"Who is Lord Spiffington?"
was the last thing I ever heard from my uncle. I only ever had one uncle, and I know there are a lot of things an uncle and nephew are supposed to do, especially when he's your dad's irresponsible little brother, his junior of more than 15 years. We did all those things. Paul was the coolest adult I ever knew. He used to take me out for bowling and ice cream on wednesday nights, although Mom strictly forbade it. I learned how to play poker and pool from him, and he gave me my first cigar. On my 21st birthday, we sat around and drank beer together, and he introduced me to the joys of pro wrestling.
I think Paul always liked me best, but maybe it's only because I'm a Paul, and it's kind of how it's supposed to be. Every generation, an Ed and a Paul, like clockwork, for four generations. It's funny, too, how Dad and great-uncle Ed and Great-Grampa are all the ones with successful careers and stable home lives, and how Great-great Uncle Paul and Grampa and Uncle Paul were just sort of detatched and free. Also, they were the ones who took over the family business. Paul wanted me to take over when he died, but I think he may be the last Paul Garrison in the business.
He just got slowly weirder and weirder as he got older. At the funeral last year, I didn't recognize him. They said it was mercury poisoning. I don't know how he came into contact with that, though. They say it used to be used in hat-making, and that's why you say someone's "Mad as a Hatter." I don't know. There at the end, Paul didn't remind me of Alice in Wonderland very much. He just sort of yelled obscenities and mumbled to himself. I drove over to pick him up, and we went bowling. He wouldn't even pick up a ball.
It's a scary thing to be confronted with your own mortality, especially when it's by watching somebody else die. Paul's hair was falling out then, and he was scary to be around. As I left the hospital room, he said to me "Fuck, boy, can't you do anything right? Who is Lord Spiffington?"
I don't regret walking away. There was nothing I could say. The man in the hospital bed wasn't my uncle.
I heard that it took him another year to actually die. And now here I am, dealing with his affairs (he said Dad couldn't, and that I'm the only one who's allowed to touch them), thinking too hard about the family business. Oh well. No sense fighting fate.
Posted at 12:32 AM
- - - - - - -
Once when you defined stagnation, you had a twinge. You knew deep down, somewhere, that you'd had that thought.
Stagnation is you, and it's what you become. It's not a word to be defined mechanically over and over in English Class, like a herd of robots, "Stagnation, to become, or attain the quality of being, stagnant, unchanging, static."
No, it's what you become when you stop paying attention. Days are horrible sometimes. You stop paying attention and the fuckers just FLY by, and suddently it's next week and you haven't done anything you were supposed to do, anything you told yourself that you would do because you are not, in fact, a slug, just a person with intents and motives, and thus a person who could damned well finish a project.
Any project will do. It doesn't have to be big, a novel, a world-changing piece of art. Finish anything but a meal. Finish something. Please. It's like looking at your life from the bottom of a well sometimes.
Did you hear someone say this weekend that you can either write or be social, but not both? That you can't be a real functioning part of society? Yeah. Did it resonate a litle too closely? Yeah. Do you still want to write? Desperately.
It's time for bed. It's time to recover. Maybe it's time to wake up a new man. Maybe it's just time to change life.
When you were a teenager, you mistook and twisted this feeling into a desire for suicide. Suicide, though, just ends this life, and ignores the fact that what you really want is to start a new one, where you can get things done and not hate what you do for money. I've gone back to high school for money, only not. rrrgh.
Just be calm. It only gets better. Lewis says everythig moves in cycles. He said it through Screwtape, but he still said it. Or wrote it. Whatever. It's easiest to lose your soul at low tide. Now is the time for care.
Posted at 12:45 AM
- - - - - - -
Posted at 4:09 AM
- - - - - - -
Did you pay attention?
again. It doesn't matter.
Did you get the trick that time? no, me neither.
just jumped in the creek
just saw the end of the day
it's all over
jumping up and down on a dead clown's back
What happened to my sane little life?
Where did all the blood go? Where did all the blood go?
Shining from my pit of despair
Shining from my pit of despair
Shining from my pit of despair
Everything happens for a reason
Stop looking at my shoes
It's all just falling apart, falling apart, falling apart
there are no constants, only variables and pain
Nothing is as it appears, nothing is as it was, nothing will be left, nothing is here now anyway.
be satisfied with what you have
It's all disappearing so fast
It's all got to go
It's all got to be temporary
It's all got to expire
It's all got to die
Nothing may remain
Nothing may remain
Nothing may remain.
