Re:

Part of the fun of knowing me is random inebriated emails. Most of the time, I forget what I said until I get the reply. This one made me laugh, so I thought I would share it. This was an email to a friend I've kept around off and on for a few years. She's occasionally cool. Sometimes, I enjoy her company. She sort of means something to me every so often. In a platonic sort of way, of course.

Hi. You whined one time about a lack of emails I send you. I felt terrible and it kept me up for weeks. In fact, only recently have I quit crying.

A pleasantly grouchy woman acosted me today as I was placing heavy things in a high place and said, "So, are you the person...", she put great emphasis on that word, "...who has been working electrical?"

I replied, "Sometimes. I do when Patty doesn't or can't because of her fear of heights. Acrophobia is the dreadest of fears, for just the other day I was pontificating..."

She had none of it. She kicked my ladder and hissed, "Well, that explains it. I find cartons misplaced and displaced every morning, thrown at random into coves and hollers for which they are not designed."

"I find that amazing and amusing, Creature," I said to the hissing, vile menace, "for I, and most of my fellow night workers, have complained on numerous occasion of the disheveled condition which we inherit every day from your fellow day workers. Perhaps the real villian lies outside the coziness of our own Orange camp."

She ripped out a shelving unit with her dripping mandibles. Crushing it for effect, she intoned, "Thus will I do to the workers of the night, evil with laziness who destroy my order!"

I leapt from the ladder to the ground and pulled out Fayre Laurelle, my trusty safety-designed utility knife, from it's enchanted scabbard (latin for scabbard is vagina.) She blew fire from between the seeping nostrils atop her head which I blocked with my enchanted orange apron. I thrust the knife into her loins and with great cry did she begin to melt. I shouted thus:

"Can you not see, foul creature?! Forsooth, our lives are beset by only two truths: that energy is conserved and converted in all systems and that entropy is undeniably present in all systemic procedures! Anon, we fighteth the tides of physics so! Your organisation of your feif will fail, and that miserably, without constant attention from your minions and my people. Why do you insist upon being such a contankeruous bitch? Were it not for the disintegration of all man's puny plans, what job would we have? I shine the light of reason upon you!"

I made the symbol of entropy on her forehead. She immediately turned into Natalie Portman. We rubbed parts and she bore me twin boys who will one day rule the People's Republic of Colorado with justice and mercy. Their names are Jamis the Bold and Ford the Steadfast.

Thus did we live happily ever after.

Bitch.

The People Examiner For US!

Lately, I have had to read magazines. No one is forcing me, but on my breaks at work, I have the choice of smoking, court TV or magazines.

You know what? National Geographic, hell yeah. Smithsonian, absolutely. Outside, sure. Men's Health, um...Sort of. There's way too many half dressed guys in that magazine. No, I have a magazine that is either titled "Us", as in a group of you and me, or "US", as in United States. I haven't been able to figure it out, it has nothing to do with either me and you or the country at large. There is a magazine called "People" in which they focus not on the populace, but on a small set of persons to a very obscene extent. A publication by the name of "Examiner" worried me until I found that it did not deal whatsoever with any matters of a gynecological or liturgical nature.

It inspired me. There is so much news out there that I had no idea about. I spent most of a decade outside the loop on day to day American and world gossip that didn't pertain to incendiary devices and mass conflag. That being said, someone went to the trouble to print this crap. It must be important to have made such a huge dent in the ink production of this country and several third world dictatorships, but how many other people are ignorant of all these important events? Surely anyone who avoids the use of smileys. They should not be in the dark, as I was. So, I have a new addition to this site:

The People Examiner for Us

All the real news!

Watch out for the next SoCal non-potable water shortage since it looks like the women of Hollywood have been drinking ho's water for the last couple years I been away. The chick with that one song that used to be popular was seen making out with Jared Leto at some bar or some shit like that. The stupid blonde chick, you know? Married to the Backstreet Boy? She was Daisy Duke in the last piece of rednexploitation. Yeah, she hit it off with the guy. DWTF? He had his paws all over Jennifer Connelly in Requiem for a Dream and he goes for some peroxide bimbo? Standards are lost on this guy. About five years ago I saw his band, 30 Seconds to Mars play in Virginia Beach. They sucked.

