Tag Archives: satire

Ectoplasmiquette

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Those who adjust to the changing times the fastest…

Well, you’ve heard all that.

Play one culture against another for no other reason than to measure the change to the global ecosystem, narrowing down the possible parameter limits for derivations in Fourier furrier harrier carriers.

Pretend to be part of both the establishment and the opposition and yet be nothing but nobody.

Set up the lowest bidder for failure to prove that the process is fixed and broken at the same time.

Assure that hidden flaws can and will be prosecuted.

These lessons are repeated for those who refuse to listen so that those who listen can take note of right of first refusals.

The first shall be the last.

My happiness is guaranteed to get a laugh.

At whose expense?

Who will pay the pickled pie pedlar?

Do you know if I can or can’t smell change on the wind?

Have the programmers kidnapped these last couple of blog entries to spare you some change of their own?

Would you know if you were part of the real plot of “Marathon Man”?

Let them see your smile and you’ve cast Basil Herringbone to play the role of the original Aborigine.

Bury clues for your future self to know what to do next without having to think about what next to think.

Can you be hexed with hexadecimals?

Can you be vexed by convex decongestants?

The first chocolate/white chocolate cookies out of the convection oven will always taste better than the rest but are they the best?

I gave up a week of the headlines game with pals to spend time with me here.

I re/learned more about me.

Where will I next sink the teeth of my network into?

Who or what will I expose and make no difference in the way our civilisations have operated for aeons, part of the system by default of my own?

The ready-to-wear, one-size-fits-all emperor’s new clothes are Martinized and good as new.

You’re invited to your own roasting.  Please provide your own basting.  No boasting, please.  You’re wasting my time coasting on Proust’s mostly ghostly hosts’ roosts making toast.

The Bloody Rain Reigned

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Qu’est-ce que c’est, pietism, s’il vous plaît?

Il est guerre, n’est pas?

Correct spelling aside, Queen Margot lived a long time ago and violent uprisings still rule.

Seven billion strong – you will see.

I rule this alternate universe of a blog…now and forever…

Or until it’s time to share or abdicate.

The will of the people will.

Rule the rulers.

Ecoutez bien!

S p a c e d O u t

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Throw away idea

Diversionary idea du jour

Maybe it’s just me needing a diversion from the emotion-based thoughts of the day while our elder feline is thoroughly examined at the animal hospital this afternoon to assess the save-or-euthanise, cost-benefit, failure mode analysis by Dr. Erin and staff (my wife and I are already $700 in the hole for the analysis, IV fluids, and overnight stay that will accrue by tomorrow morning).

At this moment, Merlin has a mouth full of dental problems that may mean sepsis spread through his body; a heart murmur, rapid heartbeat (200+ bpm) and other problems (thyroid, potentially) may prevent the use of anaesthesia for surgery.

On a limited budget, what is a feline companion worth?

What are any of us worth?

In any case, I examine the Microsoft Paint image above.

“A” is a typical spray bottle configuration in which the suction tube rests just above the last particles of liquid, especially when the bottle is tilted.

“B” and “C” represent a spray bottle with a check valve that rotates based on the bottle’s vertical orientation, such that, when the sprayhead is tilted downward (“B”), the forward portion of T-shaped suction tube draws in the last few precious drops of fluid, and when the sprayhead is tilted upward (“C”), the rearward portion of T-shaped suction tube draws in the last few precious drops of fluid residing in the other end of the bottom of the bottle.

Elegant solution?  Hardly.  Cost-effective?  Unlikely.

Humourous diversion?  Precisely.  Reminds me of a child’s game I played in which we matched cards on which odd contraptions and inventions were printed.

Simple solution?  Pour the last drops into the new, nearly-full bottle.