There's a rope at the end
The're all coming for you
It's over before it starts
It's over before you got here
You can't win
You can't play
You aren't welcome
It's not about you anyway
Nothing's about you
Just go home
Wear your smile
Wear your rain coat
Wear yourself out
Where the blooms smell of cherry wine
Where nothing is as it seems
Where you stand, to remember, to know if you moved
In a dead woman't pocket
Leaking from a mouth in public
Shovled in circles in Paris
With no end in sight
Posted at 3:51 AM
My arms itch and I'm having trouble breathing. Everything is dark. My head aches and I know there's a welt on it, on the back, right where the swirl of my hair leaves a little bald spot, where Alfalfa has a cowlick.
The burlap of the sack I seem to be in is itchy and course. I can't open my eyes.. Somebody has tied a raw burlap blindfold over my face. It feels like I'm rubbed raw in at least three or four spots and like I'm going to have a rash in the morning.
I hope I have a rash in the morning.
I don't really know what's happening. I remember driving to work. There was a lot of traffic today and every red pickup truck in town decided I was the car to cut off and stop in front of. There's the only problem with driving a small car: people just assume you'r docile and you'll let them it. By about the twentieth big truck I was fed up. It had taken me an hour and a half and I was only half done with what should have been a twenty minute commute. When these two stupid frat boys in a big jacked up, chromed piece of crap decided to change lanes into me, I just hit my horn instead of letting them cut me off. The cars ahead of me moved ahead and I moved with them. These guys were left to wait for another sucker. It didn't help, though.
I was really, really late for work. I called the office at 8, and again at 9, letting them know where I was and what was going on. They didn't know what the problem was either. Everything was backed up. I finally pulled up in front of the building at 10am, two hours late.
The parking garage was absolutely full. On the bottom level, right by the ramp, there was one beautiful spot, but a truck pulled into it, apparently unable to read the spraypaited letters that said "Small Cars Only!" on the wall. He had been behind me, and zipped around me as I was about to pull into the spot. The driver was a young guy in a back-turned baseball cap and no shirt, wearing cutoff shorts and thong sandals. His girlfriend was dressed about the same, but with the addition of a bikini top and a bleached-out spit-end collection. As they got out of the car, both of them managed not only to hit the cars next to them, but to slam their doors repetedly into their neighbors and then lean on them as they got out. I couldn't help myself. I rolled down my window and shouted "Damn It, have a little consideration for the fact that you aren't the most important pair of ignorant Assholes on the planet! How can you think that's acceptable? What the hell is wrong with you?"
They just stared at me like a pair of really stupid statues. I drove off up the ramp, looking for another spot. The only other one open was in another section marked for small cars, and was half taken up by an SUV, parked crooked so as to consume three separate spots. I squeezed in, scraping the tip of my side rearview mirror in the process. I sat in my car, already more than two and a half hours late, and wrote a note to the SUV driver, telling him what I thought of his parking job. I told him that a monkey could have done better just by not having driven such an impractical, stupid vehicle in the first place, and that the no-doubt-lone driver with no passengers should consider the fact that the number of seats necessary for one passenger in a vehicle is, believe it or not, one, not twelve, and that this monstrocity was just wasting so much space. I said he should feel ashamed of himself. I left the paper under his windshield wiper, and labeled it "To Mr. Asshole, Driver of the Leviathon of the Small Car Spot."
Then I went to work.
In front of the building, we have a policy that people are not to smoke within 15 feet of the front entrance door. Outside, some punk was leaning against the sign to that effect, and about to light up a cigarette. I asked him if he wouldn't mind too terribly much just moving away from the building, as we have that policy in place to protect the non-smoking employees. He struck a match on the sign and looked at me for a long second.
"If you don't mind," I began.
"Fuck off, Grampa." He interrupted.
I stormed inside the building, and found a security guard. I gave him a good solid admonition for letting this policy fall lax. It was, after all, I said, for everyone's own good, and would he please go outside and remove the offending scofflaw from the premises. He looked at me dumbly, then shuffled out the door with a mumbled appology or curse or something. It's so hard to understand these mumblers.
Then I went to the accounting department, where the parking situations are handled, and first gave them an earful about the abominable parking situation. I demanded a return to the reserved spot system. Then, I told them about the trucks in the small car spots and demanded that some action be taken.
After that, the day went just about normal. Of course, my insensitive coworkers needed keeping in line, but I've taken that on along with my regular duties. I feel I owe it to the company.
