study, study, 16th St. Mall guy, contour

Pencil studies, 16th St. Mall guy

Water pencil study 16th St. Mall guy

Water pencil study

study

Keeter and E Ray, drinking

Dude at Starbucks

Creepy contour drawing. Deadman pose.

Airline passenger.

MiG-15

Smithsonian museum. Plane engine

Blizzard commute

Still life apple, oil

Spaceman!

16th St. Mall chess player

Bozo the Clown en pointe

Charcoal head study

Light rail commuter

Operation "Bore Children to Tears" is underway.

One week into my daughter's career as a student and this smart and curious little girl is already telling me what a lousy week she had at school, that she doesn't like it, that it powerful sucks because she and her classmates are required to sit and be quiet all day long.

I feel ya, sista.

It's been 35 years since I attended kindergarten, and somehow educators still haven't figured out what makes five-year-old girls and boys tick, haven't figured out that boys and girls do not need to be quiet or sit still in order to learn, that quietness and stillness retard mental and emotional development in five-year-olds, just like it does for most human beings.

Mankind seeks love

You: Distant, incomprehensible, intelligent and wise. Does carbon-based life turn you on?

Me: Violent, creative, instinctual, emotional, frightened.

What I seek: Your total destruction.

What I hope you seek: A little slap and tickle, a good fight.

My dream: An epic clash of cultures, planets ground to dust, depleted stars, trillions dead, a dark epoch and perhaps an epiphany, a small hope, a pair of intrepid dreamers, a common enemy, a common goal, two star-crossed lovers in need of each other’s warmth, strength, life, joined in a technological manner by a mutual commitment of love, of harmony, of balance, drifting through a bountiful universe spreading eternal bliss to all we touch.

My nightmare: That I'm here alone, or simply farther from you than my farthest thoughts, farther than matter can go, farther than light can shine.

Might have to give up fishing because I'm a soft hearted man

When you're as good a fisherman as I am, "catch and release" starts to seem a little cruel. I prefer "catch and fry up in the campfire" because it tends to more quickly end the torment these animals are forced to endure. 

It's a torment I'm directly responsible for every time I expertly present a caddis fly in such a tempting manner that the fish must strike. Poor little guy can't help himself. 

I'm no longer proud of my little triumphs because it's like shooting fish in a... jeez, that's a weak analogy.

Goodbye, Frank.

For 13 years, you were the biggest pain in the butt, yet I miss you and I'm sad that you're gone. If we meet again, I hope you'll forgive me. Jk.

I've come to Andalucia to learn flamenco

I was already an accomplished American guitarist by the time I first heard Vicente Amigo nearly fifteen years ago. When he attacked the strings with his explosive "Spanish strum" I thought to myself, "where the hell have I been all this time? How have I never heard this before?"


So I immediately packed my bags and hopped the first ocean freighter to Cadiz. I lie many wave-tossed nights with my headphones lodged in my ears, listening, cataloging, organizing, learning this music... down to the last detail.

"Did you know skilled flamenco musicians can produce a three-octave melody by simply clapping their hands?

WTF?

"It's true, dude."

Such was my Atlantic crossing. I dreamt of nothing but the guitar. Little did I know of the disappointments and struggle that lie ahead.

In Cadiz, being a good guitarist is nothing. Being a great guitarist remarkable only in the sense that your playing doesn't make Andalucians wince in displeasure. Being a virtuoso gains you an opportunity to apply for apprenticeship.

I still don't know why they accepted me. I was always afraid to ask.

But they put me in a class with a bunch of bookish teenagers. I had proven my technical skills, but my new judges found my heart severely deficient in vitamin "F". Nobody in Cadiz had the slightest hope or care that I pass the final exam. To them, I was just the next Ry Cooder, Carlos Santana, or George Harrison: They, too, thought they were good enough to cross the culture barrier.

I had such a long way to go.

Duece Fuego's Ark

How long does it take to build a gas-powered scale model Pay-n-Pak jet boat?

Is twenty-six years enough time?

Cuz I've been working on my model Pay-n-Pak jet boat for twenty six years, and I'm still not done.

I started the project in junior high, and can understand that it might have been a little beyond the abilities of a first-time R/C boat builder such as I was back then. Mistakes were made, setbacks occurred, bad advice given. And on top it all the self-discipline required to complete a complex project had yet to develop in my youthful brain. Which could explain the first couple of years.

It does not explain the next twenty. I've taken this damned boat with me all over the country, declaring to all who set eyes upon her, "I fully intend to finish this boat, mark my words!"

I don't know exactly how many times I've said that. I can only guess that over the course of twenty years I repeated it many, many times. It became a kind of a joke for those aware of the boat's existence: "Oh, you'll get around to it... you mean like the boat?" I've promised to finish it so many times the promise eventually sounded like a joke to me, too.

In a sense, it means that I've consistently made the decision to NOT FINISH the boat many, many times over two decades. Or maybe it slipped my mind for two decades. Well can you blame me? I didn't know decades were so short...


It comes to an end this year. The goddamned boat will float this summer.

You mark my words.

Gotta polish these bloody ramparts. The woman don't like bloody ramparts. She also wants me to get her swords sharpened -- like I don't have important things to do.

"Sure, sweetie... I'll take your weapons the smith on the way to this morning's JOUST. No problem, I've got plenty of time to travel 20 minutes out of my way while the squire prepares my armor and horse -- Oh that's RIGHT! My squire quit the other day. Well, I guess I'll just fight for your honor in my pajamas today."

Love you, sweetie!

Message to my 7th grade AP math teacher:

Ms. Harvey:

Would you please put some damn clothes on so I can study these quadratic equations? For god's sakes, this class is hard enough as it is without you prancing around in your tight-fitting preppy purple Izod shirt and your MASSIVE bosoms poking out every which way but Sunday.

I can't keep my mind on these VARIABLES... I've never seen nipples so strong... look like they're gonna spear right through the knit. Come on, boy! All you gotta do is solve for x and you can write your own ticket with this lady!

Spaceman, put the pedal to the metal and get the hell out of here!

Bounce, bounce, bounce off the atmosphere of my heart, you sweet thing! 

I'm taking you home with me. We're gonna get married, you and I. 

But we gotta fly, cuz the authorities are on the hunt for your missing person. 

I'm gonna be your loverbeing. 

I'm gonna show you the way to the center of the sun I'm gonna get you high. 

I'm GONNA MAKE YOU SAY GOODBYE... to that fool you call your man. 

He's such a stupid man-boy human with hairy arms and an unclean mouth. He won't stand a chance when I vaporize his brain. Not a chance in hell when I'm done with him. 

He's a dead man... a dead, stupid man-boy human with hairy arms, an unclean mouth and a soggy brain steaming in his skull. 

That's how much I love thee, my sweet earthling. You make me perform difficult tasks, tasks that creatures beneath us might consider unpleasant. 

The restraining straps aren't too tight, are they? 

Now hold on, Sugarpie... we gotta go.

Strange encounters with a first-time dad

“Don't look at Daddy's dick, sweetie.”

My 9-month-old daughter sat on the tile floor and watched me as I brushed my teeth. I did it just the way I had done for years – naked at the sink... and her gaze started to bother me. If that weren't bad enough, she climbed to a standing position, supported herself against my leg, and reached skyward for my cock!

Now, I had done nothing to provoke this – a guy's gotta brush his teeth. None-the-less my baby's searching hand had forced me past some terrible, unspoken line that prompted a full body spasm of defense far out of proportion to the threat.

I imagined a parade fathers: my dad, my grandpa, Governor Bill Ritter, the neighbor down the street, the social worker – all of them advancing on me, spurning, reproachful, disgusted, shaking their fists in a violent revulsion:

“YOU SICK SON OF A BITCH! NEVER LET THE BABY NEAR YOUR SHAME!”

No, no... of course not. The baby will be punished severely.

But wait a minute... That's not right.

I couldn't be the first guy to have blundered into his daughter's innocent curiosity about her daddy's junk. How had other fathers dealt with this? How did my dad do it?

