly, bothered the colonel so greatly that he referred to it as Filmore, while he chased it about in an attempt to end its existence. Then, the fly did the unthinkable and flew into his locked armoire through the small keyhole. It had entered into his last line of defense, his one sanctuary, where his thoughts and possessions could be protected, had been trespassed by a small, hairy dung-feeding menace. In a fit the colonel fumbled to unlock the armoire, eager to stop the intense buzzing echoing through his thoughts that had been amplified through the acoustics of the armoire.

When eight o’clock came around, colonel Roddick’s niece expected to find a content old man sitting quietly in his chair, reliving his glorious days of military prestige. What she saw was quite the opposite. Colonel Archibald Roddick sat in his chair with a mighty scowl on his face, discharged service revolver in his hand, having taken his own life in an attempt to maintain his Sunday night ritual of peace and quiet.

Claypot

2006-06-08T18:35:00.000-07:00

Mrs. Brindsley enjoyed fine things. She was much accustomed to collecting nicks and knacks that she would find about. And on one day such as any she stumbled across the newest addition to her ever expanding collection. At the annual Felpsborough market, she ascertained the most “fetching” clay pot. Despite the drastic expense for the clay piece she bought it, for she felt that no amount of money was too much for such a humble and cute creation. It was truly the finest antiquity she had acquired to date. So, to her house the master craft went, up on the mantle and out of reach of her inquisitive young son Arthur Gordon Brindsley. The clay pot sat amid a plethora of ceramics, sculptures and other collectibles. It seemed the only item not on display in the parlor was her sons art project, one poorly made, yellow clay dragon she promptly hid in her closet, and insisted she lost. Now her son, a clod in her mind, would break the pot whether inadvertently or intentionally, so she found it best not to tell him about its existence to prevent the second of the two possibilities. Now as irrational as the notion of Arthur destroying the pot on purpose may have seemed, her fear of that potential outcome wasn’t entirely unfounded. She recollected with a great deal of displeasure an occasion on which he lifted a newly acquired vase she had gone to great lengths to procure, up over his head, then without warning flung against the wall. This for her was the first and final straw, making her collectibles from that day on, forbidden from Arthur’s hands. Although he had grown several notches in height and maturity since that most scandalous of affairs, she still would not allow him near her possessions. Clearly her love for her memorabilia far greater outweighed her trust for her son. With the shattering of that vase fell all the pieces of respect she once held for him, and no amount of glue could repair the damage of one young boy’s miscalculation of a fine piece of porcelain for an idle play thing.

Arthur inevitably found the pot, but it wasn’t upon the mantle when he did. Noticing the slightest spot of dirt, his mother had taken it into the kitchen for a thoroughly intensive dusting. For reasons as insignificant as a quick run to the market to fetch that evening’s bread, she had left the pot unattended. Alone upon the counter it sat, a beacon of mystery to his curious eyes. There wasn’t much sense in Mrs. Brindsley running off to the market for bread after all, for when she came back she found Arthur sans appetite. His face was a mess, and he sat on the kitchen floor, the pot at his feet. Unlike the aforementioned vase however, it remained intact, say for the lid which had been wrenched off. He sat there looking ill, with the insistence that the preserved goods were no good at all. Where the lid to the pot once rested was a mound of powder heaped at the mouth of the overturned clay vessel. With a look of rage Mrs. Brindsley spat about how he wasn’t to fill her quaint little clay pot with his sweets, to which his reply was an accusation that she had been the one to have purchased it.

She seized the pot from him, and raised it to her eyes now aware of its lack of weight compared to before, when she had initially bought it for that hefty sum. She deduced that it had been filled prior to her incrementing it. She realized that she’d been swindled, and what was thought to be a rare collectors artifact was nothing more than a clay jar of powdered candy. With a repulsive look of utter illness oh his face, Arthur attested to the putrid nature of the confectionary. For the first time, Mrs. Brindsley turned the pot upside down, spilling the rest of its contents in the process, revealing a passage on the base. In small letters on the bottom of the pot was engraved “Arnold Bandis in loving memoriam, cremated July 1st 1802”

Gerald's Advisor

2006-06-07T10:29:00.000-07:00

Gerald had come to terms with his illness. He had accepted the fact that Joseph was not real, and was all in his head, but that didn’t matter. Despite Joseph’s existence merely being a figment of his imagination, he still relied on him for advice and help. Joseph was smart, and Gerald counted on him during his day-to-day life. Gerald would return home from work and stand-alone in his kitchen, only to himself, he wasn’t alone, he was with Joseph, and they would talk. Joseph didn’t go to the plant with Gerald, because Gerald didn’t want people to see him talking to himself, Gerald didn’t want people to know he was crazy. Gerald had once been referred to a psychiatrist. Joseph told him not to go, Joseph said it was a trick, he said they wanted to destroy him; he said they wanted to lock Gerald away. After Gerald had explained his life and everything to the doctor, that’s when he realized Joseph was right. They said Joseph wasn’t real, but Gerald could see him. Joseph was right, it was a trick, the doctors wanted to put him away, they wanted to remove Joseph from Gerald, and Gerald couldn’t allow that. Gerald decided not to take the medication he was prescribed, and so he lived with guidance from Joseph, who was vastly wise, and could tell Gerald things.