At lunch, I checked on the parking situation with the accounting office. I explained to them that what I wanted was a person to patrol and have the trucks towed out of the small car spots. I wrote several memos to the accounting office and Vice Presidents of Human Capital, Fiscal Affairs and Operations, explaining my problem.
At 5 I made my way out to the parking lot. I remember a sharp blow to the head, and then I woke up in this burlap sack.
I think I'm in the trunk of a car, and one in need of suspension by the feel of it. I don't know what's going on, and I'm getting scared.
Why do these bad things always happen to me?
Posted at 3:42 AM
From where I am sitting, I can touch God.
He's in the next booth, and I can smell a trace of his cologne. Not a whole lot, like stupid yuppies wear, where it crushes your whole nose and makes you want to barf; just a whiff. I can't place the scent. It smells soft and whispy, like clouds. Maybe he just smells like that all the time. It reminds me of being a child, when I'd smell something, then try to go back later and have it smell different, not so neat. New toys used to smell so good, but now they just smell like plastic. This is like finding a smell when you were a kid, and then finding that it smelled the same, just as magical when you are an adult.
He's wearing a blue suit. It's a very tasteful one, with a banded collar, kind of like a priest should wear, if he wants to be fashionable. His hair is black and curly, and he's got perfect, smooth olive skin. His eyes, when I cought a flash of them a moment ago, are very deep black, with very well-defined whites, the two perfect examples of the colors, deep and bright, inky and glowing, in absolute contrast to each other. They are like a perfect Yin Yang. He looks very middle-eastern, and yet not. From the right angle, he looks more mexican or asian or even sometimes like a well-tanned European. It's hard to say what kind of ethnicity he is. I couldn't help but notice he's wearing very snazzy blue shoes with black laces. They're shiny and not scuffed or dirty at all. He really looks like he has everything together.
I haven't heard him talk yet. He's just sitting there playing with a palm pilot. A minute ago he had one of those fold-out keyboards out and was writing something in a big hurry. You can tell, he types really well, and really fast, too. It must have been an important thought, too, because when he put the keyboard away I think I heard him give a thoughtful "hmm." Now he's just playing with the thing. It makes the occasional beep or whistle, but he's a really quiet person, it seems.
The waitress didn't even ask him what he wanted. She just brought over a big salad and a cup of coffee. I noticed she left him extra cream and she changed out his sugar cup for him. I think he probably just gets that kind of service everywhere he goes. If he doesn't I guess it's all for the best. Divine plan and all that, yeah?
He hasn't touched his salad except to take out the croutons and put them on a plate and eat one of the cherry tomatoes. I guess he's like me in that. He doesn't eat the croutons either. Sometimes you just have to be in the right mood. And when the tomatoes are ripe, and I guess he can tell if anybody can, they're really good, when they've just got a little spot of dressing on them so it doesn't cover the taste all the way and just adds a little zip to the flavor. Yeah. He's done this before.
I wonder if, every time he looks at something he thinks "I did a good job on that," or "I need to fix that. I'll get around to it," or something. Is it kind of like the guy who builds machines for a shoe factory going out shoe shopping? I don't know.
The whole impression, though, is just that he looks absolutely comfortable and at ease. He's doing his own thing and loving it.
I feel like I'm seeing the better version of me, the version with all the upgrades, where the engineers have taken out all the stupid features and replaced them with ergonomic ones that work every time and never burn out. I'm the model T, and this guy's the flying car the uses no gas, puts out no pollutants and folds up into a 6-pound suitcase.
I think he's done. He ate his salad, and obviously enjoyed every bite. He chewed slowly and closed his eyes while he ate. After each bite, he waited a couple of seconds and just seemed to enjoy the flavor. It's the same crappy dressing I got on my salads here a hundred times. He just seems to be able to relish it properly. After his salad, he drank his coffee. I couldn't help noticing that it was still steaming. He had the first sip black, and then, while he was still smiling from it, he opened a creamer and a sugar packet. He added a little of each, then had another sip. He kept that up, sip by sip until at the bottom it was probably just a sip of cream and sugar with a little coffee flavor in it.
He left a pretty good tip. God, it seems, tips 30%. I hope the waitress knows what she's got. After he was gone, she just came around and picked up the money and wiped down the table. God didn't leave a mess and he seems to have bussed his own dishes. I wouldn't even know where to put them. I always leave a mess at this kind of diner. I thought that was why you leave a tip.
It's a funny thing. You can't just walk up and say "Wow. You're God. I love what you've done with Honey Dew melon. I think it's your best work. I have your book here, will you sign it?" I think that would be rude. I just let him go. When he noticed me staring, he gave me a little wink and a thumbs up. Obviously, he knew I knew who he was. He was very cool about it.