To answer my own question: he didn't have to. My brother and I didn't pose the same kind of threat. Of course we weren't allowed to go grabbing and pinching his dick, but neither of us ever wanted to (Well, I guess I shouldn't speak for my bro.)

No, I mustn't be brutal about this. I mustn't be harsh, but what do I do? Think, man!

I told her, “Don't grab Daddy's junk, sweetie.”

That made her mother laugh, so I rolled with it and it grew into a running gag. But it didn't end there. Daddies have to change diapers, you see? And in case you didn't know, baby girls have tiny little crevices that are impossible to avoid when wiping up all the poop that seems to ooze out of their butts all the time.

I'm just doing my job, see? There's crap everywhere and I've read that women must be careful when wiping their asses so they don't get that nasty shit stuck in their junk, see?

So I do my best to clean my sweetie's junk – get the bits of blueberry and applesauce crap out of there so she doesn't get an infection or the clap or some kind of unpleasant yeast infection (I'm unclear about these maladies).

And I can't help but notice she's gazing up at me in a relaxed way. Staring right into my eyes. So I wonder if maybe she isn't enjoying this, which on the one hand is A-1, top-shelf, royally effed up... but on the other hand, who wouldn't like to have someone else hand-wash their privates?

Where do I sign up...? Just keep my Dad the hell away from me.

Apparently, incest hadn't entered my baby's mind at all -- probably because she has no shame. Nor should she. She's perfect in every way. Innocent on all counts.

I'm the one who must navigate the murky paths of shame for her. I'm the one who worries this could be weird (it's not.) I'm the one who has to remind himself that it's okay for a father to clean up his daughter after she's crapped all over the place. It's more than OK – it's required.

So maybe I've got a few hangups. Nothing serious, I hope. I can't be the only one.

Rap machine: test number one.

My lyrics don't rhyme
They never did and never will.
Poetry hates me
'Cuz I possess disdain
for quatrain and refrain
for hexameter and hyperbole
for simile
for meter.

My lyrics haven't the time to rhyme like fine wine between thine... hind... legs?
Senseless and fence-less, what-a-mess I've made of my pencils... and my papers.

My lyrics can't rhyme cuz they're slime and haven't a dime.

They're street, baby.

Romertopf: German for bone-dry pork loin.

Bought a Romertopf at a yard sale a few weeks back thinking it would be a perfectly eclectic addition to the family kitchen. You know -- delicious roasts on a bed of hearty vegetables... that kind of thing.

Well, I've learnt a lesson, and learnt it well:

You can't have delicious roasts on a bed of hearty vegetable just because you buy a two-dollar clay pot at a yard sale. No, sir. You still gotta know a thing or two about cooking.

Don't believe those Romertopf recipes that say you can't overcook meat in a clay pot. Trust me, you can.

It was so sad, too. It's a tragedy when pork is treated so badly.

You're such a beautiful Retro-Tech vintage stereo: I'm the only one who loves you.

Just look at her. She's gorgeous, ain't she? Can't stop gawking at her HUGE KNOBS, can you?

Neither can I.

Born 1978-1980, I remember the day she came to the house. She was unpacked with care, and BAM! -- just like that, the family was finally cool.

At least in my eyes.

Felt the same as buying an iPod three years after all your friends bought theirs. It was like: "Cool stereo, man! Yeah, thanks. We like it because of the quality."

When the parentals got divorced, we kept her in our house. My dad bought an identical model for his house -- only newer, and also a kick-ass dual tape deck. By that time, she had grown old and tired. No longer a novelty, but just a device to make sound.

They just don't make 'em like that no more. Can't believe I'm saying that, but what the fuck, it's true. Circuit City's like Houston and Las Vegas getting hitched at an outdoor wedding in a trailer park -- gawdy graphic displays and thousands of tiny buttons.

I'm not trying to launch the Space Shuttle, here. I just wanna rock a little. Click, click... BANG! Know what I mean?

Anyway, I had break out the lighter fluid and contact cleaner, dissassemble her piece-by-piece and clean out the 30 years of dust inside. She works like new. I think I'll call her Beulla.

Drunk behind the control stick

"I'm telling you, that planet came out of nowhere! I was just cruising along, you know, lookin' at the stars, and WHAM! Just like that -- I was, like, "SHIT! Did I just hit a planet?!"


Spaceman peered at the trooper's prowler stationed outside his cockpit, but he couldn't see the officer inside. They had been communicating over TicketNet, the official communication platform used by traffic officers in this sector of the galaxy. It was new technology, and it was quite effective at insulating officers from the influence of a traffic violator's emotional appeals. Spaceman was unable to catch a glance from the cop. Spaceman felt he needed every advantage he could find. He was stoned to the bone.

"I mean, there was NOTHING I COULD DO. It just happened so fast," he added.

The officer's voice, laden with static in the speaker: [How fast were you traveling?]

"Oh, not fast... The speed limit, you know... Maybe a little faster," Spaceman stammered.

[How much have you had to drink?]

"What? Nothing. Totally. Well, a couple of beers, like, maybe an hour ago..."

[A couple of beers, sir?]

"If that."

[Would you move your face closer to the cockpit window so I can scan you with the Booze-a-tron?"

"Now officer, I really don't think any of this is necessa..."

[I'm not going to ask again. My lasers are trained on your cockpit. Should you refuse to cooperate, I will be within my rights to open fire... ]

"Wait, wait, wait, wait! It's not like I did this ON PURPOSE! It's like I said, it couldn't be helped! Nobody could have avoided this."


[You hit a planet, sir. You've caused considerable damage on the surface. Many people down there are upset. Now please, move your face to the cockpit window. I need to scan you for intoxicants.]

Spaceman slowly moved his right hand to the thruster control by his thigh. The cop's prowler seemed small to him, possibly only a local bird. It was possible he could get a big enough jump on him to reach the sector boundary before they called in reinforcements. His thumb hovered over the thruster release.

[If you attempt to flee, sir. You will be killed. Reinforcements are already dispatched. You won't make it.]

Spaceman slumped in his seat.

[I've engaged my Imbecilitron, sir. The device reads minds of thugs and idiots like yourself. No offense, sir -- I personally don't think you're an imbecile. However, the device only functions in the presence of certain brainwaves found predominantly in beings of low intellect. It's so effective, in fact, that we were alerted when you entered the sector. We knew you were going to do this long before you did. All we had to do is wait.]

An ode to Botas Rodeo: America's Garage Band

Never a lead repeated, never the same beat twice
Never a ballad sung softly, as our tube-amplified strings scream so loudly!

when our fingers fumble o'er the frets and sticks of our quality instruments,
We sometimes stumble, mumble, and produce a clever lick.

Listen!
You might detect a hint of brilliance,
buried beneath all that lack of practice.

Hey...
They don't call it "garage sound" for nothing.
And besides, we're not trying to re-invent the wheel.

We just want to rock...
most Thursday nights,
from about 7 p.m. to midnight.

And if you're anything like us,
you'll be fucking amazed
that four married white guys could sound as good as we do...

Let's make a new list, for lack of anything better to do...

An exercise in thee, thine and thou:

1) How I lust for thee.

2) Methinks thine loins burn for me...

3) Wouldst thou slather thine loins with Cool Whip (registered trade mark) and permitest me to enjoy thine delights?

4) Art not thou horny?

5) Wouldst thou accept my deepest apologies, then?

An uplifting, positive list: Horrible things that never happened.

So, I was walking down the street today when the thought struck me like a 15-pound, spiral-cut, smoked ham lobbed into my face from a passing car:

"I didn't get killed by a terrorist today."

So I continued with that groundbreaking thought:

"Say! I don't think I've EVER been killed by a terrorist, nor do I know anybody who was."

What a lucky man I must be.

I have been spared from the obvious, imminent threat of terrorism for all these frightening years. Not one suicide bombing, not one hijacking, not one hint of jihad. I've also never been car-jacked. Hell, I've never been jacked in any way.