Speaking of ignorant backwoods Americans, obesity is blowin' up the spot! A lot of famous people are getting fat. Some moron followed them around long enough to get a picture of them showing some very average bellies in unflattering light, now they are on the cover of magazines. Fame is so fickle! Also A lot of famous people are dangerously thin! Usually the ones who were fat two months ago. If they had LA eating habits in Wisconsin Cows, no one could have any good cheese.

Speaking of melodramatic bovinous creatures with eating disorders, Britney Fucking Spears. DWTF??!! Something went very, very wrong there. A trailer park is rolling over in a tornado right now seeing the way she's been acting. Just like most people from Arkansas, she doesn't realize she has gotten fat! She did an interview with a guy who looked like a reporter and the photo from the session clearly shows bat flaps under her glutinous triceps. One good thing to come from her manteca career was her first single, Hit Me Again and Put Some Stank On It, Bubba Joe. I think that's what it was called anyway. Something about hitting her back when she was sixteen in any case. The song was terrible, but it launched the career of bassist Andy Hess, eventual replacement for Allen Woody of Gov't Mule.

Speaking of people who should procreate:

Angelina Jolie had a freakin' baby! What the hell? I didn't know she was pregnant! The dad is the dude from Fight Club, and apparently, he's been tapping that ass for a while, now. Also, Angelina must be a total skank because she already has four kids and NONE OF THEM LOOK ALIKE! Not a one. Shit, they don't even look like they belong to the same ethnic backgrounds. My advice, keep your legs shut for longer than it takes to pull 'em out of the stirrups at the maternity ward!

Speaking of skanks popping out kids, Tom Cruise knocked up a twelve year old runaway. Her name is Katie something and she must be famous because everyone else knows who the hell she is. I'll meticulously research this for a future update. Stay Tuned!!!

Oh yeah, the singer's name is Jessica Simpson. The chick from The Dukes OF Hazzard married to the gay singer? And holy fuck, she's got a sister! Her sister actually looks a little more sultry, less like a Jack Russell Terrier, and she's the one who fucked up on SNL. Yeah, that girl, the one who forgot how to lip synch, and Jessica are related. Who knew?

Not me, and not you. Until now!

See you next week!

UPDATE!!!

The rest of the world is very happy this week. The US Soccer Team lost the Football World Series. Apparently, there was a group of shepherds from some obscure country in Africa that handed asses to Our Guys. In their defense, they were a soccer team and it was not fair to trick them into a football game. They probably didn't even have the right pads or cleats. The official statement from the US has been, "We have a soccer team? Well, we may have lost a game for skinny guys and wusses, but we were too busy being heavily armed and easy to offend. Keep laughing, Uganda."

iFAQ

Yes, infrequently asked questions. I have had some form of internet presence now for a year and a half or so, and here are some of the more interesting questions from all my creative time wasting pursuits. These are actual questions I have received in relation to my sites. Obviously, a couple of these questions are not from this site. Some are kind of dumb, and therefore funny:


do you totally hate_____?

Probably not anymore than I hate anyone who isn't a hot marine biologist or writer. A hot poetress marine biologist. With a Sratocaster, wait, Thinline Telecaster. Hmmm. What was the question?

So, how do I start my truck with a screwdriver?

First of all, this is either referred to as jumping or gap-starting. Make sure the truck is not in gear. Make sure the truck is not in gear. Finally, make sure the truck IS NOT IN GEAR.

Next, take a wire and jam it into the positive battery terminal so that it will stay put and run that wire to the positive post of your coil, you can find your coil by following the center wire from your distributor to its source. Be careful not to make an arc your fingers between the post and your coil's ground. It hurts very bad. Once the connection is solid, find your starter solenoid. If you don't know what that is, you should question whether you need to be doing any of this at all. On one side of your solenoid will be your positive battery cable, on the other your starter cable. Arc those two. I use a crescent wrench and a screwdriver. The motor will start.