All in all, God seems to be an alright guy. I've got to find out where he gets his suits made. If I could look half that good, I'd be satisfied.
That was a good looking suit.
Posted at 2:59 AM
It's too easy to fall out of love.
Lewis said, through Uncle Screwtape, that everything in life moves in an ebb and flow. All aspects of life rise and dwindle all the time, on different cycles. During the low times, it's easy for a devil to distract a human and insert the belief that low tide means the ocean will never come back.
I have to be careful. I let myself not write for too long. It's all about getting out of my stupid human funk and dealing with this like a sensible adult.
I'm looking back and I can see that I've let myself slowly become afraid to actually compose anything. It's all about me. It's all about mundane crap.
I cought myself tonight trying very hard not to get to a writers' meeting. I didn't want to write. It's still a little odd. I just invented a trio of characters I want very badly to write about, and I can't because I'm scared.
It's all just stuff.
I think the accident effected me more deeply that I thought. I've been overtaken by sudden momentary urges; to dance; to sing; to cry; to lash out at the world that has become so oddly muddled for me.
This week has been like walking through my life with the lights off. I know my way around, I know what's happening and I can feel my way through it. I've been walking around in the dark. I don't know how to find the light switch or make it be day time. I assume this will pass with time.
I am still not entirely convinced that I am not dead. For about a day and a half, I was absolutely sure my nose was broken. I'd look in the mirror and be shocked to see my face the way it usually looks. Now I just feel as though any second I'm going to suddenly snap back and realize that this is an elaborate fantasy I concocted in the second before the car hit the ground, and I'm actually very much dead. At the end of this, years from now when the accident should be a long-forgotten event in a happily examined life, I'll suddenly snap out of the chair I've worn into the shape of my expanding, wrinkly butt, and be my young self again, falling ten feet into a creek bed, but this time I'll be dead.
Someone told me once that heaven and hell are just the second as you die, when you brain panics. Your sense of time goes away and you create a reality because yours is about to be perminantly denied you. I am afraid that's what this is.
The optimist says: then why not live this out to the fullest? Why not just enjoy it, suck the marrow out of life, and get what you can, as it's your reality to create or destroy or simply to exist in. Why tiptoe quietly through your delusion only to arrive safely back in the car careening to your death?
The answer: The reason I am still not convinced I am alive is because there is a film over my life. I'm looking at my life in a freezer through plastic wrap. Things happen around me, I am sure I have control, but in a very indirect, frighteningly odd kind of way. Life is life. What is mine?
There is, of course, no answer to this. After making sure we were alive and collecting our garbage bag of soggy personal items, my Dad told me not to think about it. He said that, had any little thing been different, had we stopped for gas somewhere else, had Toshi had to pee ten percent less, had we stopped at a motel as I jokingly suggested, had we started ten minutes earlier, had we been in a different car, had we stopped and eaten our ice cream in the parking lot and watched the bastard in the truck whizz by on the highway from a distance, had we felt a little sick and stayed home, had we been wearing different shoes, had we felt a little amorous and stayed in for an extra twenty or thirty minutes, had we driven on 290 instead of I-10, had we been two feet off three feet further along, had we stopped to make chit-chat with any of the hundred people we saw along the way at gas stations or the fast food joint (did we stop at a fast food joint?), had we stopped for a real dinner instead of crap, had we eaten at home before going, had we considered waters six seconds longer, had I taken a moment to consider which shoes I was going to wear, had I laid out my clothes for work the next day, had we put out the garbage on the corner, had I called my parents or any other living soul before leaving, everything would have been different. He said that's a good way to drive myself crazy. He's right, but I feel a little better for having thought it like that.
After the wreck, I missed a day of work. At lunch on Tuesday, I met with Toshi. I had been telling everyone I felt fine. While sitting at a table and chatting, my ears suddenly opened up and I could actually hear again. I didn't know before that I couldn't, but it was like somebody took the cotton out of them and everything was actually alive where it had been damp.
I'm still waiting for my life to do that.
I need to write. I'm scared to start.
Posted at 2:28 AM
- - - - - - -
People who use hold music without thinking about it ("It's peppy! and UpBeat!") are funny.
It was funny when the commercial used "My own Worst Enemy," a song about getting drunk and driving home, to sell SUVs.
I just called a Toyota dealership who are using "Once in a Lifetime" as hold music. I hope David Byrne is laughing somewhere.