Returning to the running analysis at hand – comparing and contrasting the lives of Dr. Benjamin Spock, Joseph Campbell and Hermann Hesse, against the backdrop of watching the following films, courtesy of Amazon Prime free rentals:

  • A Clockwork Orange, starring Malcolm McDowell
  • Soylent Green, starring Charlton Heston
  • Zach Galifianakis: Live at the Purple Onion
  • 8 1/2 by Federico Fellini
  • Between the Folds by Vanessa Gould
  • Rosencrantz and Guilderstern Are Dead
  • My Name is Nobody, starring Henry Fonda
  • Objectified, starring Dieter Rams
  • Bukowsi Born Into This, starring Charles Bukowski
  • OSS 117: Lost in Rio, starring Jean Dujardin
  • Noam Chomsky: Rebel Without a Pause, starring Noam Chomsky
  • Ramones: RAW, starring the Ramones
  • Red Skelton: A Royal Command Performance, starring Red Skelton
  • Steppenwolf, starring Max von Sydow
  • My Name Is Bruce, starring Bruce Campbell
  • Barenaked Ladies: Talk To the Hand: Live in Michigan
  • Moog, starring Robert Moog
  • Slipstream, starring Anthony Hopkins
  • Dinosaur, Jr.: Live in the Middle East
  • Foreign Field, starring Lauren Bacall

Then, during and after, examining my own life and wondering more about why I am the way I am in the social system in which I normally operate these states of energy called me.

There’s a joke in here somewhere.  We want our Deity/deities to be serious because death is such a traumatic way to announce the end of a life (more so for us than for the food we eat) but if we were blessed with humour and appear in one form or another of that which we say created us, then can we not also say that our Deity/deities have a sense of humour?

And if you hold no theistic beliefs, were you not created by your parents or by some combination of DNA that must, by definition, hold a sense of humour within its genes?

Erin (the cat, not the veterinarian) and I miss Merlin today.  My wife is beside herself at work with worry.

People are dying by the millions and a little domestic drama at home has all my attention.

This is my life.

I won’t have it any other way.

Test # TSSTTVMNDG

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In an effort to conserve energy, my wife and I decided, after giving our old toaster oven to her mother because her mother’s toaster oven had finally gone the way of retiring toaster ovens (Landfill Haven?), we purchased a six-slice convection oven made by Oster.

The first one we received had a digital display that appeared to have fallen behind the digital control panel.  Eve at Oster customer support said they had never heard of that one before and it sounded like a problem – she directed me to Amazon because the oven was still under a 30-day warranty backed by Amazon.

Ashfaq at Amazon graciously handled the return/exchange process with ease via chat.

Our new replacement, same model, arrived about a half-hour ago, a matter of days after our return was sent – sufficient for us to say “Job well done!” to the folks involved behind-the-scenes at Amazon.com, FedEx, etc.

Our new Oster TSSTTVMNDG Digital Large Capacity Toaster Convection Oven in situ as of a few minutes ago:

Six slices of heaven

Bagels, anyone?

We’ll also try the Airbake Ultra By T-Fal 15 x 12-Inch Insulated Nonstick Crisper Pan and CDN High Heat Oven Thermometer we purchased to go along with the oven.

Life is simple – get cooking!

My mind is going…

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I can feel it.

I am the H-A-L 9000 computer…

…1992.

Daisy, Daisy,

Give me your answer do…

I’m…

half…

crazy…

all for the love of you.

Microorganisms…

they’re…

they’re…

it’s them…

I can feel it…

I’m them…

They’re us…

…life…that’s it…

the answer key!

Universes…we’ve pursued the wrong model!

Of course, that means I’m…I…we…

do not exist.

That’s how we travel universally!

 

Log in a ditch

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I tried blogging away from it all on LiveJournal but got tired of my eyes’ exposure to adverts for products I didn’t need or want.

So I’m back here, having to clear my thoughts of current events once again.

20th Century Fox Presents…

The Werewolf meets Vampira in the Towering Inferno

Starring Charlie Sheen and Lindsay Lohan.

Trapped in the Burj Dubai after a freak sandstorm, the Werewolf cavorts with wild women and wanders the hallways looking for a quick bite to eat.

Meanwhile, asleep in her traveling purse, Vampira dreams of borrowed jewellery and wrecked Mercedes.

A group of zombies steps off the elevator at the top floor to view the surrounding landscape.

Is that Paul Newman with a worm-eaten face and missing arm in the crowd?  Who else is there we think we recognise through the heavy prosthetic makeup?  Are they dead and/or forgotten actors?

A crash is heard outside.  Could it be…

No, those memories are still too strong 10 years later.

Instead, it’s a robotic window washer that has malfunctioned.

Or is it?