This is good to know how to do in case your ignition system takes a shit on you. That means your stranded and being stranded is for pussies.

Are you drunk all the time?

Um, no. Believe it or not, I hold down a job and function almost normally, most of the time.

UR hot, R U going to Whiskey River this weekend?

Yeah, make sure you wait around for me. You sound super cool.

You gun loving redneck nazi

Right, because the first thing the Nazis didn't do was disarm all their genocide fodder. Right? I mean if you're going to accuse someone of something you have to at least have some semblance of knowledge of the subject, right?

Dude, did you totally fuck (insert random woman's name here)?

It would be pretty ungentlemanly for me to tell you if I did.

What is your myspace page?

I sigh loudly at your insolence. MySpace is a place for friends. Friends have let me pass out on their couch. You have not. If you are hot and female, feel free to persuade me.

dude, george bush is such a fucking tool

He might be. I don't know the guy, but I know he made me spend valuable years of my life killing people I didn't hate. In his defense, he isn't any worse than anyone megalomanic enough to want the Presidency.

America is fucked up, asshole!

Yes.

America totally fucking rocks, asshole!

Yes.

Oregon/Minnesota/Illinois/Utah/California has geology, too, asshole.

Technically, yes. Spiritually, maybe.

Are you looking for vi@gra?

No. I have mineralogy and mountain biking.

Have you considered writing erotica?

Have you ever read my stuff on geology? Shit, I wrote a small entry on tertiary river gravel deposits that caused my hard drive to burst into flames and four women jogging by to get pregnant and give birth to quartzite, gabbro, selenite, and some type of plutonic igneous that can fuel the space shuttle for six years.

It involved the undulating river lapping back and forth over the supple Mancos shale formation, leaving little evidences. Pulsing, writhing through the receptive sand, dendritic fingers of hydrological influence coursing over the burning skin of the valley...

Actually, I probably could write erotica, since the bar is very, very low, and the attraction and interaction of two people follow the same physical laws than awe me in all aspects of the universe. That being said, erotica, for me, is very inspired, individual actions between a man and a woman on a commission basis.

If you are an erotically inspiring woman, feel free to commission me. You must like old trucks.

I'm still hung up on the marine biologist.

RU looking for H0T women in your area!!?

Well, yes. Funny, though, I bet your shitty personals don't list a marine biologist at all, the pinnacle of hot and sexy. I saw this PBS special the other day. Wet suited smart woman who can swim for hours, I mean come on, it isn't even fair. Fuck.

Friends.

Heaven reminds me of a country club in Virginia. Not to say that the greens or fairways are associated with heaven, I have never in my life stepped onto a golf course that charged admission. It seems that heaven itself is formed on exclusion. There is not a heaven if they let just loddy-doddy every-goddamn-body in to partake in everlasting paradise. Believing in heaven precludes any non-existence of hell. Heaven is the most exclusive of clubs, formed by the most exclusive of judges.

My one and only experience with a blue-blood country club came at the expense of a girl near and dear to me. I slaved semi-patriotically in the most blue collar of jobs, ensuring that another blue collar semi-patriotic slave waving a different flag, would die alone and without fanfare in a desert country somewhere, spectacularly minced by my handiwork. My girlfriend worked for a mortgage company. Only the most brutish of the proletariat took a job in my field, supporting and defending the right of rich men to sleep well knowing their sons were safe in college. The sons of men who ran mortgage companies.

As luck would have it, the company had a Christmas party at an extremely exclusive country club. My girlfriend was invited along with a guest. I fancied myself up in high order with a hand tailored suit from Singapore, a blue Egyptian cotton shirt tailored in Dubai and a plain black Navy issued tie which perfectly matched my plain black Navy issued shoes. There is no way to make a military fade look classy.