Gerald had had problems the month before, when a colleague had accused Gerald of stealing things from the plant, nothing of significance, but the notion of employee theft itself was something the plant wouldn’t tolerate. Gerald knew he hadn’t taken anything and Joseph helped him prove his innocence. Joseph was there for Gerald, and in return Gerald insured Joseph’s existence, by acknowledging him. Gerald saw great advantage with Joseph, because there was a perception there, where Joseph could pick up on things Gerald missed. Joseph was thorough, he was Gerald’s subconscious radar, scanning the thoughts Gerald would pass by, and screening them for any significance. Gerald knew this, and that was why he was adamant about keeping his confidant around. He could tell Joseph anything, whether the inconsequential happenings of a slow day at the plant, or Gerald’s deepest fantasies, either way, there would be no criticisms or judgment, only analysis and positive reinforcement. Perhaps telling Joseph things was redundant, because Gerald wasn’t sure if Joseph was an isolated part of his mind, or whether he knew everything Gerald knew. Frankly that wasn’t really important, since Gerald had made a habit of telling him everything partly for Joseph’s input, but mostly for the interaction and company.

Then one day a rift was driven into what seemed to be a happy and inseparable relationship between man and mirage. It started when Gerald became well acquainted with a woman from work named Wendy. From the start Joseph knew Wendy was trouble, but Gerald dismissed Joseph’s complaints as jealousy and paranoia, ironic since Gerald was the one fabricating friends. Joseph saw that Wendy was jeopardizing the stability of Gerald’s unstable life, his concerns were warranted, since she’d be a little suspicious if she saw Gerald interacting with thin air. So, whenever Wendy came around, Joseph would vanish, receding to what Gerald could only presume was the depths of his mind. This displeased Gerald since he usually relied on Joseph to help him communicate well with others. Without any advice or guidance from Joseph, Gerald was awkward and nervous around Wendy, but she found it cute, progressing their relationship to a more serious level.

Eventually, Gerald asked Wendy to move in, and since they worked together, they were nearly inseparable, causing Joseph to practically vanish from Gerald’s life. Gerald wasn’t so sad; he gave up trying to integrate his two worlds by convincing Joseph to let Wendy know about his presence in Gerald’s mind. He knew Joseph would always refuse, and he wasn’t so lonely with Wendy around, so he accepted the distance between himself and his imaginary companion. Soon Joseph wasn’t important to Gerald, and Wendy had replaced him as council and confidant. Then finally, Joseph was gone. Gerald had a sick day from work, and while alone at home he called to Joseph, and his calls went unanswered. It was that day that Gerald knew, staring into his bathroom mirror, that Joseph was gone for good. He figured love had saved him, and now without his loneliness, he was sane, free of any imaginary friend. Later that month Gerald decided to marry Wendy, and they went on an evening stroll through the park, but his plans to propose were postponed as they were waylaid by coworkers who had taken to the park for a game of volleyball. Wendy not knowing Gerald was to propose decided they should join the group’s festivities, causing Gerald to lose the time alone he needed with her to muster the courage and set the mood to pop the question. After the park the gaggle of coworkers agreed to go for drinks, not knowing Gerald’s intentions to wed and preference for them to be alone together Wendy said they’d join suite. Gerald being a slightly timid guy, not used to public engagements went along for the ride, and kept the ring for another day, and another scenario. They were having a good time at the bar, and the company was weeding itself out as many coworkers had family and friends to return to.

Soon Gerald and Wendy were nearly alone, the only thing standing between him and till death do you part was Ricky Trapps from accounting. Things were looking up and Gerald was feeling fairly comfortable for a man of his shy nature, and then he hit a brick wall. Across the bar he saw a man shooting pool at a table by himself, it was Joseph. Gerald looked in horror, he knew full well that despite the joy he’d shared with Joseph, he couldn’t see him again, for a marriage was in no way possible with an imaginary third wheel. Gerald then was drowned in a wave of paranoia, what if the others in his life weren’t real either, what if Wendy, and even chubby Ricky Trapps were all just figments of his mind, wild creations caused by his subconscious. Gerald sank back into his shell, as grief and fear swept over him. Suddenly the bar was stuffy and he found it hard to breath, he felt dizzy, alone and scared. Then his panic was interrupted as Ricky called out to Joseph, “Hey Joe! How are ya? I haven’t seen you since college.”
Joseph looked over at Ricky, and not recognizing Gerald in the dark atmosphere of the bar called out jokingly “Hey, not much, living the dream I always said I would Ricky.” Ricky gave a hearty half drunken chuckle and turned to Wendy and said “haha, man that guy is hilarious, he comes up with the funniest things. Back in college he always said that one day he’d find some loaner, pretend to be his fantasy and just live in his house. Who comes up with that stuff?”
As Joseph began to laugh, his eyes met Gerald’s, and without warning he dashed from the bar and out into the streets.