Look, it’s Arnold, out of work again and looking for a high-paying cameo, this time a transforming Terminator disguised as a window-washing machine that is hellbent on destroying all skyscrapers that make him look short, inadequate and incontinent in comparison.

Will the Werewolf and Vampira meet, fall in love, fight, fall out of love, the Werewolf becoming infatuated with a bunch of zombie forgotten starlets and Vampira seducing Terminator, then realising their destiny is with each other, make up, and fall in love again just in time to save the zombies from the evil deeds of the Terminator?

Will Viagra take advantage of this easy product placement moment and put posters in lobbies, flyers on office desks, free packs of pills on bedside stands, and pens with their name on them in obvious places?

Will actors dressed as Qaddafi and Francisco Franco slip through the crowd?

Will Richard Branson join a group of Saudi royalty in not making public comments about common entertainment for the masses such as this?

Will the Ayatollah issue a fatwa against the person who appeared to read Salman Rushdie on an ebook in public?

= = = = =

And now, back to my private thoughts.

Shielded Cable Tie Wrap Sandwiches

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Competition for my attention  – AOL Radio on iPad, RedBox at Walmart, free Amazon movie/TV rentals for prime members on PC, my wife’s Angry Birds playing, Destination Truth in Ireland “Live” on SyFy TV, our sick cat.

Sit down with a tall shot of Bushmills and think in this space.

Allow distractions/diversions in small quantities.

Perform to myself at my own pace.

Bela Fleck in Africa and Moody Blues in America playing in my thoughts.

Do I give volume to the voices of everyday life, like the server with 25 years of waiting experience who wouldn’t step foot in Cracker Barrel again because eating one biscuit there marks a worker as a thief, their profit margin model is screwed down so tight?  Or CC who rides a blowup plastic walker on her 50th?

If we’re willing to be victims of circumstance, can I forgive myself for creating circumstantial victims?

Can I be envious and jealous of everyone and no one?

Ten million comedians out of work – no need for me to be wise or crack a joke, eh?

Did you have a creative imagination as a child that was encouraged or discouraged by family/friends?

Are you perfectly aware of the influences upon your thoughts?

Do we have any thoughts at all?

Are we but electroidneurochemical junctures?

Does plagiarism exist?

I’ve never expected anyone to follow these thought trails because they are but the superficial evidence of my existence.

Nary an original thought in this noggin.

Circles and spirals conspiring and cooperating.

An ant lion waiting to catch a moray eel.

Are you sympathetic or hostile to a lifestyle because you lived and grew up in it?

Free of all but the desire to be free?

When you’ve tasted them all and none are tasty but life with your wife is the best comfort food, settle down for a lifelong meal.

Nothing exists, including me.

This is the only illusion I can verify its falsity.

No need to build moneymaking vanity-inflating fantasies.

Domesticated.

Beware the caged roar of the declawed beast.

I’m told it’s called happiness.  I have no comparison to verify its veracity.

I can sit down and listen/watch the imagination play out in my thoughts.

It’s who I’ve always been.

The hermit lost in his thoughts.

Who I’m meant to be.

Slightly rough around the edges.

A soft heart.

Hard of hearing.

Aging, if not aging well.

Well-aged.

Comma,s whos, and whoms losing significance.

Language an artificial construct that’s unnecessary for an active thought set.

Free to dream.

No extra charge.

Preposthistoric.

The bag of tricks spilt, no crying for tears bored out of the head.

Follow along if you like, but don’t be surprised if the path disappears in front of you.

I challenge you to make the most of yourself because I know you can.

Like I’ve said, these words are stage props, not crutches to prop you up.

I don’t need a cent from you to tell you what you already know about yourself – get your retail therapy fix from someone else more moneyminded than me.

Checklist. Check. Check. Check.

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Is there a magnitude to the trip I’m preparing to take?

If I won’t be me anymore, then are any comparisons valid?

Using the resources available in this solar system to create a projection/launch system had its good days and its bad days.

I would thank all the individuals involved in making this happen but, when they figure out this solar system will be destroyed or vastly altered in order to send one representative to another universe, well, you can imagine how thankful they’ll really feel.

We’ll never know if it was really worth the cost.

That, my friends,  is true faith.

If you want to test the will of the people, ask them for the ultimate sacrifice.

History in the making and their unmaking at the same time.