My luck continued to spiral out of control, eventually landing me seated at the table of the president of this quaint little mortgage company. The yuppies talked of plays and concerts. I talked of arming times and glove vanes. They were impressed, as I am impressed by a dog that can fetch me beer. One of them brought up a play I'm told is famous. It is called Les Miserables. I scratched my close-shorn head and shifted in the plush seats, I had seen this play. I had seen it in Bahrain. With a Russian whore. Drunk.

"Oh, I've seen that."

"Did you like it?"

"I don't know, I was too drunk to remember it and my buddies got us kicked out."

"Oh my goodness."

By the end of the night, I had dropped the Martinis and went into the club's stash of Wild Turkey. The old man who had boot-strapped his business up out of the mire in his younger, wilder days liked me. He also liked Wild Turkey. We became well drunk. Our women were not pleased. Neither were the rest of the guests. My girlfriend was so angry at my foolishness she married me in a thoroughly malicious manner.

The point being, I got well drunk last night and came home to spend some quality time with an old friend. The first time we met, he called me by Tom Joad. Last time I spent time with him, he called me Adam Trask, and he was correct. This time, he called me Tom Hamilton and was even more startlingly astute.

The problem is, as I understand heaven, my buddy John and I will never meet in the hereafter, which is sad because he died twelve years before I was born. We could have been great friends. His insight into me over the years is uncanny. Unfortunately, he didn't belong to the exclusive club I was born into. Poor guy.

"Thank you son for wanting to honor me with the truth. It is not as pleasant, but it is more permanent."--Samuel Hamilton to his son.

It seems like the struggle to get into heaven, that morality itself, is a struggle against natural human entropy. To be moral, a person must slave patriotically against nature in one long continuous battle of will. Obviously, there will be exclusion to the reward.

Entropy long ago swallered me whole. I don't quite revel in it, but it revels in me. Interesting thought to have at five in the morning sobering up. It made me think of bears stealing beer and a black Ford Galaxie driving a marine engineer and Luke Skywalker around. My all consuming funk may be lifting because I now know myself better. I'm not Tom Hamilton all the time, but I have been lately. And the dark side of Tom is a character named Billy.

Billy reluctantly saves the universe, you see. Maybe he's ready to fight again. He might need an assist from a poorly spelled suburbanite who sometimes deludes himself into becoming a deer.

Me and my friends may form an exclusive group in the hereafter, yet. I think Sam Clemens will be allowed in as well.

See you there, fuckers.

Potty-mouthing

Today I offended someone. I accidently called him a bad word. I called him a measure of kindling in Victorian vernacular. Turns out, some relation of his was not a fan of women as erogenous targets of life-inclusion. This made me feel bad.

I've been trying lately to think of stories from the Navy to impart to a reading audience. There aren't many to tell. Not because the time was not interesting or because it was void of powerful moments of inspired humanity, but because no one would get it.

Most of the readership of polite internet land would be turned off about the fifth time a quoted phrase started with an "F" and ended with "ucking, cocksucking, one-way, faggot-ass, no-cigarette-sharing bitch", then people might look elsewhere for work-friendly entertainment.

Which is too bad, you punk-ass bitches have no idea what the fuck you're missing being such little

PreterNothing 1.2

This a serialized account. Read this first, or this will just sound crazy. Crazier, anyway.

My mind had retreated almost completely from the fabric of consensus reality. Nothing that I saw was fake. Nothing I felt was false. The one shining, glaring conspirator of the Darkness squeezing in my brain and sucking out my reason was the Visitor.

The Visitor formed from the malevolent void flowing from inside my head. The void became so dark and so dense under my east window that it could have formed nothing else. The window warped around the dark image. Darker than the night, blacker than the sackcloth air.

She became real.

When our bodies are slipping into sleep, strong and rapid from the boat launch of the things we expect to see into the seething river of unconscious, the first act of unwill is the paralysis. To keep you from acting out your day all over again with violent or dangerous consequence, the body shuts off your limbs. If you remain lucid, if not conscious, you feel tied down to your bed. Or as if something is sitting on your chest.

