Saturday, December 31, 2005
Thursday, December 29, 2005
Time Is Running Out
I'll be 40 next year and I still haven't found a paying job that I like. Most people would consider me to be "hopeless" in this regard, but most people would be wrong.
I am not hopeless.
I am, however, quite desperate. ( def. 5. nearly hopeless, critical- AHCD )
Why don't I do something different? Good question.
I'm too lazy to do anything productive, so I guess I'll have to use the internet instead...hmmm.
I didn't have anything better to do at work today than write emails to pencil manufacturers asking them to sign me to an endorsement deal.I am the World's Most Famous Office Temp,after all.( There is not one shred of evidence that says that I'm not, so it must be true.)
I am very hopeful about this.
Everyday, I will pick a company at (more or less) random and send them an email explaining why it would be in their best interest to give me money. (I've got 100,000 readers! ( actually just 99,996 accidental hits) I've played in (bands that shared the stage with, on different dates) very famous bands! I am a shameless whore who will write glowing praise about almost anything for very little money!)
On the off-chance that this doesn't work, I've got some back-up plans:
- Establish an internet-based copywriting/proofreading service for exiled African Princes and their Banker Pals. I get a lot of letters from them, and they've got lots of cash, but the letters are always poorly written- for example:
"Consequently I am badly affected because the rebels needed my assistance and co-operation by releasing the national treasury department to them which I Strictly refused their entry. Therefore out of my four children two was kidnapped including my father and they were eventually killed by the rebels. Further more, all my investments and other asst wereburst to pieces. "
I'd love to help this guy but I'm confused- I mean "...out of my four children two was [sic] kidnapped including my father..." -is one of this man's children also his father? I don't think that's possible. And what's a "wereburst"? Is it like a werewolf? No wonder he can't find anyone to help.
I have offered this gentleman my proofreading services and general English wordful prowess.( but first I will need $1000.00 to get my computer out of hock.)
I am anxiously awaiting receipt of his bank account information.
- Sell items that seem to be illegal and immoral on the surface, but are really harmless. For example the text of an ad placed on a porn site might read "Tiny Feet! The "hard -to-get" kind that real men like- direct from Asia! Rubber, Plastic,Hard, Soft, under 18 all OK!" Of course, what the pervs would really get would be something like this (it's clean). What are they gonna do? Take me to court and tell the judge they wanted some kiddie porn and I ripped them off? That'd be fun!
Plus, I could sell my customers names to real porno dealers and to the F.B.I.
(I'm starting to convince myself- I may actually do this. It's pretty fucking brilliant,really).
Maybe something more traditional would be better:
-Open a vegetarian restaurant staffed entirely by trained animals (and their handlers). There's probably a whole shitsock drawer full of regulations saying I can't do this, but it's always been a dream of mine...I love the irony of selling expensive bowls of flavourless gruel ( for only $13.95 , you can eat just like a Third-World peasant!) to patchouli-clouded middle-class hippies who wear socks with sandals. I know that there are lots of people doing this already, but none of them have a staff of unpaid and poorly treated chimpanzees.
(On second thought, they might...)
-One word: Hagfish.
-Two words: Hag fish.
Three words: Hagfish farming commune.
The future, should it ever arrive, will be bright indeed!
I am not hopeless.
I am, however, quite desperate. ( def. 5. nearly hopeless, critical- AHCD )
Why don't I do something different? Good question.
I'm too lazy to do anything productive, so I guess I'll have to use the internet instead...hmmm.
I didn't have anything better to do at work today than write emails to pencil manufacturers asking them to sign me to an endorsement deal.I am the World's Most Famous Office Temp,after all.( There is not one shred of evidence that says that I'm not, so it must be true.)
I am very hopeful about this.
Everyday, I will pick a company at (more or less) random and send them an email explaining why it would be in their best interest to give me money. (I've got 100,000 readers! ( actually just 99,996 accidental hits) I've played in (bands that shared the stage with, on different dates) very famous bands! I am a shameless whore who will write glowing praise about almost anything for very little money!)
On the off-chance that this doesn't work, I've got some back-up plans:
- Establish an internet-based copywriting/proofreading service for exiled African Princes and their Banker Pals. I get a lot of letters from them, and they've got lots of cash, but the letters are always poorly written- for example:
"Consequently I am badly affected because the rebels needed my assistance and co-operation by releasing the national treasury department to them which I Strictly refused their entry. Therefore out of my four children two was kidnapped including my father and they were eventually killed by the rebels. Further more, all my investments and other asst wereburst to pieces. "
I'd love to help this guy but I'm confused- I mean "...out of my four children two was [sic] kidnapped including my father..." -is one of this man's children also his father? I don't think that's possible. And what's a "wereburst"? Is it like a werewolf? No wonder he can't find anyone to help.
I have offered this gentleman my proofreading services and general English wordful prowess.( but first I will need $1000.00 to get my computer out of hock.)
I am anxiously awaiting receipt of his bank account information.
- Sell items that seem to be illegal and immoral on the surface, but are really harmless. For example the text of an ad placed on a porn site might read "Tiny Feet! The "hard -to-get" kind that real men like- direct from Asia! Rubber, Plastic,Hard, Soft, under 18 all OK!" Of course, what the pervs would really get would be something like this (it's clean). What are they gonna do? Take me to court and tell the judge they wanted some kiddie porn and I ripped them off? That'd be fun!