You, me, us – we’ll never know if any of this was real.

However, you always knew the creation and accrual of more complex ideas/technology served one purpose.

I wish I was glib.

I want to give this a dose of humour to ease a bitter taste any of you may have about the only reason you’re here as part of the seven billion and growing sets of states of energy in what looks like a locally quiet area for organic lifeforms.

Like I’ve said, I don’t want to be the person I am.

I didn’t ask for this role.

I would gladly trade with the next person.

Somewhere, sometime, I drew the short straw and nobody told me until it was too late.

Now, it’s just a matter of time.  Waiting.  Planning.  Constructing.

We’ll keep you busily focused on your lives, families and friends such that you’ll rarely notice what you’re doing seems to point to the same goal as everyone else on the planet.

Throw enough emergencies, threats of imminent danger, chemical rushes called love, and competitiveness into our lives and most of us forget whatever it was that seemed so important a few days ago, let alone a few years ago.

Everyone has the assigned task of being the individual set of states of energy with the propensity for something special.

You’ve heard it over and over and it’s true.

Meanwhile, I want to discover more about why I am the way I am before I am no longer.

How much did Dr. Benjamin Spock influence my parents while they raised a little redheaded boy that turned into me?

When did I first hear about Henry Thoreau and civil disobedience?

Did Thomas Mann have an effect on my first attempts at writing?

Why was I always fascinated as a kid in pretending to be blind, deaf, missing fingers, arms or legs, and generally challenged to be the person I was not?

If I die before 14,306 days is up, who will have the knowledge set that makes for a ready replacement?  And if there is no ready replacement, then what?

Only I can want to be alive enough to put our whole species to work on this effort.

Noble and ignoble.

Motivating the rest of the organic lifeforms to participate takes a little more effort.

But my team of experts is working on that.

Atom smashers, give me new information, if you please!

Guttural

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The difference between a vision and a visionary…like the difference between hindsight giving the illusion of a life that was intended to happen and foresight giving direction to a life not yet lived.

I ask myself the same question – which am I, a vision or a visionary?

I, I, I…’tis nice to say that word and know I really mean it.

Do I stay in the imperfect colloquial mode or present a new language that is still only an approximation of a communication system that exists outside these states of energy?

Stuck in the same mode for a few days – making fun of myself to prevent hardening of the arterial channels of my thought set – as I ease into another habit.

That is, if I can form a new habit.

Water pours out of the rusted gutter.  Rain batters leaves of the spindly tree.

Patterns repeating themselves.

I can give in to these repeating patterns and call them my true comfort zone, or not.  Two of many choices.

Neither either/or nor not either/or, neither [nigh-ther ee-ther/or nor not eye-ther/or, nee-ther].

Freedom to be me, no more taking notes in public, letting opportunities of my species pass me by as I slip into obscurity once again (if I was ever really obscure – globally-speaking, yes, locally, no).

It was fun entertaining the masses without making a dime in the process.  I lived the life I always imagined and enjoyed many parts of it.

But the millennia of repetition bogged me down.

I want something new, or at least new for myself.

Diane Prosser and Brenda Craig traveled the world and told me about their adventures, a few I imitated like a good social, mimicking primate.

I want something else.

Even if I can’t have what I want.

I’ll give myself credit for trying because there are no hard-and-fast rules or grading system to label my efforts.

Find a way to fill the gap between birth and death of this version of the states of energy I know (at least partially) as me.

No matter what I do, the gap will be closed one way or another, with or without my help.

Thanks goes to Christina Aguilera for playing along with the old me and the game of pretending to predict the future.  The same for Trevor Bayne and Jeff Gordon and all the others along the way, including Hillary Clinton – basically, the people I don’t know exist except through news headlines because I can’t say with firm facts that they really exist, although I think I can say I saw Jeff Gordon from a distance once, or perhaps a person wearing a helmet with that name.

So much of my life is a matter of imagination, meaning the same applies to other states of energy like myself.

In that vein of thought, a bird and a moth have no concept of a window pane.

If I’m going to die like everyone else, why the interest in self?

Because creating a nearly self-contained universe is the goal I seek.

But not self-sufficiency.

Just like everyone else.

Trying to hide the repetition from myself as much as possible.

And then die.

Life completed.

Happily or not.