Posted at 10:30 AM
- - - - - - -
Ok. Fixed it with help from FAQ stuff. Worked great.
I went to the template and clicked "save changes."
I went to Archive, clicked "Archive Template" to edit the archive template.
I clicked "save changes."
I clicked "publish" when it kicked me back to my main page.
I got a 104 Error.
I logged out.
I logged back in.
I clicked "Publish"
It worked again.
On that: The first five steps fix the 503 error. The last three fix the 104 that showed up after I fixed the 503, perhaps because, perhaps in spite, whatever. The coolness is being able to post again.
The crap at the end is forgetting what you were gonna say that was so important you were digging in the FAQs for a solution to this problem so you could put your thoughts on the web RIGHT NOW.
The Jubilation after that is realizing that it wasn't really important, and that you're alive and that's what counts, and you have a sleepy and not-feeling-well Toshi you should be going into the other room to say good night to and you are done with this for the moment.
See ya'all tomorrow.
Posted at 12:56 AM
Or not. Crap.
Posted at 12:50 AM
So blogger seems to be working. Thanks, Guys!
(I'm not sure who fixed it, but I'm glad all the same. At least my little corner of Bloger was having a problem where my template wasn't loading right. I was really scared it was gonna be something that I'd have to, like, fix from the inside, or something. I'm glad the blogger peeps took care of it. They are cool like that.)
On with the frivolity.
Posted at 12:49 AM
- - - - - - -
We had a car accident yesterday.
There is an onramp on the highway with a two foot shoulder leading to a culvert dropoff into a creek. There is no sign or guard rail there, and you only have to be two feet over from where you have to be for your car to flip over and land, upside down in the creek. I know this personally.
The mustang is no more.
We landed on the bank of the creek, with the rear end of the car in the water. Every piece of paper in the car (including, sadly, my Toastmasters financial information) is wet.
Toshi has a few bruises and a couple of little scrapes. There is a burn on her chin and another on her knee. Her dress had some holes burned in it from the gas coming out of the airbag.
I'm OK. My knee hurts, and I have some irritation on my kneck from my seatbelt. My hip is a little stiff. All in all, we can't complain.
The car was upside down. By the time I took a big lungfull of the gas that comes out of an airbag, and was done realizing that I had screwed up pretty well, Toshi was right-side up, sitting on the roof in the back seat, telling me to kick the door open. Wow. Toshi is a superspy.
We got out OK. She lost a shoe in the creek. All my CDs are wet. I think we lost the signed one from Neil Gaiman that she had. That was sad.
We're OK. We're at my parents' house in Huntsville now. I haveta look at new cars. I'm feeling very small and very mortal.
Posted at 12:45 PM
- - - - - - -
Wow. That worked out really well. I think I actually see it coming together.
Posted at 2:04 AM
So, I was thinkin,' and nobody else told me that I was supposed to do anything different.
So I kept thinkin.'
I think it'll be three stories. I started the one about Vinnie. I already mentioned Fredo and Gino, and I think the story will sort of encompass and swallow them. I want it to start where it does on the train, then move sort of off and into the domain of Fredo and Gino. I didn't name Vinnie in the original story. I'll have to do that in the rewrite, I suppose.
I think I'm gonna have to sort of timeline this out.
Posted at 1:59 AM
- - - - - - -
Wow. There's a copy of Warcraft III on my desk. Angelbob rocks.
Posted at 11:51 PM
I also saw MIB2, but I saw it at the alamo drafthouse which is a great movie theater.
Posted at 11:49 PM
Hey! I'm on My brother's live journal. Nifty.
Posted at 11:48 PM
You can readandreadandreadandreadandreadandreadandreadandreadandreadandreadandreadandreadandreadandread
andreadandreadandreadandreadandread and you'll never be but what you started out being because you're just reading.
You can writeandwriteandwriteandwriteandwriteandwriteandwriteandwriteandwriteandwriteandwriteandwriteandwriteandwriteandwrite
writeandwriteandwrite and you'll just be spewing out the same crap. You can't change. You can't evolve You can't do anything. Deal with it.
You can copeandcopeandcopeandcopeandcopeandcopeandcopeandcopeandcopeandcopeandcope and you'll still be surprised by every little piece of crap that pops up in your lousy life. What? I left the keys in the car and somebody stole it? What? I was rude to a random stranger and now he doesn't like me? What? I told me girlfriend to leave and she left? What? I left the stove on and now my kitchen's on fire?