She brought with her a foreboding. She didn't just carry it. She was formed in the furnaces of the hell that are fueled by the small guilts and sulfurous lies we wish we are afraid not to tell. Foreboding was her. All the fear and hate in the world was brought to my room. Though formed of fear and hate, she was not afraid or hateful. The same as my blood is not iron and oxygen.

She had love. Love like I have feared and felt small twinges of. Mad, mad, murderous love, the love of a mother to her leprous child. The love of a lioness as she kills her own offspring to control the consumption of food. The love of a betrayed lover. Love is a many splendored thing, indeed. And it has bloodied the whole world.

My world was awash in black, festered blood. It ran from the hems of her tattered, midnight cape. The cape rose abover her head and covered it totally, shadowing her face in another shade of the same festering black. Her tall form, sucking in all around her, radiated insanity. As surely as she was formed with quarks of fear and hate and love, insanity was the fermion of the whole. Embittered maternity stood her apart from the reality of my room.

She walked towards me with measured gait. I tried with effort rarely mustered to tell my eyes to turn to her. I'm not sure if it was the paralysis or the fear that held me at bay. She moved closer. She loved me. I could tell.

I knew a woman once who was told her whole life she could not bare children. She was a stunning example for all femininity, but she could not close the deal with Eve. Her and her husband formed a lasting and true relationship in their little home in the country, in the shade of the largest oak in the county. They formed a Garden of Eden without knowledge of a Fall.

One day, after fourteen years of medical belief to the contrary, she conceived. The small microsm of The Brethren lit up in joyous celebration for the miracle, the goodness of God. Her nest found new purpose as a room was prepared for the honored guest and a tree house was put up in the old oak. Around term, she had the child. A dark, inhuman, malformed lump of lifeless flesh. The single child she dared not hope for was a dead monster. The Brethren offered plattitudes and privacy to the destroyed woman, it was all they could do. She gave birth to dead love. Her womb was cursed by God, as was God by her, but never out loud.

In the autumn months that followed, she adopted the manner and meter of an ever-expectant mother, tittering about her house, busy and insane. Madness crept into her once and still beautiful eyes like algae on a pond. Her love killed her. The husband found her hanging from the oak tree.

Madness, in her dull, flowing cape, little red riding hood from Hell, paced towards me deliberately.

She loved me, I could tell.

another snippet

Comment moderation? What does that even mean?

Why do you even bother? They all see through you, poseur.

Wait, I think it has something to do with the lack of comments.

No, that's because nobody loves you, everyone hates you, you might as well eat worms and die.

Can I doctor up the worms in a chili or soup or something?

No, straight worms.

I think I can fix it, now...I need Bloggers help.

:)Hi I'm Blogger!

Cool, fix my shit.

:)Hi I'm Blogger!

What the hell?

:)Hi...

Yes?

:)H-h-hi...I Blgoer .);

Right...I need to....

:]Blogre

What a moron.

Yeah.

:)I'm Sorry Blogger is having difficulties. An engineer has been notified.

Are you kidding me?

:)Hi, I'm Blogger

A brief snippet

Are you drunk?

Um, yeah, but I can explain.

It's eight in the morning.

That is correct. I, however, just got off work a little while ago. This is my evening drinking.

Even so, it's only Tuesday..um, Monday I mean. For you, anyway. It's Monday, right?

So judgemental with nary a glimpse into my life to assume your moral superiority.

It's sort of my job, asshole.

It is? Who put you in charge of this boat?

Technically, I am an imalgam of your parents, society, various authority figures, Petty Officer Swain, AO1 Parker, etc.

Amalgam, you mean. Kind of an odd genesis for an asshole like yourself, don't you think?

Well, I am your conscience, I have my work to do and so do you.

I know, but fuck it, I'm lazy. Besides, I have creative pursuits to deal with.

Like a stupid Flickr badge?