Plus, I could sell my customers names to real porno dealers and to the F.B.I.
(I'm starting to convince myself- I may actually do this. It's pretty fucking brilliant,really).
Maybe something more traditional would be better:
-Open a vegetarian restaurant staffed entirely by trained animals (and their handlers). There's probably a whole shitsock drawer full of regulations saying I can't do this, but it's always been a dream of mine...I love the irony of selling expensive bowls of flavourless gruel ( for only $13.95 , you can eat just like a Third-World peasant!) to patchouli-clouded middle-class hippies who wear socks with sandals. I know that there are lots of people doing this already, but none of them have a staff of unpaid and poorly treated chimpanzees.
(On second thought, they might...)
-One word: Hagfish.
-Two words: Hag fish.
Three words: Hagfish farming commune.
The future, should it ever arrive, will be bright indeed!
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
My New Joy
I am Saved. I am finally happy. What was once a secret is now Known to me.
I have accepted the Truth into my heart, and allowed Joy into my soul.
I have learned how to love others and love myself; to find peace and happiness in all things that I do, be they great or small.
In order to do this, I've had to lower my standards a great deal. To help accomplish this,
I've found that it helps to apply a "grading curve" to all human beings and their activities, myself included.
For those unfamiliar with the term, a "grading curve" is basically an academic trick that's useful for coaxing passing grades out of large groups of lazy, stupid, stoned, unmotivated or otherwise poorly-performing students. (If you score '100' on a test that uses a curve, you earn the hatred of everyone else in your class. This teaches intelligent kids an important lesson: nobody likes them).
Instead of using an arbitrary numerical value as ( I believe the example in the link was 0.80) as an average score, I will assign a somewhat subjective term drawn from the One Truth, the New Paradigm of Mediocrity:
Most Things Suck
If most things suck (and they do), then it follows that being in a state of suckiness is a 'normal' mode; therefore ,what could be more normal than suckiness? A cursory examination of popular culture bears out this premise:
How often is the best band/book/politician/movie/TV/food/whatever, also the most popular? Roughly never is how often.
Consider that only one of these statements is always true:
a) normal=good
b) good = popular
c) popular=sucky
d) sucky = average
Which one? Hint: it's (d).
I wish I could explain this better, but my knowledge of logic sucks, which makes me average by my new, diminished standards. Logical ,no?
If further help with lower standards is needed, one need look no further than our nation's leaders, from whom I stole the following pearl of wisdom:
Embrace failure by calling it something else
My remarkable new path to self-improvement is really just an old form of self-deception, and, like most lies, can eventually become true if repeated often enough. For example:
-Instead of saying "I hate my job", I say, " my lifetime dream is to do mind-numbingly repetitive data entry for just enough money to avoid homelessness" -
Or-
"Even though my half-assed efforts are unappreciated by those I do them for and I am unrewarded in any tangible sense; I can find true happiness in a 'job well-done' , because even when my work sucks, it is average or better".
I offer this reasoning to my creditors in lieu of currency.
A good slogan never hurts when trying to "pull the wool" over one's own eyes. Try these:
-Work Will Make You Free!
- Have a Nice Day!
-Mission Accomplished!
Everything on the 'Dollar Menu' is delicious
Face it- you'll always have to settle for less, so you may as well start rationalizing your disappointment today- you'll be happier for doing so.
Some lies I tell to make myself feel better (comforting falsehoods are in italics):
- I drive a 1987 Accord because Honda makes such good cars.
- I have a shitty job because money isn't important to me.
- I am celibate by choice.
- Artistic success isn't measurable by money .
-Sardines are a meal.
I'm sure you have some of your own. Please share. I need all the help I can get in my new pursuit of enlightened happiness.
I have accepted the Truth into my heart, and allowed Joy into my soul.
I have learned how to love others and love myself; to find peace and happiness in all things that I do, be they great or small.
In order to do this, I've had to lower my standards a great deal. To help accomplish this,
I've found that it helps to apply a "grading curve" to all human beings and their activities, myself included.
For those unfamiliar with the term, a "grading curve" is basically an academic trick that's useful for coaxing passing grades out of large groups of lazy, stupid, stoned, unmotivated or otherwise poorly-performing students. (If you score '100' on a test that uses a curve, you earn the hatred of everyone else in your class. This teaches intelligent kids an important lesson: nobody likes them).
Instead of using an arbitrary numerical value as ( I believe the example in the link was 0.80) as an average score, I will assign a somewhat subjective term drawn from the One Truth, the New Paradigm of Mediocrity:
Most Things Suck
If most things suck (and they do), then it follows that being in a state of suckiness is a 'normal' mode; therefore ,what could be more normal than suckiness? A cursory examination of popular culture bears out this premise:
How often is the best band/book/politician/movie/TV/food/whatever, also the most popular? Roughly never is how often.
Consider that only one of these statements is always true:
a) normal=good
b) good = popular
c) popular=sucky
d) sucky = average
Which one? Hint: it's (d).
I wish I could explain this better, but my knowledge of logic sucks, which makes me average by my new, diminished standards. Logical ,no?