I've never been shot by a teenager wielding a legally purchased firearm, nor have I had the need to kill a drug-crazed child-molestor in self defense. My baby, who has yet to be molested, has never come close to strangling herself in a large plastic bag. She hasn't drown in a swimming pool, either. And I'm certain she's never been abducted and held hostage by a strange family of scary foreigners.

But wait, there's more:

- None of my friends have been killed by drunk drivers.
- I haven't gotten divorced
- I don't live on the street, feeding my wife and baby from restaurant dumpsters.
- I haven't been forced into a life of gay prostitution.
- My family hasn't been kidnapped by desperate escaped convicts, forced to be the unwilling passengers in their stolen Chyrsler Newport as they flee from an angry convoy of police officers.
- I haven't contracted cancer, AIDS or herpes.
- I have never -- even in childhood -- been offered a candy apple with a razor blade hidden inside.
- I've never drown from intense cramps caused by swimming immediately after eating.
- High taxes have never forced me into bankrupcy.

It goes on and on like that. Terrible things that scare the crap out of me -- not one of them has ever happened.

I'm beginning to wonder if they ever will.

Pushin' buttons all day long... pullin' levers all night!

"That's the way we do it around here, Deuce Fuego. We work hard for our rewards."

"But the big dance is tonight, Mister Foxtrot! Jane Hamilton is waiting for me! I got to go!"

"Just 'cause you want to dance all night with Mary Jane Panty-dropper don't mean there ain't a ton of work to be done around here. Understand what I'm sayin' Mr. Wiggly Hips? Mr. Kevin Bacon?
If I were you, I'd dance myself over to the chicken shredder and get busy! Them leghorns ain't gonna shred themselves."

"This sucks, boss. After I get done shreddin' these chickens, I'm going straight to the ballfield, where I'm gonna shoot myself in the face with my uncle's sling shot!"

"Sounds like a fine way to wrap up an honest day's work, Deuce."

Geosynchronous orbit is a lousy place to pressure your date for sex

I've taken this girl about as far as she will go. She sits there in the passenger seat, tiny tee and short skirt, legs crossed and hands clasped tightly on her lap. We're 22,000 miles high in geosynchronous orbit over her parents' house, and nudity doesn't appear to be an option.

"The force is strong in you. Why don't you join me on the dark side?"

Her head shakes no.

"We could do wonderful things together."

No, again.

"I'll let you fly."

No.

"You know, I flew a thousand astronomical units to get here tonight. I'd have thought you might show some appreciation, but I guess I was wrong. It tears me up inside. I'm tempted to kill the engines right now. If I do, we'll both plummet to Earth in a fiery ball of sad, sorry death, but at least we'd be together forever. Is that what you want?"

It's late. Past her curfew. She just wants to go home.

"Fine, then. I'll take you home. But don't wait around for me to come calling. This extraterrestrial don't phone home no more."

This baby will whup yo' ass...

... if you don't step off now.

A couple of points

1) Although I'm still sexy, my vision is no longer perfect.

2) I am now 37.

Conversations that don't include money or work

Read this. How many times have you asked a complete stranger -- for lack of anything better to say -- what he did for work?"

For my part, more times than I could count.

So, here we go, a list of conversation openers that don't reference money or work:

1) The time I snapped a wet towel at my brother so hard it drew blood.

2) The time I skied into a drift fence and smashed it to pieces in front of my friends and about 30 ski lift passengers.

3) The time I crapped my pants at work and tossed my boxers into the dumpster out back of the building.

4) The time my martial arts instructor choked me so hard I blacked out (and the other time that happened, with a different instructor. What fun.)

5) The many times I've been kicked in the balls.

6) The greatest animated movies I've ever seen, which include but aren't limited to: Princess Mononoke and Heavy Metal.

7) The thrill of sport, and the agony of defeat.

8) The world's greatest electric guitar tones, including Hendrix, Van Halen, Zappa and Nugent.

9) The allure of the female breast.

10) Why rare meat is better than well-done.

Mattie

Early girl, backwards girl floppy, skinny little girl blue skin, brown hair and the prettiest little lips She never was hard to look at even when filthy and foul she extracts a father's smile almost every time.

Light year dream

Beautiful points of light
expand into vacant space
infinite lengths of time

this is the road ahead
a lonely light-year dream

I've come so far
who could have known
soft lips and warm hands
could make going home so hard?

Never be the same again
since the day I let her in
since the day I beamed her up
since the day I inhaled her breath
in geosynchronous orbit above her parents' house.

Best photos of aliens on the net

Studly.










Gross.










Moldy pubic hair -- eww!










Awwww.... Isn't she precious?











Sexy flirt!

Ten things I won't do

1) I'll never eat human feces (on purpose).
2) Never stick a rusty fork in my eye.
3) Won't slap a bitch
4) Won't hunt the "ultimate prey"
5) Won't buy a Ford.

Hugo Strange Winterhalter, Esquire -- civilian, not-for-profit spy

Civilian observer, Hugo Strange Winterhalter, reporting his observances during a short walk today. These records come only from this observer's memory:

1) A woman, smoking a cigarette, driving a white Cadillac with a military entrance sticker affixed to the windshield.

2) An Arab-looking guy, driving a Metro taxi.

3) Followed by two black guys, one of them a kid with his head out the window, riding in a tan SUV.

4) A man or woman -- couldn't tell -- driving a silver car with a handicap tag hanging from the rear-view mirror.

5) A woman, whose face I couldn't see, driving a tan van with dark-tinted windows.

6) A woman, driving a yellow convertible.

7) Another woman -- this one dark-skinned, perhaps asian, kind of cute -- driving a tan car with the window rolled down.

8) A person with a dark-skinned arm -- couldn't see the face -- driving a turquoise-colored car -- maybe a Ford Tempo or something like that.

9) An old man with a red baseball cap, eyeglasses and a gray beard, driving a powder blue 70s or 80s- model American car -- maybe a Ford or Mercury.

11) Two Mexicans trimming branches from a tree at the entrance of a cemetery maintenance facility. One was thin, older, with a mustache, short hair. He looked like a Mexican movie star from the '20s. Very handsome.

12) On the highline trail: While studying a model of a sailing ship that was displayed in a high window of a condo (on either side were situated models of lighthouses) a man in a yellow shirt and red baseball cap rode by on his bicycle. He wore shorts of unknown color, green socks and brown shoes.

13) A woman on a bike, wearing a red and white helmet. She sported blue, opaque sun glasses and gray-blonde hair.

14) Two more Mexicans, tending to the lawn of a condominium complex. One was wearing a white, sleeveless shirt and brown pants. His overshirt (teal-blue) hung on a fence nearby. He operated a rake. The other wore a similar teal-blue short-sleeved shirt and denim, long shorts. He was raking leaves as well.

15) A woman who spoke to squirrels. She chattered and clicked into the trees. She was holding a bag of bread crumbs.

16) A gathering of old ladies, perhaps as many as five. A few of them had white poodles. They sat on benches, laughing and joking with each other.

17) A man in a white baseball cap, a dark long-sleeved shirt, and rather large sunglasses, riding his bike toward me. I believe he wore a fanny pack.

18) A older man, bald, but not totally bald, messing around with his car, closing the door, locking it. He wore a sleeveless, white shirt, sweat pants, and sandals. He spotted me, but I don't think he paid me any attention.

19) A woman with a large black dog -- Rotteweiller mix, maybe -- wearing a red skirt, and a shirt with horizontal stripes (red and white). She also wore a straw hat, sunglasses, and flat-footed slip-on shoes -- gray or tan in color -- possibly suede. She appeared afraid, which could explain the large dog.

20) A couple, holding hands and walking away from me. They walked a small, white dog -- goofy looking, the kind with a squished face. The man was tall, wore a blue T-shirt, tucked smartly into his jeans, which were lashed to his frame with a no-nonsense brown leather belt. Unfortunately, he also wore white tennis shoes, which in this observer's opinion is a fashion error -- tennis shoes are for tennis and tennis only. He held in his right hand the left hand of his lover, a woman in a large white T-shirt and blue, long shorts. She had a fat ass, but that's certainly not her fault. She had long blond hair and wore Birkenstock-style sandals. They turned off the trail into the parking lot of a condominium complex.