It is not stupid. OK, it's pretty stupid. I remember now why I hate blogs. I now have one. Shit. I can't stop myself and I'm terrible at it.

Honestly, you probably have few good reasons to think that. Readership has a lot more to do with whether or not you are an attractive female than anything else.

Is a conscience supposed to say things like that?

Oh, come one, read this girl's shit for instance. Trite, boring, sophmoric. 38 comments. How is it different from Anaglyph's or any other dude's blog?

Uh, it sucks?

Right. Do you see what makes a good blogger now?

Smileys and LOL variants? Mispellings and boring, geocentrist material?

You forgot over-use of elipses. No, cute snapshots of a girl. I don't know why I bother with you. ROTFLOL ;D

Ha. I wonder, does that mean people are actually rolling around on the floor laughing an ass off and whatnot? I'm just saying it all seems hyperbolous and you know how I, we, hate that shit. Want some wine? I heard that makes me easier to deal with. ^_^

Nice. Give me some of that shit. Woah, that's nasty. Yeesh, what the hell is this shit? Goddamn.

California Delicious Red. It's more pinkish and definitely not delicious. I'm just glad they didn't throw some snob-barrio Spanish in there and call it "Vino Colorado".

Pinkish wine. Ha, I hate Californians. You got any Wild Turkey?

California hating and bourbon? Wrong website, buddy.

Shapely, Well-Oiled Shiva

As much as I try to make myself sound single, I do have a steady girlfriend in addition to my increasingly one-sided relationships to a couple old trucks. She's more of a wife. In fact, she's the only girl I've let spend the night in my bed in years. She used to lay next to me in my little coffin shaped rack in the bowels of the USS Connstellation. More than a time or two, she's seen her share of my tears and my drunken pawing.

We hooked up back in 1999 when she was brand new to the world. I decided that her name should be Monica, after a woman with whom many a trait is shared. Curvy, dark, sultry, Rosewood. It just made sense to me. I found good reason to keep this moniker to myself. For one, I always found men naming objects after women and women after objects to be a little creepy.

Monica defied any non-specific name. I could call her "the maroon one", but it would just seem like she's one of many in a collection and would never capture the deep port complexion. I could call her "the Fat Strat," but it has the same effect. My only option would have been to give her so much detail in her name, a littany of features, I would sound not like a lover of her, just a collector, a breed that will never show true love for their subjects, be it postage stamps or trophy wives.

The second reason I felt it necessary to keep her name to myself was the simple fact that my brother's girlfriend became his wife. She shared the beautiful three syllables with my girl. In my family, the name Monica became synonymous with my dark, rosewood sister-in-law. I don't think my brother would have liked knowing I had my dirty, concrete stained fingers running all over Monica. And it raised some fairly conflicting feelings in me towards the two Monicas.

Now, she just sits, often neglected, with her name being a secret silence between the two of us. Probably the way it should be. She's still pretty damn hot.

Tequila Sunrise

I just ate a left-over breakfast burrito, courtesy of my mom, made me a margherita, and sat down to watch Good Morning America. Something is very, very wrong.

In other news, I mentioned that I think the story of Jacob wrestling with God is a mistranslation in the wrong crowd. Somewhere a Baptist Satan is preparing a Baptist Hell for my ass complete with Baptist fire and Baptist demons to poke me with Baptist pokers. Fuck those guys. Last I heard, they didnt support consumption of alcohol, either. Well, I prefer to listen to the Big Man on this one, I'll just take me some booze and drink me all of it. So let it be wrote, so let it get done.

Shoot, Ben Franklin said, "Beer is proof that there is a God and that he wants men to be happy."

Jesus performed his first miracle when him and his desciples were "being well drunk".

Who am I to argue with that?

Nobody. I am but a sad, wayward pilgrim swimming in the seas of vice and corrupted humanity. Fuck the Baptists. I need a shot of Burbon, a nice pipe, and an immoral woman.

Miles Davis®Jack Johnson Sessions® Ali

I'm out.