If further help with lower standards is needed, one need look no further than our nation's leaders, from whom I stole the following pearl of wisdom:
Embrace failure by calling it something else
My remarkable new path to self-improvement is really just an old form of self-deception, and, like most lies, can eventually become true if repeated often enough. For example:
-Instead of saying "I hate my job", I say, " my lifetime dream is to do mind-numbingly repetitive data entry for just enough money to avoid homelessness" -
Or-
"Even though my half-assed efforts are unappreciated by those I do them for and I am unrewarded in any tangible sense; I can find true happiness in a 'job well-done' , because even when my work sucks, it is average or better".
I offer this reasoning to my creditors in lieu of currency.
A good slogan never hurts when trying to "pull the wool" over one's own eyes. Try these:
-Work Will Make You Free!
- Have a Nice Day!
-Mission Accomplished!
Everything on the 'Dollar Menu' is delicious
Face it- you'll always have to settle for less, so you may as well start rationalizing your disappointment today- you'll be happier for doing so.
Some lies I tell to make myself feel better (comforting falsehoods are in italics):
- I drive a 1987 Accord because Honda makes such good cars.
- I have a shitty job because money isn't important to me.
- I am celibate by choice.
- Artistic success isn't measurable by money .
-Sardines are a meal.
I'm sure you have some of your own. Please share. I need all the help I can get in my new pursuit of enlightened happiness.
Sunday, December 25, 2005
Christmas Is About Me
I deserve medals for all the wonderful things I do. Large gold medallions with bold and inspirational messages such as "I'm #1!" and "I Rock!" inscribed upon them, or perhaps just bearing my name spelled out in semi-precious gemstones. Or diamonds, if available.
I should also be presented with a jewel-encrusted golden crown in honor of My humility. I don't like to brag about My unsurpassed humilty, so I'd like a flashy and expensive bauble to do it for me. I'm very proud of how humble I am, but I don't feel comfortable boasting about it. It's undignified, even if it is justfiable.
But all that's not enough-not nearly. My birthday should be a national holiday. Anyone who doesn't want to celebrate My birth will be given the option of celebrating My twin brother's birthday instead.
I don't like to work on My birthday, so why should I expect anyone else to? (By law, this would be a paid holiday.)
Also, there should be, immediately upon the event of My passing, a life-size statue of Myself placed at the entrance to all buildings public and private; done so in order that the sad and lonely persons who never once had opportunity to bask in the awesome radiance of Me, can, at the least, console themselves by crying upon the unwavering stone shoulder of My graven image.
If this all seems to be a bit much, at least consider simply giving me a set of Pathetic Olympics Medals. I've earned that much, haven't I?
This year for example:
-I got a new, still-in-the-box, toilet seat for x-mas.
(Bronze medal!)
- I received this seat because I specifically requested it. (Silver!)
- It's x-mas night and I have nothing better to do than blog about the toilet seat I got for christmas. (Gold!)
Don't feel too sorry for me , though. Tomorrow morning (I'm very regular) I get to do something that most of you will never, ever, have the chance to do.
Tomorrow, I get to rest my butt on a toilet seat that has never before known the touch of human ass.
How many of you can claim that you've done this?
I thought so.
I'm not sure what to do with the old seat. I may cover it with holly boughs and use it as a wreath/doorknocker, but I'll probably just sell it on ebay.
I will claim it's the toilet seat from the bathroom stall made infamous by this event. It'll sell.
I also got some other things for christmas, but they are probably so much better than what you got, I won't list them here, so as to spare you the pain of any further envy.
While I realize that no christmas can be truly merry without my presence, I still hope that your holiday was above-average or better, and that your next year will be better than this one, although no one really believes that it will.
I should also be presented with a jewel-encrusted golden crown in honor of My humility. I don't like to brag about My unsurpassed humilty, so I'd like a flashy and expensive bauble to do it for me. I'm very proud of how humble I am, but I don't feel comfortable boasting about it. It's undignified, even if it is justfiable.
But all that's not enough-not nearly. My birthday should be a national holiday. Anyone who doesn't want to celebrate My birth will be given the option of celebrating My twin brother's birthday instead.
I don't like to work on My birthday, so why should I expect anyone else to? (By law, this would be a paid holiday.)
Also, there should be, immediately upon the event of My passing, a life-size statue of Myself placed at the entrance to all buildings public and private; done so in order that the sad and lonely persons who never once had opportunity to bask in the awesome radiance of Me, can, at the least, console themselves by crying upon the unwavering stone shoulder of My graven image.
If this all seems to be a bit much, at least consider simply giving me a set of Pathetic Olympics Medals. I've earned that much, haven't I?
This year for example:
-I got a new, still-in-the-box, toilet seat for x-mas.
(Bronze medal!)
- I received this seat because I specifically requested it. (Silver!)
- It's x-mas night and I have nothing better to do than blog about the toilet seat I got for christmas. (Gold!)
Don't feel too sorry for me , though. Tomorrow morning (I'm very regular) I get to do something that most of you will never, ever, have the chance to do.
Tomorrow, I get to rest my butt on a toilet seat that has never before known the touch of human ass.
How many of you can claim that you've done this?
I thought so.