Posted at 11:26 PM
Posted at 12:51 AM
Oh yeah. And I glued him back onto his base where he fell off, by the way, so Jon, if you wanna battle, I got my one-to-three hundred points all ready.
Posted at 12:51 AM
I never thought I'd be one to customize toys, and yet there's a pretty seriously customized one behind me right now.
The first, and perhaps most important, change was a tiny stroke of paint on the text of the base of the toy. It used to say "Sentinel." Now it says "Sentinčl." I thought it sounded more street; more thug; more... Pimp.
Say it with me.
Then I started the real painting. He's got white Nikes. They have swooshes. Yo.
He's got a gold chain, a gold tooth, and big rings. I think he's gonna have a big gold watch before I'm done. Bling Bling.
He already had a funny-shaped head, so I just turned it into a ski-cap.
He's got velvet pants, a leopard-print jacket and a wife-beater T. Like, real ones, sized to fit him.
He looks thug. He looks street. Sentinčl. Yo.
Posted at 12:49 AM
- - - - - - -
I started a story which I will transcribe and finish. Until then, I hope this'll hold you:
From the hills they came, a tougher breed of human, one who have lost a weakness behaviour which took generations to make second nature.
They have lost the urge to nap.
Using this newfound adjustment which some call an advancement and some call simple de-evolution, they conquer those who are, without question, more civilized than they.
In their napless frenzy, they brought the single greatest army to its knees. They ejected the native people from several regions, despite the funding, training and often the actual presence of one of the greatest superpowers in the world, at the time. They went on to control one of the fiercest armies in the world, leaving no area without, if not actually winning a real victory, at least dropping a trail of economic and social devestation.
To defeat the British armies, the Americans won their most decisive victory at valley forge on a major holiday, by attacking in the dead of night when most of the British soldiers were asleep. Texas was taken by a direct assault on Mexican forces during a prescribed time of rest during the hottest part of the day, when any civilized person would be in shade. Americans fight at tea time. Americans fight on holidays. Americans fight all night every night until interest is lost.
This world is run by empires on the downswing. In those states, as documented in previous falling empires, the upper classes tend to emulate the lowest in social patterns, speech and general demeanor. Lower classes become heroes and idols. Where is there greater proof than the lack of napping in so-called "civilized" nations throughout the world.
Really, the first line came to me, and the rest sort of flowed naturally. Maybe I want naps throughout the day. Actually, I know I do.
Posted at 1:06 AM
"It won't fix it overnight," said Dr. Derek Scott, DDS.
It hurts more now, 4 days later, than it did when he worked on it Friday morning.
And now my jaw won't close right.
And now I've put his name on the web. Don't go to him.
That's a favor from me to you.
Posted at 12:55 AM
- - - - - - -
*spoiler*This is about dentistry, but there will be no descriptions of gross dental procedures.*spoiler*
"So, your bite isn't fitting together right, huh?" he says, picking up his drill. It's the first thing he's said to me, and he's coming at my mouth with the drill.
"No, actually, that's not it all," I say. He hasn't missed a beat. Not a pause. "It's actually that my back tooth is really sensitive to cold. I can't drink from water fountains. I'll be OK for a minute, then the tooth hurts, and it feels like somebody is taking a pair of pliers to the back of ngy ngouch." The drill enters. The tip is touching the top left tooth. The bottom left tooth is the one that hurts.
He pauses. "Oh. So it's just a chewing problem?"
"No," I say. "It's the sensitivity to cold."
"We'll adjust the bite. That should fix the problem."
They've started the air over my tooth. It's cold. I jump and say "Ow."
"Oh. It's that sensitive," he says. Then, "Go get some ice," he says to the dental assistant.
Man. What a way to spend a morning.
They ended up taking all of the bite off my back left molar, so it doesn't touch the top at all. It's great, but all it did was make it so I can't close my mouth on that side. Goody. My jaw still aches, my teeth still feel like they aren't closing right. I am so gonna start looking for another dentist. In a week. Or so. Dammit.
I really don't want to go back. I've never had dental issues before, but I really don't want to let anybody else look inside my mouth.
Posted at 9:45 AM
(Screen is black. Silence for 6 seconds. "narrator.wv")
Hello Friends, and welcome to
(echo, preset6, rmsz10K,Act10K,Metal Plate)
001(Cut to Randomland logo "rllogo.gif", bk w/ hele shot of themepark; :03 T5-43:210-43:240)
Did you bring your toothbrush? Good. You won't be needing an umbrella!