21) Where, TWO MORE Mexicans were tending to the lawns. One wore a red T-shirt, the other a brown or tan one. Both wore orange ear plugs. They quickly disappeared behind a garage.

22) Down the way a few more paces, another Mexican rode a mower. He wore a light-green, long-sleeved shirt, a straw hat and sunglasses. Also, he wore ear plugs. This observer spotted a forth Mexican around the corner of the building, using either a push mower or perhaps a weed-whacker. This forth Mexican was partially obstructed by foliage, but he appeard to be wearing a dark T-shirt, jeans and a baseball cap.

23) On Dayton, a black man was spotted riding golf cart through the parking lot of another condominium complex. He wore a baseball cap. Strapped to the back of the cart was a short, stubby ladder. This observer could not keep up.

24) At the corner of Dayton and Mississippi, a large tractor of some sort was being parked by the driver -- couldn't see the driver.

25) In the intersection of Dayton and Mississippi, a blond woman with a long ponytail, dressed in an orange safety vest, was writing on a clip board. She wore a yellow T-shirt and jeans. She also wore boots. Were she not a tall, big-boned woman, she might have looked out of place. As it was, she fit right in.

26) A tall, thin, very dark-skinned black guy, wearing black pants and a black T-shirt, stood beneath the shade of a tree near a bus stop. He wore a baseball cap. Accompanying the man was a little girl, wearing a football jersey (Denver Broncos, number 24 -- Champ Bailey, defensive back with the Broncos since 2004, with Washington Redskins since his rookie year in 1999). The little girl was very cute, with two puffy pig tails on either side of her head. She was a little black girl.

[The man asked this observer if this observer knew if the busses were still running on this route. This observer said he didn't know, but that probably, yes, they were still running. This observer then thought maybe that was a stupid thing to suggest, since this observer actually did not know a damn thing about the bus routes in this area. This observer will not make that mistake again.]

27) A man in a large white T-shirt and green shorts, either unloading or loading his SUV in the parking lot of the Breakers condos. The man carried a laptop on his shoulder and at his feet was a traveling garment back. Both items were black. He was white.

28) On Mississippi, this observer noted the following westbound cars: A dark Ford SUV, A dark pickup truck with an Oakland Raiders sticker affixed to the lower right corner of the rear window, followed by another dark Ford SUV.

29) There were many other observances, but this observer has run out of time to describe them...

Consider this report FILED!

My worth, stated as the product of my weight and the price of gold

At current gold prices, my value is $1,355,768.70.

The Dukes of High Orbit

(Dixie theme song, sounded from a trucker's airhorn)

Yeeeeeeeeee Hawwwwwwww!

A Frank Confession of a Fallen Information Technology Professional

Dear Sirs: 

 I am so sorry. 

I know I promised "I'd take care of everything," and I might have made some exaggerated statements implying that your company's failed e-mail system was "probably just a user error" or some "simple, bone-headed misconfiguration" that had idled the workforce for days, but I was clearly wrong. 

I've worked for 42 straight hours repairing your broken e-mail systems, and I'll be Goddamned why the errors just won't go away. Every command I typed generated another horrifying beep of failure from the poor machine's tiny little speakers! 

I still hear it -- the terrible digital reproach amid the endless hiss of all those whirring cooling fans: "Beep!" WRONG! "Beep, beep!" WRONG, AGAIN! "Beep, beep, beep!" YOU ARE A LOSER AND YOU ARE KILLING ME! 

I have failed... There, I said it. 

I'm a technical idiot. I'm the one who is broken. I'm weak and impotent and I apologize for all the frustration and heartache I've caused your workforce. 

It's clear to me now that all of the computer glitches, data corruption and unannounced network outages that you fine people have endured during my tenure as your IT Director were a DIRECT RESULT of my foolish, impetuous actions in the data center. I shouldn't be allowed near a typewriter, let alone a glorious network like the one yours used to be before I laid my clumsy hands on it. 

It has been a shock to realize that I've always found a way to blame you beautiful people for all of the untraceable technical problems I had created. There was always a mysterious "human anomaly" and you were all "stupid users" to me. I just couldn't understand why computer concepts were so hard for you to grasp ("It's very simple -- you have to import the data tables FIRST, AND THEN convert them into comma-delimited format before uploading the file to the server using the PROPER commands... SHEESH!") 

And I was so sensitive to criticism. You barely knew how to turn a computer off, and yet you dared offer your "hypothesis" on why your icons have all disappeared? 

I feel sick. 

I was so self-centered. I'm embarrassed running away like this, in the middle of the night, leaving you with nothing but a massive spaghetti-tangle of cables, two smoking file servers and a hand-scribbled note Scotch-taped to your front door. 

You deserve better from your network engineer. You're all fine workers who have been rendered useless for who knows how many days because of my ignorance, my ego and my technical hubris. You never doubted for a second that I would repair your failed e-mail system because I never gave you the chance. 

The truth is, the only thing I have mastered in my career is a large vocabulary of obfuscating acronyms like TCP/IP, SMTP and LDAP. You had no idea what I was talking about, and neither did I. 

As for your company's missing confidential accounting data -- it's just gone. I don't know what else to say. My tape backup solution was nothing more than a stack of cards and wishful thinking. It's like the data never even existed. 

What am I saying? For all practical purposes, it's like the ENTIRE COMPANY never existed! 

What a foolish ass I am! (teardrop stains smear the ink) 

So I'm leaving now, never to return. Please forgive me -- or better yet, forget we ever met. (teardrop) I wish I was never born. 

Shamefully, Wilson Dortmunder, MCSE, CCNA and B.S. in Computer Science, Metropolitan State Community College.

If I don't find some inner peace out here, you're a dead man

Fishing is a horrible way to pass the time.

I went fishing yesterday after the ol' nine-to-five. Spent the majority of my time tying flies to my leader and untangling my flies from trees, rocks and even from my own rod.

The evening basically went like this: Tie fly to leader, untangle, cast, untangle fly from weeds, cast, cast, untangle fly from weeds on opposite bank, cast, untangle, untangle, untangle, tie new fly on leader to replace lost fly, cast, untangle, etc.

Meanwhile, happy little fish splish-splashed to and fro, upstream and down, free of fear that I had even an idiot's chance of catching them.

Finally I snapped.

This is embarasssing to admit, but I threw a wild tantrum.

I threw my rod into the creek, and then picked it up and threw it into a tree, where it got stuck. I climbed up a steep embankment and retrieved my rod, and commenced whacking the crap out of every tree and rock I could reach. Then I beat the crap out of the river until I broke my rod and damaged the reel.

And the fish swam, to and fro, upstream and down, free of fear or harm.

I wish I could say that I feel better now, but I don't.

Esta una historia Cinderalla en Alemania 2006!

Team Archucatelectl victorious in first match! [STOP] Exceeds all expectations! [STOP] Proceeds to next round. [STOP]


GOOOOAAAAAALLLLLL...

...OOOAAAAAAAAAALLLLLL!!!!!!!!!!


Latin American futol champ Rojelio Galban, in Germany:

"It waz very exciting, this match!"

"We ran at our opponents very fast..."

"...we made very hard kicks..."

"... and our balls flew into their goals many, many times!"

Team Archucaltelectl: 4, Team Germany: 1

I stroke my organ almost every day...

I touch it, and "tickle" it with my fingers. I tap it and POKE IT WITH MY FOOT. This gets me hot and sweaty, because I do it in my garage, where there's no air conditioning.

I stroke my organ every chance I get.

My organ has wood...

My organ is large...

My organ is old...

My organ

What we have here is the backside of my 1968 Lowry electric organ, with the cover removed. Cool, yes?