I'm not sure what to do with the old seat. I may cover it with holly boughs and use it as a wreath/doorknocker, but I'll probably just sell it on ebay.
I will claim it's the toilet seat from the bathroom stall made infamous by this event. It'll sell.
I also got some other things for christmas, but they are probably so much better than what you got, I won't list them here, so as to spare you the pain of any further envy.
While I realize that no christmas can be truly merry without my presence, I still hope that your holiday was above-average or better, and that your next year will be better than this one, although no one really believes that it will.
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Christmas Present
"He sees you when you're sleeping-
he knows when you're awake..."
Man, that's about the all-time creepiest song ever written- it evokes images of some perverse, troll-like Santa Creature lurking in the bedrooms of small children. Shudder. You better watch the fuck out- Santa's cataractic eyes are on you.
HOLY SHIT IN THE WOODS!
In a sure sign that the Catholic Church has fallen out of Divine Favor, the new Pope is also the World's Scariest Old Man, a position previously held by Dick Cheney:
If you think that we couldn't possibly have a worse president than Bush, think harder.
-- --- -- -- --- ----
Dec. 25th is to dysfunctional families what Feb. 14 is to failed romantics- an unavoidable annual reminder of crap we'd rather not think about, as well as a great chance to spend money on someone who doesn't like you as much as you think they do. Whee.
I was afraid that this holiday season was going to be extremely difficult to deal with, but I've found that the H-Day season is easier confronted sober than drunk.
I realize that this observation seems extremely counter-intuitive; after all , what could be more natural than getting drunk on Thanksgiving and staying that way until the radio finally stops playing 'Jingle Bells'?
Hell, I used to start my Christmas Drinking on Valentine's Day, effectively avoiding not only the holidays, but most of the calendar year as well. (There aren't any drinking holidays between New Year's and Valentine's, but there should be).
New Years? Big deal. I haven't had fun on New Years since 1999, and that was only because I made up a bunch of bullshit about Y2K ( don't be anywhere near a microwave at midnight- they are all going to explode) and managed to convince more than a few people that it was all true.
Otherwise, for a Pro-Level Drinker, New Years' is just business as usual, with the added thrill of police roadblocks everywhere.
Being sober, it's easier to avoid getting caught up in the emotional overload that is so contagious these days. I don't have many people to buy stuff for, so shopping's not a big stressor; I'm not a christian, but nor am I offended by the polite use of "Merry Christmas"; tasteful 'Jesus-themed' decorations on private property; well-performed christmas carols, etc, so I don't have to worry about getting caught up in that particular spurious controversy . I really don't have much cause to get worked-up at all. Peaceful, I am.
My beliefs and my passions, my loves and my fears, are unique unto themselves, they aren't beholden to any particular season or day- my feelings ,good and bad, don't change because of an arbitrary numerical date or due to the choice of others to peacefully celebrate stuff I don't personally believe in. If I like you today, chances are I'll feel the same way in March or September; and even if I don't I'll still try to keep it civil, regardless of date.
I don't think that is a very complicated philosophy- it's certainly not original- but I think it can work.
Maybe.
he knows when you're awake..."
Man, that's about the all-time creepiest song ever written- it evokes images of some perverse, troll-like Santa Creature lurking in the bedrooms of small children. Shudder. You better watch the fuck out- Santa's cataractic eyes are on you.
HOLY SHIT IN THE WOODS!In a sure sign that the Catholic Church has fallen out of Divine Favor, the new Pope is also the World's Scariest Old Man, a position previously held by Dick Cheney:
If you think that we couldn't possibly have a worse president than Bush, think harder.
-- --- -- -- --- ----
Dec. 25th is to dysfunctional families what Feb. 14 is to failed romantics- an unavoidable annual reminder of crap we'd rather not think about, as well as a great chance to spend money on someone who doesn't like you as much as you think they do. Whee.
I was afraid that this holiday season was going to be extremely difficult to deal with, but I've found that the H-Day season is easier confronted sober than drunk.
I realize that this observation seems extremely counter-intuitive; after all , what could be more natural than getting drunk on Thanksgiving and staying that way until the radio finally stops playing 'Jingle Bells'?
Hell, I used to start my Christmas Drinking on Valentine's Day, effectively avoiding not only the holidays, but most of the calendar year as well. (There aren't any drinking holidays between New Year's and Valentine's, but there should be).
New Years? Big deal. I haven't had fun on New Years since 1999, and that was only because I made up a bunch of bullshit about Y2K ( don't be anywhere near a microwave at midnight- they are all going to explode) and managed to convince more than a few people that it was all true.
Otherwise, for a Pro-Level Drinker, New Years' is just business as usual, with the added thrill of police roadblocks everywhere.
Being sober, it's easier to avoid getting caught up in the emotional overload that is so contagious these days. I don't have many people to buy stuff for, so shopping's not a big stressor; I'm not a christian, but nor am I offended by the polite use of "Merry Christmas"; tasteful 'Jesus-themed' decorations on private property; well-performed christmas carols, etc, so I don't have to worry about getting caught up in that particular spurious controversy . I really don't have much cause to get worked-up at all. Peaceful, I am.