002(cut to shot of kids throwing away umbrellas, holding up passports; :03 T2-0:164-0:194)
Did someone say fish? Here at
RandomLand somebody is always saying fish, much to everyone's delight! Isn't that right, sir?
003(cut to shot of man with smile) ("yes fish yess" :04; T1-15:044-15:086)
RandomLand nobody is ever sad or lonely. Hope to see you soon!
004(show shot of Bill, hndstnd, pratfall, etc.) ("whee" :06; T1-38:169-38:226)(OL "disclaimer.tx" t-approx :040)
The happest place in RandomLand!
Posted at 12:33 AM
was about to post a minute ago, but the rat needed more vasaline.
OK, so it's a hamster, not a rat.
And so the vasaline was for the hamster wheel so it'll quit making a sound like a rusty iron gate blowing back and forth.
The point is, I lead a very mundane life that, when taken out of context, can be made funny.
Posted at 12:13 AM
- - - - - - -
Posted at 8:45 PM
Posted at 8:44 PM
I feel relaxed, I feel happy, I feel well. I'm going to sleep.
I have another dentist appointment on Friday. I think that's a lot of why I've been so full of complaint. My tooth hurts. It should be a pretty simple fix, and I promise not to describe it here. I know it's gross.
I think it'll take about half an hour, all told.
Also, I get off work early tomorrow, as it's the forth. I snuck out early today because there was no event and I was scheduled to work an event tonight. Scheduling error in my favor. Life is wonderful. I met up with a buddy of mine who I haven't seen in a while, and we had middle eastern food, then I dropped him off for an evening pub crawl. I went to 503 (remeber 503? I used to play live music there) to play live music at an open mic night. I'm really really pleased with the job we did. We played one song that Flash wrote on the road recently, and then a version of dueling banjos which got the crowd on their feet (setup: a guitar, a banjo and drums; a techno-type beat; dueling banjo v. guitar), then another song from the road trip. Winston just had his tongue pierced, so his singing was a little mushy, but I think it added to the overall feel.
Just when we got the person who was running the open mic night to like us (Kade rocks, plain and simple, once he figured out what we were doing he started playing along), he quit and was replaced with a couple of people who play rotten music and like it. They brought with them a bunch of drunk or otherwise messed up people, and the woman stays on the stage for everybody else's entire performance, turning down the levels so you can't get very loud. In our case, she turned Flash's mic off (at the mic) and just shrugged when he looked at her because he wasn't getting any sound. He turned it back on half-way through the first number. She looked really really mad. She doesn't like them. She asked "So, are you guys just going to scream tonight, or are you going to play music."
We still did a Hell of a show, and we didn't scream at all. The audience did, but we didn't.
They like the kind of stuff with two guitars and one person singing about losing a girlfriend or being the only person who noticed that life is sometimes unfair. Before we went on, she let a girl playing slide guitar sit up there for 45 minutes, admittedly with two other guitar players one at a time, but it was a)the same music and b)three times the limit. Oh well. Next week I'm signing up and playing banjo metallica covers for 15 minutes. Or so.
Ok. Sorry. Gotta go to bed. Still haven't decided how I like IE. It pops up ads and talks to other sites when I'm not looking. It tried to download a windows update without asking me first. It opened a different page each time I opened it until I told it to cut that shit out. Oh well.
Soon, I promise, no more about me. Soon, more web, less journal. I just have to let it out sometimes. It keeps me occupied.
Posted at 1:32 AM
- - - - - - -
I've been pretty whiny for the last day or so. Oh well. Now I'm better.
Is it just me, or is 'Handy Dandy Notebook' a meme most of my generation missed out on? I'm just happy because I have one (Just like Jon, who is cool like me) (and like Steve, of course). I often say "I'll just get my handy, dandy notebook." People look at me funny. Oh well. Off to my happy birthday, which, by the way, I am most certainly having. YAY!!!!!
Posted at 11:56 PM
I got off work early, I'm goin' out to eat and play music at an open mic.
And I still feel a little bad about switching browsers.
Posted at 6:16 PM
Hell. You try, you know? You try and try. Sometimes the little guy just deserves to lose.
but it still hurts.
Posted at 12:21 AM
Happy Birthday to me
Happy birthday to me
I sold out
happy birthday to me
Posted at 12:21 AM
And here I am, posting happily from a new browser. I have joined the evil empire. I guess he was my father after all.