A few words from our friend, international soccer champ Rojilio Galban

I'm busy working at the moment, but I think Latin American superstar futbol champ Rojilio Galban has something to say: "Keeds, drugs y alcohol might seem fun and exciting, but I can say from personal experience that they're not. And while it's true that drugs can open our minds to fantastic new experiences that not even U.S. astronauts on the moon can comprehend, that's no reason to risk wasting your money or ruining your life. Also, you might hear from commie pinko leftist Democrats that drugs are not as dangerous as we've been led to believe -- do not fall for that mierda. Dios mio no!" "So, keeds, please follow my advice: focus on one game at a time, concentrate on your defense, and just try to put la pelota through the goal."

It's time, I suppose, for babytalk...

Several times in the past weeks, the lady has wondered aloud why I have thus far failed to mention in these ethereal pages the growing bundle of joy she carries in her gut these days.

Well, here it is, the worldwide photo debut of our child:



This is the baby, displaying the razor-sharp sense of humor it likely inherited from its dad. It's also an athletic little turk, and day by day, the creature grows stronger. Someday soon it could very possibly punch its way out of the lady's womb --rather than exit in the regular way. But the lady's a tough specimen. I'm sure she'll be fine.

Neither she nor I know whether this kid will be little "Matilda" or little "Jude." The two of us have decided to remain ignorant, even in the face of so much modern technology. That doesn't stop the lady from refering to the baby as "he" instead of using a more appropriate, gender-neutral term like "the creature," "the alien," or "that [expletive] thing that relentlessly punches my lungs and lower intestines."

She probably calls the baby "he" just to save time.

Gooooooaaaaaaaaaaal!

What an upset! Let's talk to Team Archucualtelectl Goalkeeper Rojilio Galban:

"Yes, this was an upset win for some people, but it really was a team effort...

... We knew that we had to... to focus on putting the ball through the goal...

...defense was solid...

and our... our offense came up with some key plays...

...one game at a time..."

Turbo Tax is trying to screw me over

Dear Sirs at the Internal Revenue Service:

I swear to God I didn't mean to request such a huge tax return this year. I tried my damnedest not to claim anything, but Turbo Tax wouldn't have any of it.

Turbo Tax website copy: "Your tax return amounts to a no-interest loan from you to the government! Find out how you can keep that money to yourself."

See what I'm saying? If it were up to me, you guys could keep it all -- hell, I'd probably fork over another $650 if you just asked. Of course I wouldn't like it, but I'd eventually crumble beneath The Man's withering glare. I'm sure you already know that.

I just thank you in advance for not asking, and also for turning a blind eye to my pitiful tax return this year. You and I both know that $17,000 in gross income is hardly worth fighting over. God knows how I came to own a house on that income, but it goes without saying that I really appreciated the several-thousand dollar deduction for mortgage interest. Now, I acknowledge that you're returning $420 this year, but come on -- that's nothing compared to the $6,000 bill you sent me a few tax seasons yon. Remember those days? Boy, I sure do.

Anyhow, it's good we can get together like this. Tax day is such a nice time of year to crunch my numbers and relive the financial missteps I made during the past 12 months. The weather is always so nice for this type of grueling indoor arithmetic: flowers blooming, trees budding, and winter's dust giving way to warm Chinook and endless sunshine. Long, long days filled with kittens, warmth and the laughter of children in the streets -- such a nice time to sit quietly indoors at a computer, sifting through long-forgotten receipts:

This one represents a business meeting during which I got drunk. That one is a failed business trip that cost more money than it made. These others I can't remember exactly, but they certainly had some critical business purpose and likely led to the demise of my business and the financial ruin that followed. We'll just chalk them all up to "entertainment meals."

Aw, shucks -- we win some, we lose some. That's the way I see it, and I hope that's the way you see it, too. Can't wait until next year.

Your friend, taxpayer and faithful American,

Hugo Strange Winterhalter.

Wal Mart wants your money -- and your money's money

This country's capacity to sell itself out is amazing.

Lifted straight from the Colorado Pols website:

U.S. Rep. Bob Beauprez, who is running for governor of the beautiful state of Colorado, says he has earned a bachelor of science in education from the University of Colorado, but it's only a B.S. in Physical Education.

Who knew the stately University of Colorado offers a Bachelor of Science in physical education?

I mean really! Who would spend $30,000 and four years studying dodge ball and step aerobics?

Beauprez Still Claiming BS…in Education

(Yawn) A day in the life... (yawn)... of a raptor

Wow. Tough job.









This Colorado Horned Owl hasn't done a damn thing in the past 24 hours except sleep and stare off into the distance.

See if it's doing anything now, and while your there, check out the exciting lives of other raptors who have made their homes among the smoke stacks of power plants.

Now, the Peregrine Falcon on the other hand -- that's a busy bird.
Just look: He's immersed in his carnivorous schemes.

A moment-by-moment account of a dude with little to do on a Wednesday night

Thoughts on thought:

1 To describe a thought, first consult an online thesaurus for suitable synonyms for the word "thought".

1.1 Upon finding only two, acknowledge that the digital realm lacks everything except zero and one.

2 Locate a printed thesaurus.

2.2 Revel in the possibilities: Faculty of reason, pondering, meditation, deliberation, cogitation, rumination, musing, mulling, reflection, introspection, contemplation, consideration, cerebration, idea, notion, theory, opinion, intention, plan, design, purpose, aim, judgement, conclusion, appraisal, assessment, estimation, opinion, point of view, position, stance, feeling, sentiment, belief, conviction.

2.3 Praise yourself for your adventurous spirit.


Thoughts on reggae:

1 Most "educated" white folks love the stuff, while the uninitiated couldn't care less.

1.1 If you're a white person with a casual appreciation for reggae, all you'll ever need can be found on the Toots and the Maytals anthology. Burn your Bob Marley.

2 If you're an uninitiated white person who could care less about reggae, you should still listen to the Toots and the Maytals anthology, as you'll probably understand what all the fuss is about. If you're already a fan of reggae, you probably have this already, or better yet, you have all the original vinyl albums (lucky you!)

Thoughts on cleanliness:

1 When your keyboard is so dirty that you mistake the "I" key for the "L" key, it's time to do something about it.

Thoughts on analog:

1 Records are pretty freaking cool, but c'mon... As the proprietor of a local independent music store recently told me, "You really have to question why you'd buy a vinyl album that was orignally recorded in digital." (That's a rough paraphrase, but accurate in the sense that it communicates the spirit of his opinion.)

2 Man, I sure wish all those "new" vinyl pressings didn't suck.

It's a worldwide web for two

This blog seems to have degenerated into a two-way conversation between me and the lady. She is the only one who cares, apparently. Thanks for the support, sweetie! Love you!

I for one am morbidly ecstatic to have such immediate and convenient access to the greatest of the world's networks -- the American Internet! Its has improved my life immeasurably. I just don't know what I'd do without it. The "other" networks are so poor, I wouldn't even waste my urine on them.

I want it all to myself. I claim it in the name of Hugo Winterhalter. I am revoking your permission to use it.

SO I ORDER ALL YOU FUCKS TO STAY OFF THE INTERNET!

It's mine and the lady's.

HSW.

It's time... to "Tally the Bullshucks!"

A short list of BS I've heard in the last few days, starting with this weekend's weather forecast:

1. Brrr! Twelve inches of snow coming! Batton down the hatches, Colorado!
Hell hath frozen over. When you awake, don't be surprised to find the roof of your house collapsed, your pets frozen to death, your car crushed, and every roadway littered with scores of weather-induced traffic casualties! You'll be lucky to survive, but stay tuned for minute-by-minute updates detailing yet again how freakin' pointless TV weather forcasters really are!

2. The past three years of the U.S. occupation of Iraq were a smashing success, and the next three years should be even better!
Here's a new tally:
2,313 U.S. soldiers killed in action.
7,912 U.S. soldiers wounded so severely they could not return to Iraq.
9,212 U.S. soldiers wounded in action, but only slightly.
33,000 to 37,000 Iraqis estimated to be killed during the U.S. occupation. (from 158 to 177 deaths per week

God knows how many Iraqis Saddam Hussein killed during his 24-year reign, but some estimates place the numbers in the 300,000 to 1 million range (which equals 240 to 801 per week.)