My beliefs and my passions, my loves and my fears, are unique unto themselves, they aren't beholden to any particular season or day- my feelings ,good and bad, don't change because of an arbitrary numerical date or due to the choice of others to peacefully celebrate stuff I don't personally believe in. If I like you today, chances are I'll feel the same way in March or September; and even if I don't I'll still try to keep it civil, regardless of date.
I don't think that is a very complicated philosophy- it's certainly not original- but I think it can work.
Maybe.
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
Christmas Past
Once upon a time , I had a girlfriend whose kitchen sink had a very unpleasant personality. The first time I used it , the annoying water-filter her husband had put on the faucet leaked, squirting water into my eye.
Then the pipes started squealing; a painfully loud, high-pitched scream, a banshee wail capable of shattering wineglasses fifty feet away. Fortunately, we mostly drank straight from the bottle at that time, but it was a truly horrible sound nonetheless. (Years later, I realized that the plumbing was warning me to get out, run as far away from this place and this person as I could get. I paid it no heed.)
I stood, dumbfounded, twisting this knob, then that knob, wiggling the filter- nothing helped. I couldn't even get the water to stop.
So I did the manly thing:
I yelled, "Nancy! Help! I broke your sink and now it's attacking me!"
So Nancy ran in to save me.
"The trick" , she explained, "is to push it past the point that it screams".
She demonstrated by first turning the spigot full-on (the screaming stopped), then deftly cranking both knobs to 'off', which brought my watery disaster to an end.
'Push it past the point that it screams'?, I thought that could apply to a lot of things, especially when it involves Nancy. It would also make a great song lyric.
"Woman!", I bellowed, " bring me my guitar, post-haste! The Muse has brought me a gift and I must have my instrument now! Chop-chop!"
(Actually I said, " Honey, do you mind if I play your guitar in the basement after I finish the dishes?-I'll keep it quiet- do you have a pen and paper I can use?";but that sort of first-person milquetoast wimpiness is not fun to write about, even if it is true)
So I'm in her basement , trying to incorporate the line "push it past the point that it screams" into a heartfelt love song that I could present to Nancy on Christmas; which was only a few days away. I was using one of those cheap-ass acoustic guitars that comes in a K-Mart beginner's kit- the kind that cannot be properly tuned, ever. It didn't matter to me. It was the holiday season and I was in love with the most beautiful woman on the planet. She had these eyes...so deep I could swim in them forever and never come back- why would I want to? I saw so much in those eyes, so many things that I'd given up all hope of ever seeing...this was going to be the best Christmas ever- the first holiday I'd ever spent with a 'special someone' in my whole pathetic, loveless life.
"Holy Fucking Shit!" , screamed the most beautiful woman on the planet, "get your goddamn shirt and shoes on- my Dad's coming up the driveway!"
I wondered to myself what the big deal was- after all Nancy had been divorced for almost a year, right? It's perfectly decent for her to be seeing a new man, right? Right?
She ran downstairs, her lovely green eyes bulging almost comically. I would have laughed, but she was so obviously freaked it started to worry me.
"Listen", she began briefing me, " you and I went to Blankity-blank High School. Our homeroom teacher was Mrs. X. You are a friend of Joannie Z, and just dropped in to say hello, and now you are leaving to go see her. This is what you are going to tell my father."
Knock. Knock.
"Hi, Sweetie", said her dad, knocking snow off his boots, "I came by to help put up your lights since Darren is away."
Away? I thought his divorced ass was living on a sofa-bed in Daytona Beach. This was getting weird.
"Hi Daddy- do you remember Allan X? We had homeroom together back in '82 and he's trying to find Joannie Z. " Damn. She just used all my lines.
We shook hands.
His mouth said "hello."
His eyes said, "I know that you are fucking my daughter. She does this sort of thing all the time and I pretend I don't know it because it's easier that way."
Nancy's father had very sad eyes.
"Nice meeting you, sir", I said, "it was great seeing you again, Nancy", I added,making the lie even worse. She gave me one of those awkward arms-only hugs where the hugger makes certain that their body never touches the huggee. It's the sort of hug you'd give a leper, after which you'd be inclined to burn your clothing and bathe in Listerine.
When I got to my car, I noticed it had a light dusting of last night's snow on it. There were no tire tracks in the fresh powder. You didn't need to be Colombo to tell that my car had been there overnight.
Nancy called me at work the next day.
"I love you, but I can't see you anymore. Please don't call the house."
So I closed the door to my office and cried for awhile. Then I went home early and got drunk alone. I didn't know it at the time, but this was to become a personal holiday tradition.
Every Christmas , I think about Nancy, and the way she made me feel when we were together; thinking that finally I had found someone that made me happy, and ,most importantly, someone that I could make happy, just by being there. I think that's as close to love as I've ever been, and it turned out to be a lie.
Despite their wondrous beauty, it's not Nancy's eyes I see when I remember her.
I see her father and his sad, sad eyes.
Then the pipes started squealing; a painfully loud, high-pitched scream, a banshee wail capable of shattering wineglasses fifty feet away. Fortunately, we mostly drank straight from the bottle at that time, but it was a truly horrible sound nonetheless. (Years later, I realized that the plumbing was warning me to get out, run as far away from this place and this person as I could get. I paid it no heed.)