Posted at 12:16 AM
I'm installing IE6. If I have one more day like this, I'm scrapping the whole piece of crap and buying a new computer from somebody who makes 'em all the same, buying the same options everybody else gets, and living with it. Screw this. If it don't work, what's the point? I support independent computer people working withing the system only until their product fails to do what I want it to do. As I only use a browser to (surprise, fucking surprise) browse the web, I say that when it quits doing what I want, I'm getting another one that works.
Mozilla was difficult but functional at first. Now, screw this.
Posted at 12:10 AM
- - - - - - -
I can't count how pissed I am at my browser right now. Screw this. Hello Microsoft, goodbye fucking indie. Screw this. Screw this. Screw this.
Mister mouse, please send a message over to mister "unistall piece of crap button."
Posted at 11:53 PM
God Damn it God Damn it God Damn it God Damn it God Damn it God Damn it God Damn it God Damn it God Damn it God Damn it God Damn it God Damn it God Damn it God Damn it God Damn it God Damn it God Damn it God Damn it God Damn it God Damn it God Damn it God Damn it God Damn it God Damn it God Damn it God Damn it God Damn it God Damn it God Damn it God Damn it God Damn it God Damn it God Damn it God Damn it God Damn it God Damn it God Damn it God Damn it God Damn it
Posted at 11:52 PM
1And Lo, MisterNihil did say: That's really damn obnoxious, as he tried to download the newest version of Mozilla because he didn't want to use IE5.anything*.
2And blogger did say tough shit, pally
3For those are the two choices; Be only glad we give you a choice of other than the One True God*
4For Bill's is the Way and the Light*, and Bill's is the one true path.
5Then did MisterNihil storm away and say "Screw You Guys, for I am Going Home."
6"And download Mozilla, yet."
*A registered trademark of Microsoft
Posted at 11:44 PM
- - - - - - -
Once, when I woke up, I found myself removing pictures from the wall. I'd apparently been at it for a while, as my bed had all of the items from my wall laid out neatly on it. That was a long time ago.
Now I don't do that anymore.
Posted at 11:44 PM
a nonny nonny and a Mouse-cha-cha!
Posted at 11:41 PM
Anony mouse pos tin g fo r600 sec ond s.
Y ay! !
Posted at 11:40 PM
Does it hurt, tell me, does it hurt?
Finding out you're not your fuckin name brand shirt?
Does it hurt, tell me does it give you pain,
Finding out you're nobody you don't even have a name?
-Flash, on Humanity
Posted at 11:17 PM
Open you eyes and step outside. You've been in here too damned long.
He looked at me and said
Posted at 11:15 PM
This is not fencing. You may not repost.
Ha Ha. I am funny as anything that is as funny as me.
And then some.
Posted at 11:14 PM
what was that?
Now I have no toys
Buck an'a half
kicking rocks at boys
jump into an open hole
run into a wall
nothing there to stop some one
when they trip and fall
In my shoe
jumping on a daisy
To fill a room with crazy
Ippity Bippity bop and then
He looked at me and said
Posted at 11:13 PM
So, when I got to work, the guy who is in charge of the events wasn't there. I got to welcome the author myself, get her and her escort (husband? I dunno) coffee and water, make them comfortable and make the first store-wide page of the evening to let people know about the event. The guy who is actually my boss and is in charge did get there, but he had been without any form of utility including phone, water, electricity, etc. all day. Apparently this is a worse storm than it looks like.
Of course, it looks like a drizzle now. Whatever.
Posted at 11:11 PM
Then to work again. We have an event tonight, which means I'm the guy who has to be there. Now I sleep. clever later.
Posted at 6:31 AM
I remember getting to work, I remember doing something, I remember leaving. Can it possibly now have been 12 hours since I got there?
Somebody said, "Are you in Zombie Mode yet?"
I replied, "Yeah. I feel numb from the chin-up."
Actually, I think I said that to somebody else. I don't remember a lot of tonight.
We inventoried tonight. Two floors, something like 2000 titles or something. Lots. More than any other independent book store in Texas, and more than pretty much any given chain book store. Maybe 12000? I don't remember. Lots. and lots.
How inventory works:
1) Pull a book out from the shelf
2) Scan the lable
3) repeat for 12 hours, or until you begin to forget who you are and what the hell you saw in this.
Oh, yeah. Overtime. So, for cash I'll deaden myself into a zombie. Wow.
By the by, They solved the 'H' problem, in much the way Flash suggested, only they took two 'I's and drew a line between them.
I think it looks ugly, but I also didn't have to put it up so I am happy.
Posted at 6:29 AM
- - - - - - -
|All material copyright 2002-2003 Ben Gibbs.