Well, the good news is we're not as bad as Saddam Hussein.

3. Beth Orton fans should arrive early to see her opening act, the accoustic and vocal stylings of Willie Mason! Of Mason, a London reviewer said this: "Clearly, decades ahead of his time, he mixes the blues, folk and country influences of Hooker, Williams and Cash with hard spoken words of hope, truth and wisdom in a style all of his own, yet kin to a youthful Bob Dylan."

None of that gibberish is true.

Thankfully, Beth Orton's voice is so powerful that she can -- with a single note -- wake the dead, revive limp lettuce, and stop fleeing audience members in their tracks, forcing them to turn around, forcing them to listen. It's as if Orton thanks the audience for its tolerance, begs her fans to stick around, promises them that they won't be disappointed.

And just like that, as her voice hammers off the walls, not a single person in the joint cares that 30 minutes earlier, Mason nearly bored them to death.

Announcing the latest CD release from Jim "Butterfingers" LeSavage: Smooth Roads, Easy Times

It's been a long time coming for Jimmy LeSavage's latest musical triumph, but according to light-rock afficionados, it was worth every minute!

Jimmy spent countless hours on location in Maui as well as in studios in both New York and Los Angeles to create this masterful opus, Smooth Roads, Easy Times.





Jimmy's latest work showcases his fantastic command of his instrument of choice: the acoustic guitar. Using his renown musical punctuality and his lyrical rigor, Jimmy gives us a peek into the startling world of a drug-addled killer running loose on the broken-down streets of America's inner cities. Jimmy's mild fret work, coupled with studio technician Walter Finkle's copious re-engineering will "yank listeners from the comfort of their living rooms and propel them into a terrible waking nightmare they hope never to experience again, but which they will never forget," according to New York Times Critic Benjamin Feist.

"I wanted to bring easy-rock listeners into my world," Jimmy states. "I worked hard in hopes that it would be my greatest work. I think I've achieved that."

Jimmy smashed all boundaries when producing this album, employing revolutionary recording concepts to portray a drug addict's most intimate moments. During the gripping acoustic solo three minutes into the first track, "Needle Fuck," Jimmy musically describes the moment his alter ego, Diego The Druggie, injects mind-altering liquids into his bloodstream. And in the ballad, "Fuck a Dude for Drugs," we can almost hear the woeful voice of another fictional character, Phillip The Druggie, as he wanders the late-night city streets trading demon sex for money.

"It did take a long time to produce this album," Jimmy acknowledges. "For starters, we made many of the recordings on my back porch. I wanted the beach breezes and birdsong of the jungle to mingle with the notes from my guitar. Capturing these sounds took a lot of time. During the recording sessions, there were many distractions, such as the world-class surfing beaches as well as the plentiful Polynesian whores."

Bah! A pox on thee! A fortnight of Fetid Breath!

For thine cruel misbehavances, poor performances and dishonorous utterances; I curse thee thusly:

1. Thine skins shalt chaffe, very near to the balls.
2. Thine hair shalt winde tightly into a large machine.
3. Thine bowels shalt leak in public.
4. Two score and a half sewer rats shalt besiege thine pantaloons.
5. Thine love dreams shalt feature naught but thee, thine mother and thine father.
6. Aye! The work of thine life shalt whither, and thou shalt earn thine wage as a Gong Farmer (emptyin' latrines barehanded), a Barnyard Whore (fellatin' livestock for antibiotics) or a Street Idiot (pronouncin' thine cerebral lackings to the Publick At Large.)
7. Thou shalt lust for hideous animals, and thou shalt abide that lust.
8. Thine perspirances shalt offend thee most of all.
9. During meals, thou shalt mistake thine tongue for a meatball at each and every bite.
10. Finally, thou shalt, night and day, until the end of your days, know the flavor of a hobo's anus on thine lips.

Good luck to you, cursed scab. May your wretched life be long and fruitless.

Woe... What is it good for?

Absolutely nuthin...

Say it again...

There are bad days, and then there are bad weeks. I'm living both simultaneously.

No details because they suck. Just know that I'm not in a good mood at the moment: approximately 7 p.m., March 6, 2006. If you were to see me now, ask me how I'm feeling, I'd say to you, "Not so good." I wouldn't elaborate, and then I'd wander away to be alone with my not-so-good thoughts.

If you were to follow me and pester me with questions like, "Is there anything I can do?" I'd probably say no.

I'd say no because if I did start talking about it, I'd go insane with anger, frustration, disappointment and other such sourpuss emotions. You'd probably leave at that point, feeling like your good-natured ways would better serve someone else -- like maybe a retard or a recent quadriplegic.

At times like these, everything sucks, and everyone sucks... Nothing personal.

Boo. Hoo.

President Bush bogarts local kind bud in Golden, Colorado

President Bush: "Man, that is good shit..."

National Bioenergy Center director Mike Pacheco (giggling): "Common, dude... Give me the bong..."

When animal husbandry goes terribly wrong

It's hard to say what PETA should do about this -- punish or praise?

This photo is so icky, I really didn't want to post it. But then what would such censorship say about my insatiable journalistic integrity? Besides, I don't have much else to write these days...


The worst part is I know the sexual deviant in this photo (that meaty hand belongs to a friend of mine. I've never met that slutty cat.) Find the details here. If you do seek them, just understand that you are a sick f*ck and should be imprisoned by angry Turks for your shameful curiosity.

And also remember this: it was an act of mercy.

Yuck.

The Incident with a Cellphone in the Library...

'Twas a chilly day, the wind gusting off the Rocky Mountains like a frozen aluminum baseball bat swung forcefully into the genitals. But thick glass squelched the icy howling, the bitter chill a faint memory for those of us encamped in near-silent government documents section of the Denver Public Library (third floor, northwest corner.)

We poured over our books and weighty documents. You could taste the concentration.

And then he came, sat, and shuffled his personal items. Finally, he placed a call on his cellphone, using the phone's speaker function. He wore a fedora hat indoors...

[Hello? a tinny voice said.]

"Where are you?"

[Broadway and Alameda.]

We'll I'll be done soon, maybe you can pick me up at the library?

[Yeah, I'll pick you up at the library. Should we go to Wild Oats?"]

Yes, I think that would be best.

It went on like that, but not for long. It wasn't a loud conversation, nor was it particularly soft. The man with the fedora spoke calmly, as if he were sitting at his office desk, making a routine phone call to a colleague. Perfectly normal conversation.

One that provoked a dangerous amount of hostility.

The fedora man later gathered his items, stood, streched, and glanced over his surroundings -- only to meet my derisive glare, a glare as ICY AS THE MOUNTAIN WIND BLOWS!

He froze for a full sixty seconds when his eyes met my mine. This part is true -- a minute, maybe more. It was, to my recollection, the weirdest thing I'd ever done. To stare at a complete stranger for such a long time, the feat itself is unusual. Both of us were frozen in place and neither was willing to give even one inch. Sixty seconds, non merde! "What a strange thing I'm doing," I thought as I glared, frozen in my chair, like some paralyzed John Wayne wearing a stoic blue baseball cap emblazoned with the words "40-year-old Virgin."

Finally, the fedora man broke the trance.

"Read any good books lately?"

"I'm trying to," said I.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"Your cell phone conversation disturbed me."

"It was a brief conversation," said he.

"There are plenty of places in this library where you could have made your call and not disturbed anyone. This is the quietest place in the library. You don't need to use your cell phone here."

(This classic Jedi mind trick failed to put the man into a hypnotic state, one that would have enabled me to make him jump from a balcony -- Ed.)

"People use their cell phones in this library all the time," he said. "I find it disturbing, which is why people come here, I guess."

"Yes, it is."

And then the fedora man disappeared amid the stacks. Lucky for him. I was a dangerous man at the moment. He could have been killed.

God help the next man who gets crosswise with me while wearing a fedora hat.

Osama bin Laden: a government PR tool?

Could it be true?