I stood, dumbfounded, twisting this knob, then that knob, wiggling the filter- nothing helped. I couldn't even get the water to stop.
So I did the manly thing:
I yelled, "Nancy! Help! I broke your sink and now it's attacking me!"
So Nancy ran in to save me.
"The trick" , she explained, "is to push it past the point that it screams".
She demonstrated by first turning the spigot full-on (the screaming stopped), then deftly cranking both knobs to 'off', which brought my watery disaster to an end.
'Push it past the point that it screams'?, I thought that could apply to a lot of things, especially when it involves Nancy. It would also make a great song lyric.
"Woman!", I bellowed, " bring me my guitar, post-haste! The Muse has brought me a gift and I must have my instrument now! Chop-chop!"
(Actually I said, " Honey, do you mind if I play your guitar in the basement after I finish the dishes?-I'll keep it quiet- do you have a pen and paper I can use?";but that sort of first-person milquetoast wimpiness is not fun to write about, even if it is true)
So I'm in her basement , trying to incorporate the line "push it past the point that it screams" into a heartfelt love song that I could present to Nancy on Christmas; which was only a few days away. I was using one of those cheap-ass acoustic guitars that comes in a K-Mart beginner's kit- the kind that cannot be properly tuned, ever. It didn't matter to me. It was the holiday season and I was in love with the most beautiful woman on the planet. She had these eyes...so deep I could swim in them forever and never come back- why would I want to? I saw so much in those eyes, so many things that I'd given up all hope of ever seeing...this was going to be the best Christmas ever- the first holiday I'd ever spent with a 'special someone' in my whole pathetic, loveless life.
"Holy Fucking Shit!" , screamed the most beautiful woman on the planet, "get your goddamn shirt and shoes on- my Dad's coming up the driveway!"
I wondered to myself what the big deal was- after all Nancy had been divorced for almost a year, right? It's perfectly decent for her to be seeing a new man, right? Right?
She ran downstairs, her lovely green eyes bulging almost comically. I would have laughed, but she was so obviously freaked it started to worry me.
"Listen", she began briefing me, " you and I went to Blankity-blank High School. Our homeroom teacher was Mrs. X. You are a friend of Joannie Z, and just dropped in to say hello, and now you are leaving to go see her. This is what you are going to tell my father."
Knock. Knock.
"Hi, Sweetie", said her dad, knocking snow off his boots, "I came by to help put up your lights since Darren is away."
Away? I thought his divorced ass was living on a sofa-bed in Daytona Beach. This was getting weird.
"Hi Daddy- do you remember Allan X? We had homeroom together back in '82 and he's trying to find Joannie Z. " Damn. She just used all my lines.
We shook hands.
His mouth said "hello."
His eyes said, "I know that you are fucking my daughter. She does this sort of thing all the time and I pretend I don't know it because it's easier that way."
Nancy's father had very sad eyes.
"Nice meeting you, sir", I said, "it was great seeing you again, Nancy", I added,making the lie even worse. She gave me one of those awkward arms-only hugs where the hugger makes certain that their body never touches the huggee. It's the sort of hug you'd give a leper, after which you'd be inclined to burn your clothing and bathe in Listerine.
When I got to my car, I noticed it had a light dusting of last night's snow on it. There were no tire tracks in the fresh powder. You didn't need to be Colombo to tell that my car had been there overnight.
Nancy called me at work the next day.
"I love you, but I can't see you anymore. Please don't call the house."
So I closed the door to my office and cried for awhile. Then I went home early and got drunk alone. I didn't know it at the time, but this was to become a personal holiday tradition.
Every Christmas , I think about Nancy, and the way she made me feel when we were together; thinking that finally I had found someone that made me happy, and ,most importantly, someone that I could make happy, just by being there. I think that's as close to love as I've ever been, and it turned out to be a lie.
Despite their wondrous beauty, it's not Nancy's eyes I see when I remember her.
I see her father and his sad, sad eyes.
Friday, December 16, 2005
Last Minute Shopping
Nothing says "Christmas" like waiting until the last minute to waste your hard-earned cash on unworthy ingrates who ,through some obscure familial or social obligation, have forced their way onto your holiday shopping list.
The best way to avoid being bankrupted by an endless stream of $10 party gifts is to invest in a few strategically dispensed items that are so sensational that the recipients will beg you to never to give them anything , ever . They may even tell all your friends, causing them to shun you forever. Think of the money you'll save next year!
Here are some ideas for those of you who are too damn lazy to actually put any thought into what to get for Cousin It's 'mystery Santa' party. I hate 'mystery Santa'- this year I'm putting a $10 bill in a box at the parties I have the misfortune of attending. It's thoughtless, but more importantly , it's what I want. Gotta look out for #1- that goes double at Christmas, ya know?
Here are some real honking dogs that you can use to alienate almost everyone on your "Wish (they'd leave me the fuck alone) List":
10-Hour Stairway To Heaven DVD Boxed Set
OOoooh...scary!
You've probably seen the 4-hour version and (after burning your CD collection and begging the Almighty for forgiveness) wished that it could be a little bit longer, maybe taking the time to expose the unholy agenda of Rock Music just a bit more...
Well, praise Jesus! Your prayer been answered! Here's the full, uncut TEN HOUR version!