Yesterday's Mirror

2006-06-06T10:31:00.000-07:00

In the St. Dobson’s Boarding Home of Pogsley Bay, Linus was a bit of an outcast. He found himself to possess a dissociative comportment in regards to the other members of the lodging. Unlike most of the other children, he had a dislike for playing and games, to the extent that one could say he was hideously unfond of them. Now, on any average day in St. Dobson’s, let alone any boarding house for the youth of the world, the children would be out playing in the yard, too busy with the cares of who’s it, or hopscotch to bother with the whims and woes of society. It was on these very same average days that young Linus would find an excuse to remain indoors. He would sit alone in the attic of the boarding house, watching the other children though a small, cracked, circular window that was in desperate need of a proper cleaning and defogging. This bizarre and somewhat frightening tendency of his to sit there unblinking, regarding the other children from above was commonly known. When ever a member of the town would walk by on their way to market they would mutter to themselves “there’s that Linus boy again…just sitting there staring.” His routine was very unsettling for the town’s people who found his ever fixed mark by the attic window to be quite unhealthy. What the other people didn’t seem to understand was what went through small dear Linus’ head whilst he sat there watching the other children. He didn’t simply mope and pout, or wish them ill. His sentiments were quite the contrary, and infact were of a joyous nature. For despite not enjoying running about in the yard, Linus still had a great deal of imagination floating around inside his skull. He would sit there and play games of his own, watching silently as animals, pirates, and trolls ran about chasing each other. Infact, Linus’ fascination with the outside world became so great that he ceased going outside all together. He would rarely stray from his small, jagged window, sitting there watching the world and gazing into how he perceived things to be. On many occasions the head of the boarding house attempted to lure him outside, but after a five month vigil at the window, it was apparent that Linus wouldn’t move, so they just let him be, and pretended he wasn’t there. Pretending he didn’t exist however became more and more difficult as attention is easily drawn to a small boy sitting, unmoving peering out at one through beady eyes behind an eerie window. Eventually the towns people came to regard the boarding house as taboo, afraid of the small unshifting form they saw piercing them as they walked pass. So it came to be that Tubdun street became a empty place, many citizens adding an extra twenty minutes to their foot route to avoid coming across Linus, or the shadow child, as he came to be known. Even eighty seven year old Agatha Bittlestew would carve an enormous three mile wake around the place, straining her shot hip, just to avoid the Linus’ lurking gaze.

Finally after almost three years of solitude amongst the embrace of the attic, the townspeople merely forgot all about Linus, and tended to go about their own way. True, he remained in the window every spare moment of his life, but ignoring the lad had become second nature for every resident of Pogsley Bay. The street saw traffic again, but it was minimal at best, as most people had been so accustomed to avoiding it, they didn’t stop. Some forgot why they never passed down Tubdun street, and frankly the though never crossed their minds as they merrily went about their lives, now oblivious to Linus’ constant birds eye presence. Eventually, the children found play in the front yard tedious, as the cobble street was now second to the patch of turf added around back of the boarding house. Soon Linus lost the pleasures of looking out into the world, as there was hardly anyone about, and the fact that his view had receded due to the hindrance of ever branching Alder Buckthorn trees.

Then, on one fine November day, through a slight breeze Linus got up from his seat and went downstairs. Silently he opened the front door of St. Dobson’s Boarding Home, and proceeded to step outside. He had grown quite unfond, infact, one could go as far as saying hideously unfond, of sitting about all day watching an ever shrinking near emptiness. So, he decided to go outside for the first time in eight years. From the second his feet touched the cobbled steps outside of the boarding home he felt free. Linus inhaled some sweet Tubdun street air, and smelt the distinct scent of Celandines, which unbeknownst to him had been planted the season before by Mrs. Bittlestew. He enjoyed the fresh smell of these previously unknown flowers, and gaze about him, enjoying the cool breeze blowing against his face. He took in the beauties of the once forgotten outdoors, seeing no longer what he invented, but something much broader and more beautiful than the capabilities of his mind, he saw life for the first time as it truly was. He turned to see the small window in the top of the boarding house attic, curious as to what had been the allure to have trapped him there all those years. Linus winced at the filthy cracking window pane, wonder why he had been so entranced to sit in the dark attic for nearly a decade. That was when he noticed a set of eyes looking back, he stared in disbelief. In the window sat a small, pale boy, gazing at Linus through deep brown eyes, in a manner he found most unsettling and creepy. Surely Linus thought he was seeing a younger version of himself, sitting there silently, watching. He wonder how this might be, and what the boy was thinking, was he imagining Linus as an animal or a pirate? Linus stood there gazing back, as again curious thoughts danced in his imagination, and then he was abruptly hit by a car.