Al Jazeera doubts Osama bin Laden's latest audio tape is authentic, suggesting the only scientific analysis of the tapes comes from the CIA.

Well, so what if they're fake? And isn't Al Jazeera a terrorist-loving rag-head newspaper anyway?

Yes, it is. But it still raises an interesting point, because these audio tapes seem to whip up our fury for war-making and distract us from the real horrors that war creates.

Also, the tapes seem to give politicians opportunity to say things like, "We don't negotiate with terrorists... you have to destroy them. It's the only way to deal with them."

These jokers gotta be in heaven. Under normal circumstances, a public official could never get away with openly uttering such sentiments. Got to seize the moment when it comes, I suppose.

Wouldn't be the first time I suspected Osama bin Laden was a fake. Now, I'm not going to say it -- how this idea resembles a certain book in which certain agents openly modified certain media accounts to report things like we've always been at war with Oceana. We've never been at war with Eurasia.

But come on! Why, why, why does it seem so appropriate?

Don't laugh -- it could be true. Be honest, do any of you really know a thing about this bin Laden guy, anyway? I mean other than what the president or CIA told you? For all we know, he could have died during one of those missile strikes in the 1990s.

Well, I'll be damned

Learned a new word today -- had to look it up in ye ol' dick-tionary.

The word is bourse.

Know what it means? I'll give you a minute to think about it...

Okay, time's up. A bourse is an exchange, or specifically a European stock exchange.

Thank you, smarty-pants New York Times for using an obscure Middle French word rather than some other, common, less-sophisticated word that would make a lot more sense to us here in the dumb old U.S. of A. Like I have the time to research your erudite locutions in my wordbook, sirs. I'm a busy dude, man!

(Alright, fine. Before you get uppity with me, I'll just say it now: maybe I'm not as busy as I pretend to be.)

That's "Mister" Dad, to you...

Poor, dead rabbit.
In case you didn't know it: The lady is pregnant, and according to modern books and websites, that means I am too (but physically, I'm not even the slightest bit pregnant. I feel great.)

If you're reading this big news for the first time on this website, we're very sorry. It's not that we don't like you, we just like others more than you. And please don't think you aren't important -- we just haven't gotten around to you yet. There are simply too many really important people in our lives who demand our immediate attention -- ambassadors, diplomats, heads of state, wartime generals, retired admirals and the like.

And now, to the point: I've spent the past weeks searching for the perfect words to describe my feelings on the matter, but I've come to the conclusion I'm not ready to do that on the internet. Instead, I've compiled a list of terms to help me respectfully address the Lady during the many trying moments she's likely to experience in the coming months:

The Lady is a:

genetalian (that's a medical term for a pregnant woman) who is primagravida (pregnant with her first child).

She is still a nullagravida (woman who has never given birth) or gravida 0 (same thing), but not for long.

She will one day be a gravida 1 (medical term for a woman who has given birth to one child).

She is also still:
nulliparous (never had a child), or she is a nullipara or a para 0, but again, not for long.

She is also:

Great (archaic)
with child
Up the duff (UK slang)
up the spout (UK slang)
up the flue (UK slang)
up a pole (UK slang)
knocked up
banged up (aussie slang)
in a family way
gone (one month)
PG
preggars
cheggars (UK)
prenada (Spanish, not slang)
embarazada (Spanish, not slang)
en estado (Spanish, not slang)
esperando (Spanish, not slang)
about to find pups (this is just stupid)
in a fix
lady-in-waiting

She has:

a bun in the oven
"split the condom" (whatever)
"drunk from the well"

She is not:
A twat, twit, twirp or twerp (apparently technical terms for egg-laden goldfish)

While researching this, I stumbled into this enormous list of colorful phrases depicting menstruation (in various languages), and couldn't stop laughing. Euphemisms of note: Leak Week, Moonblood, A snatchbox decorated with red roses, and Takin' classes at 'Bama. That last is a reference to the Crimson Tide, of course.

But my favorite happens to be one of the dumbest: I'm on my pyramid -- a reference to the banks of the Nile overflowing and running red, I guess...

Lawyers you hope you'll never need

If this guy happens to be your attorney, you're in trouble.

He's Reid Weingarten, defender of America's executive thieves.

He just helped Enron chief accountant Richard Causey cut a sweet deal that entails ratting on his former collegues, spending seven years in jail and paying the government a $1.25 million fine. Hard to say how good a deal that is when you consider that the maximum penalty for securities fraud is 10 years in prison and a fine of $1 million followed by three years of probation. (And why is the government getting so freaking rich off this, I want to know?)

Weingarten's other big-name client, former WorldCom CEO Bernard Ebbers, must be as pleased as Causey: Weingarten's efforts landed him a 25-year prison sentence for orchestrating an $11 billion accounting fraud that toppled the telecommunications firm three years ago.

Sweet.

I can only hope these two guys were facing the guillotine or something before Weingarten stepped in, otherwise they didn't get their money's worth.

Keep up the good work, Reid.

W.T. Fuck?

Those Aussies really know how to party.

Are they beating the shit out of that guy with beer?

That's a party foul.

... Tried to contact my "Brudda from Anudda Hemisphere" to get the inside story, but he didn't respond. That makes me nervous. Being a foreigner himself, he's either dead from repeated beer bottle blows to the head, or -- just as likely since he's a white guy -- he's out there swinging his hockey stick into the unprotected flesh of some poor Syrian who decided to go surfing on the wrong fuckin' day...

... I suppose he could also be watching the T.V. in his underwear -- that's certainly possible, too.

And that prime minister John Howard really knows his damage control. I watched him last night, playin' like P. George Bush responding to the tough questions (shell shock!):

"Right! 'is 'er's whot Sydney's all about, right? Sheilas lyin' 'round ina sun wit' li'l clothes, see?"










Of course, he's rarely invited to parties that end with riot police and masterful baton play (ouch):

What a buzzkill... The cop's got the thousand-yard stare. Doesn't look like he's having fun.

... probably broke his night stick.

Pryor dies, and I shit you not: I subconsciously knew it was gonna happen!

Richard Pryor, 65, dies of a heart attack at 9 a.m. Mountain Standard Time -- just nine hours after me and the lady rent and watch the Richard Pryor: Live DVD! (The show was recorded in 1979).

Evidence supporting my conclusion that me and the lady can see into the future:

a) We never rent stand-up comedy.

b) As the brilliant comedian's body cooled to room temperature, me and the lady laughed like babies at his moving-and-speaking image, an image recorded 24 years earlier.

c) Not two months ago, me and the lady watched a documentary about Pryor.

d) During that viewing, we both said, "Is Richard Pryor still alive?" at the exact same instant! (or the at least me and the lady agree that it happened that way.)

e) Neither of us knew the answer.

The evidence speaks for itself; we can predict the deaths of comedians. I'm crappin' you negative...

-- The Editor, H. Strange Winterhalter

My God, death row doth make a man grow large!

Does this look like a guy who should be put to death?

Hard to say.

It's Stanley Tookie Williams, convicted murderer and the co-founder of the Crips street gang. He was also nominated for the Nobel Peace prize, although that's not quite as difficult as it sounds.

He's scheduled to die by lethal injection Dec. 13 unless he's granted pardon by Governor Arnold Swartz.... Schwarts... Swortsennjager... (fuck it, I can't spell his last name at the moment.)

[Thunderclap and flash of lightning] "Thy nightmares hath come true. Poison shalt course through thy veins until thou art dead!"

Anyway, here's what Williams says about the birth of the Crips in 1969:

"... we started out—at least my intent was to, in a sense, address all of the so-called neighboring gangs in the area and to... cleanse the neighborhood of all these, you know, marauding gangs. But I was totally wrong. And eventually, we morphed into the monster we were addressing."

[Thuderclap and the flash of lightning] "Gangs begat gangs until one day the mother-of-all gangs was begotten, and then: decades of street violence; and then: the Lord sayeth unto his men, 'Thou shalt pop caps in the asses of thine enemies! Thou shall strike blows in the names of security, honor and turf!'"