Take some Paxil, dose the kids with some Ritalin , kick back and Be Saved.
Stare at the TV for ten straight hours. Repeat until you see The Truth.
Can You Put A Price On Salvation?
Yes, you can. Here it is:
Extended Involuntary Holiday Vacation
Whether it's state prison, a mental institution, creepy nursing home or top-secret CIA "freedom camp", wouldn't it be better for you if certain annoying people in your life were shipped off somewhere where they couldn't bother you?
----- -------- ---------
------ -------- -------
The best way to avoid being bankrupted by an endless stream of $10 party gifts is to invest in a few strategically dispensed items that are so sensational that the recipients will beg you to never to give them anything , ever . They may even tell all your friends, causing them to shun you forever. Think of the money you'll save next year!
Here are some ideas for those of you who are too damn lazy to actually put any thought into what to get for Cousin It's 'mystery Santa' party. I hate 'mystery Santa'- this year I'm putting a $10 bill in a box at the parties I have the misfortune of attending. It's thoughtless, but more importantly , it's what I want. Gotta look out for #1- that goes double at Christmas, ya know?
Here are some real honking dogs that you can use to alienate almost everyone on your "Wish (they'd leave me the fuck alone) List":
10-Hour Stairway To Heaven DVD Boxed Set
OOoooh...scary!You've probably seen the 4-hour version and (after burning your CD collection and begging the Almighty for forgiveness) wished that it could be a little bit longer, maybe taking the time to expose the unholy agenda of Rock Music just a bit more...
Well, praise Jesus! Your prayer been answered! Here's the full, uncut TEN HOUR version!
Take some Paxil, dose the kids with some Ritalin , kick back and Be Saved.
Stare at the TV for ten straight hours. Repeat until you see The Truth.
Can You Put A Price On Salvation?
Yes, you can. Here it is:
Extended Involuntary Holiday Vacation
Whether it's state prison, a mental institution, creepy nursing home or top-secret CIA "freedom camp", wouldn't it be better for you if certain annoying people in your life were shipped off somewhere where they couldn't bother you?
Of course it would- and it's a lot cheaper and easier than you might think. Our current prices are so low that it would be illegal to publish them. It really would be.
----- -------- ---------
'Gigantic' Radioactive Stone Head
(shown actual size)
Those godless heathens over on Easter Island have ruined their once pristine island paradise and now their children are forced to eke out a toxic sustenance-level existence carving these authentic replicas out of spent Russian nuclear fuel rods. Act now to exploit these hapless waifs before they grow gills and are cast into the sea.
Due to the magical density of beautiful, deadly Uranium 235, these tiny statues are much heavier than they look, so expect to pay a bundle for shipping. Comes in a lead gift case.
------ -------- -------
eBay Starter Kit
Do you know someone who can't ever seem to hold a job? Perhaps they have have a drinking or gambling habit , suffer from head trauma or are just plain gullible- in any case it ought to be easy to convince them to pay you to "help" them sell all the useless, broken crap you just dumped in their attic. Link their bank account to yours and listen to them squeal with delight as you seperate them from their savings. Tell the grand jury you don't know how it happened.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Damn Your Innocence
I left work in the same mood I arrived-rotten. I've been really cranky lately. I feel like getting into an argument with someone- anyone will do- about anything, but I've no one to quarrel with.
I sorta miss the days when Bush was popular- I could always pick a fight with a Republican back then, but nowadays they just look sheepish and pretend they didn't vote.
I was in such a rush to leave that I left my book ( Isherwood's Berlin Stories) in the office, so there was no reading on the ride home. Just a busload of familar , anonymous faces.
I've got nothing but my own scowl to entertain me.
At the first stop, a retarded older guy gets on. He greets the bus driver warmly. In fact, he professes love for the driver. Well, OK...'tis the season, I guess.
I hope he doesn't sit next to me.
He sits next to me.
"Hi , I'm Danny and I'm having a good day", says the retard, " how are you? Are you having a good day?"
I'm taken off-guard by his sweet sincerity. My foul mood lightens a bit.
"Hey. I'm Allan, and yeah it's OK ,I guess."
"Hi. I like you."
Damn it. It's been a very long time since anyone told me that. He's like a puppy or a little kid. It's impossible to remain angry around him.(Puppies and kids actually cheer me up, as long as they aren't mine)
My mad-on is gone, and I start feeling sad and more than a little empathetic. I wish I could love people in the innocent , unqualified way Danny does, but I can't.
I don't think many adults can. We tend to have too many motives, whether we know it or not.
Pity,that.
Danny introduces himself to the Cute Bus Stop Girl, and her to me. She wouldn't talk to me at the bus stop-at "hello" she'd already got the cell-phone out, finger poised to speed dial for help should I transform into a werewolf or something; but with Danny around she says hello and I find out that she also works in a law firm. Maybe we'll shoot shit later, but right now,Danny's got a story to tell:
He just visited his momma and she's 92 years old and just had her birthday party. His brother is coming to visit tomorrow, and Danny will have to move in with him soon. His brother lives in New York, which is on TV a lot, so maybe Danny will be on TV soon.
"I know I'm a dummy, but there's lots of dummies on TV. "
Amen, Danny, amen.