The Ballad of Brad

2006-06-02T11:42:00.000-07:00

There once was a boy named Bradley,
And instead of counting sheep,
He spent every night sadly,
Crying himself to sleep.
His life was a cycle of follies,
Filled with many great sorrows,
A strand of melancholies,
That flood his todays and tomorrows.
He wanted a life to enjoy,
Something that’d give him delight,
The wanton dream of a boy,
But alas, he’d cry every night.
Then on one night of mystery,
Bradley broke free of his ways,
Gone was his sad old history,
When a man spoke of better days.
You see, on that night in question,
Bradley was approached by a king,
A fine dashing lord named Cheston,
Who said quite a wonderful thing.
Cheston was rich you see,
He possessed great wealth and splendor,
Not average like you or me,
Truly he was a big spender.
Bradley was invited to live with grace,
Which wiped away all of his grief,
Faster than the tears on his face,
Were wiped by the king’s handkerchief.
“Come live on my vast estate,”
Boomed the king in an elegant voice
“The decision is yours, I’ll wait”
“Yes!” of course was Bradley’s choice
“But wait,” Bradley suddenly inquired,
He was cautious of potential dangers,
For by his teacher he was inspired,
To talk not to complete strangers.
“Ah yes,” was the kings proclamation,
“An explanation is needed”
For he understood Brad’s hesitation,
“Here’s the thing,” he then proceeded.

“In the crusades I was in the East,
Fighting for the holy land,
For my father had be deceased,
Untimely by Saracen hand.
In a quest to avenge my dad,
I needed men for a battle,
So I enlisted many a lad,
Whether blacksmith or herder of cattle.
Now revenge is a bitter drink,
Especially when served with fruit,
That will cause you to act before you think,
So we did pillage, rape, and loot.
After me and my band,
Took revenge against the Sheik,
We burned all his crops and land,
And tortured him for a week.
We stole his wives and possessions,
We did whatever we wilt,
And then I sought confessions,
So that I could admit my guilt.
For I’d gotten carried away,
And preformed such terrible malice,
As setting his children astray,
And misusing his wonderful palace.
So after a bountiful feast,
I ran off to find his lost spawn,
Also to confess to a priest,
For clouding my brains with brawn.
But alas his children did stumble,
Into a group of marauders,
Who mistook them for knights in a bumble,
And led the kids to the slaughters.
I came across their camp,
And found a pike bearing a head,
I also found a gold lamp,
Where all the children lay dead.
The marauder’s miscalculation,
Had led to a mighty assault,
And for soldiers the kids were mistaken,
This tragedy was all my fault.
The marauders were nowhere in sight,
Ran off yet again to be menaces,
And all that was left of the fight,
Was the sad sight of infant carcasses.
Tearfully upon that lamp I swore,
To never again cause such harm,
I rubbed it until my hands were sore,
Out emerged a genie to my alarm.
He said unto me, three wishes he’d give,
And I knew what I had to say,
I wished to eternally live,
To right the wrongs I started that day.

“So there you have it Bradley,
Since then I’ve made sad kids happy,
And I’d take you on gladly,
Since your life is in a word, crappy.”
“Geewhiz! “ cried Bradley with much joy,
He had never been so glad,
He looked like a happy boy,
And at that moment forgot he was sad.
“Oh what a wonderful thing,”
He said with a joyous smile,
“You really are a king,
Not just some mincing pedophile”
At the king’s estate Bradley played,
Finally he was content,
With all the memories he made,
Created with money Cheston spent.
Bradley starred in reflection,
At a pond full of bright colored fish,
Suddenly he had a question,
“Cheston, for what else did you wish?”
The king answered loud,
“Why for riches of course,”
He said looking very proud,
“To give the kids out of remorse.”
Great wealth upon Brad he lavished,
Giving him tons of cash,
So that he could buy what he ravished,
And keep a hefty stash.
“This is too good to be true!”
Squealed Brad in a high girly voice,
“Well, its all just for you,”
Said lord Cheston to much rejoice.
Happily the king spoke,
“Take it, its yours to keep,”
Then with a choke, Bradley awoke,
And cried himself back to sleep.