Williams and his supporters say he has made significant progress in reforming his gangbanging ways. He has apologized for starting the Crips in the first place. He has turned to peaceful, non-violent activity and has also written children's books that encourage readers to avoid gangs and violence.

But is that enough? Has he cut off an ear, burned apologies into his flesh, or otherwise flagellated his demonic body? Simply put, Has he atoned?

I don't know if Williams should be granted clemency. My gut feeling is "why not?", but it's not because I think Williams is the world's greatest redeemer. I just don't give a damn about capital punishment. I suppose I'd feel differently if someone I loved was murdered, but at the moment that's not the case.

[Thunderclap and lightning] "Thou shalt drive by the abodes of thine enemy, and thou shalt unleash a storm of lead into thine enemy's hearth. And thine enemy shalt be thee."

Writing about prostitutes

I'm talking about pornography, and this is how it works:
You watch, read, examine.
During the next few minutes, you grow increasingly insane with lust.
The madness overwhelms you, and you must beat off.
And that, my boy, is the moment when pornography loses its grip on your soul.
That, my boy, is the only way to beat titties and ass.

Poetry by Hugo Strange Winterhalter

The Tally of Good continues: Fighting negativity with the help of lists

Been a while since I've revisited my list of lovelies.
So here they are, the things I love:

1) Viva Burrito
2) Clean sheets
3) My house, my lady (and the sea... Yarr!)
4) The guitar.
5) Words
6) This book I'm reading, and the book I just finished
7) Art Bell, and freak jobs
8) Breaking the law
9) Revolutions
10) Having a job (for a time being, at least)

I picked a bad week to quit sniffing glue

Looks like it's gonna be a long week of bitching, 'cuz I keep running into things that piss me off.

...like people who never answer their phones, instead allowing a machine do the answering for them. Would you just pick up the goddamned phone? I don't really want to talk to you either, but we have business to communicate and it would be nice if we could just get it over with. And who, exactly, do you think you are that you must screen all your calls? Donald Fucking Trump?

It's gonna be a shrill, torturous, bombastic bitch-a-thon... No peace, sparse joy, and rare fits of bitter laughter.

Fine. If that's the way it's gotta be, then I guess I just roll with it and dish this crap out to everyone I meet...

This brain is a telescope to the future.

Video games. I'm saying it again -- video games are the next dominant art form.

Even the New York Times said so.

Even universities are coming around to the idea.

Those people who mock and doubt my words -- they only have themselves to blame on day I come to deliver this message: You were told, by me, that this would be so.

Hugo gets a job

Now what the hell do you think about that?

Rock & Roll ain't cheap these days

Seems Fender (or maybe just The Man) has recently hiked list prices on their guitars by about $200 -- particularly the American Standard series Telecasters and Stratocasters. They run almost $1,000 at places like Guitar Center and Musician's Friend -- two notorious low-ballers in the retail musical instrument market. I paid a pubic-hair more than $700 for mine a few years ago.

It sounds like a good plan because musicians are known for having tons of disposable cash...

...that should come off like sarcasm because that's the way it was intended.

Anyway, hard-working rookie musicians can still rock out; they just have to downgrade a little bit to something like the Fender "Li'l Hendrix" series, which comes with four guitar picks, a guitar strap imprinted with musical notation of few measures from Beethoven's "Ode to Joy", and a flamboyant plastic-fabric cape "like the rockstars wear."

One hundred prevarications per minute: White House press room transcripts

Stumbled into this website the other day, read these, and then passed out with disbelief and shame.

I almost wish these jerks would just get it over with and order us all to report to the lead mines for duty. When did endless lying, obfuscation and prevarication become standard of communication in this open society of ours? Do these people really think word games like this actually help this country?

Tell me it's not true that every foul cliche in the English language fits our great American leaders: Lying, thieving, killing, conspiring, law-breaking, self-serving motherfuckers... Every last one.

Fuck them!

Let's revolt. Send these cold, embittered men and women to some grey desolate, deserted North Dakota crossroad farm town so they can spend their dying days in banishment arguing about whose method was most effective at crushing the American spirit.

Goddamned motherfuckers!

American torture

You just can't declare someone an eternal enemy and expect the sentiment to withstand the test of time. I certainly can't, even though I try. For example, I'm a card-carrying disbeliever, especially of christians and most if not all organized religion.

But, when it comes to torture -- specifically the cruel, inhumane, degrading, U.S.-sanctioned kind for which our vice president apparently yearns -- some christians come off looking pretty good. Some, like these military catholics, think that even if torture were a necessary and effective tool for combating terrorists, nazis, fascist space aliens, abortion-loving homosexuals or drug-crazed, pistol-packing Canadians, it's still absolutely, morally wrong.

That's according to James H. Toner, Department of Leadership and Ethics, Air War College, Maxwell AFB, Ala.

There's even a bible quote in there (not that I would've ever recogonized it without the biblical reference system of letters, colons and numbers in parentheses.)

Now, Mr. Toner may not be head of the department or anything -- hell, he might just be the Air War College janitor for all I know, but he seems like a bright enough guy. If he thinks torture is wrong, I think I'll just have to support him on that one.

Way to go, military Catholics! Pray for me if you like, and next time you repent before god, maybe you could toss in a couple of my sins, too. It would lighten up my load considerably.

By the way, what kind of person do you have to be to defend the position that certain branches of the American government should be exempt from the rules that govern torture?

Does Cheney even refer to himself as a human anymore? Has he been the subject of some top-secret medical procedure that allows humans to live and work without their hearts? What in the hell does that man do when the sun goes down?

Anybody know?

Has anybody checked?

Democrats: 4-ever losers

Subhead: How the Democrats will never win because they're slow and they can't think beyond what they want to eat for dinner.

Sub-subhead: You fuckers lost another opportunity to derail the ultra-conservative cabal that has been driving this country to its knees for the last five years.

So, you thought keeping quiet as ultra-religious conservatives bitch-slapped President Bush into submission after he nominated Harriet Miers to the Supreme Court was good idea? Well, now we have an even more egregious nominee, and we also have Republican unity that all but ensures he'll make it to the big dance. The Republican centrists who were the only reason Democrats can still even consider the word "fillibuster" are being coaxed back into the right-wing fold.

Goodbye swing vote, hello Scalito and the New World Spanish Inquisition.

I'm sure there is a blood-thirsty, pitbull of a Democrat out there somewhere who's thinking the same thing I am: Why didn't the Democrats jump on the opportunity to support Bush and his half-baked nomination of Miers.

What? Are you fucking mad?

No, I'm not. Listen: We knew Miers was probably a freak, but we also knew -- or at least suspected -- she was a woman. So, had she been approved by the Senate, Roe v. Wade might not have been such a problem as it likely will be with this new guy, Samuel Alito. That's observation number one.

We didn't know what she thought about things like affirmative action, sex discrimination and the display of nativity scenes in public buildings, but we certainly know what Alito thinks about them; and his thoughts ain't exactly progressive are they? So we traded a big Harriet question mark for a known, card-carrying, right-wing freak. That's observation number two.

But here's where it gets tricky (or to be accurate, would have gotten tricky had a few Democrats been thinking outside the box instead of constantly reacting in opposition to every fucking stupid, pointless utterance that comes from our White House idiot box or the Republican party):

Say the Democrats actually had the temerity to back Miers, what might have happened? Yes, Miers possibly gets appointed to the Surpreme Court and we roll the dice with her; but at the same time, ultra-christian right-wing Republicans just might have found themselves isolated from the majority, from the Republican center AND from the office of the President. It could have derailed the right-wing agenda for fucking years! Could've been a bloodless coup. Could've, but won't.

Why is that important that Democrats adopt the spirit of a killer? We want this to stop. Because we want sanity to return to our country. Because we are fucking sick and tired of this crap.

The only way its gonna happen is if Democrats pull their heads out of their asses, revise their platform so that it can withstand the mindless polarity that pervades politics these days, produce a few leaders who can actually motivate people, and start acting like fucking murderous WINNERS!