I sorta miss the days when Bush was popular- I could always pick a fight with a Republican back then, but nowadays they just look sheepish and pretend they didn't vote.
I was in such a rush to leave that I left my book ( Isherwood's Berlin Stories) in the office, so there was no reading on the ride home. Just a busload of familar , anonymous faces.
I've got nothing but my own scowl to entertain me.
At the first stop, a retarded older guy gets on. He greets the bus driver warmly. In fact, he professes love for the driver. Well, OK...'tis the season, I guess.
I hope he doesn't sit next to me.
He sits next to me.
"Hi , I'm Danny and I'm having a good day", says the retard, " how are you? Are you having a good day?"
I'm taken off-guard by his sweet sincerity. My foul mood lightens a bit.
"Hey. I'm Allan, and yeah it's OK ,I guess."
"Hi. I like you."
Damn it. It's been a very long time since anyone told me that. He's like a puppy or a little kid. It's impossible to remain angry around him.(Puppies and kids actually cheer me up, as long as they aren't mine)
My mad-on is gone, and I start feeling sad and more than a little empathetic. I wish I could love people in the innocent , unqualified way Danny does, but I can't.
I don't think many adults can. We tend to have too many motives, whether we know it or not.
Pity,that.
Danny introduces himself to the Cute Bus Stop Girl, and her to me. She wouldn't talk to me at the bus stop-at "hello" she'd already got the cell-phone out, finger poised to speed dial for help should I transform into a werewolf or something; but with Danny around she says hello and I find out that she also works in a law firm. Maybe we'll shoot shit later, but right now,Danny's got a story to tell:
He just visited his momma and she's 92 years old and just had her birthday party. His brother is coming to visit tomorrow, and Danny will have to move in with him soon. His brother lives in New York, which is on TV a lot, so maybe Danny will be on TV soon.
"I know I'm a dummy, but there's lots of dummies on TV. "
Amen, Danny, amen.
Monday, December 12, 2005
Trust Flunk
Hi! Remember that CD I gave you six weeks ago? The one of me? The one you said you listened to and "liked a lot"?
Guess what?
It was blank. If you had really played it, you'd know that.
I was so sure you wouldn't listen to it that I didn't even bother to put anything on it.
I did that because I don't trust you to be honest with me. About anything.
I'm telling you this here because I know you won't read it.
Why lie about something so stupid?
Why not just say:
"...didn't listen.."
or
" ...it sucks..."
or (best)
"...dumbass! you gave me a blank disc!..."
I'm very disappointed.
Guess what?
It was blank. If you had really played it, you'd know that.
I was so sure you wouldn't listen to it that I didn't even bother to put anything on it.
I did that because I don't trust you to be honest with me. About anything.
I'm telling you this here because I know you won't read it.
Why lie about something so stupid?
Why not just say:
"...didn't listen.."
or
" ...it sucks..."
or (best)
"...dumbass! you gave me a blank disc!..."
I'm very disappointed.
Bad Morning
The woman in the coffee room has twenty-seven kids. She worked five jobs to raise twenty- four of them and three jobs to raise the last three because they were both twins, but her other daughter had six grandchildren when she lived in Atlanta...
At least that what it sounded like to me. I really wasn't paying very close attention to the details . I wasn't looking for conversation, I was waiting for the bean juice. (The guy who manages the break rooms has out sick lately, so getting wired requires more effort lately)
The pot sure was taking a long time to brew- I was checking to see if it was broken or unplugged or something when I realized what was wrong. 27Kid Lady was a witch and her drone was a magical incantation.
Her genealogical litany had the power to stop time.
There wasn't going to be any coffee until she stopped talking, and she seemed determined to talk forever. Forever without coffee? How awful.
I tried to move, to say anything- even twitching and blinking were impossible. Everything in stasis except 27K's droning southern drawl. I seemed to be made of marble. I couldn't hear her words, but I could feel their relentless tattoo rhythm on my stone skin. I wondered if this is what it was like for Beethoven after he lost his hearing-apparentlyhe could feel music, but not hear it, but I digress...
27K touches my forearm, and this breaks the enchantment. The pot resumes dripping.
I enter the now.
"Isn't it horrible?", she asks me, as if her rambling had reached some sort of closing point .
I'm not sure what she means, but , yes-of course it's horrible.
I'm always ready to agree to that.
I taste the coffee.
It's de-caf and sure enough , it's horrible.
At least that what it sounded like to me. I really wasn't paying very close attention to the details . I wasn't looking for conversation, I was waiting for the bean juice. (The guy who manages the break rooms has out sick lately, so getting wired requires more effort lately)
The pot sure was taking a long time to brew- I was checking to see if it was broken or unplugged or something when I realized what was wrong. 27Kid Lady was a witch and her drone was a magical incantation.
Her genealogical litany had the power to stop time.
There wasn't going to be any coffee until she stopped talking, and she seemed determined to talk forever. Forever without coffee? How awful.
I tried to move, to say anything- even twitching and blinking were impossible. Everything in stasis except 27K's droning southern drawl. I seemed to be made of marble. I couldn't hear her words, but I could feel their relentless tattoo rhythm on my stone skin. I wondered if this is what it was like for Beethoven after he lost his hearing-apparentlyhe could feel music, but not hear it, but I digress...
27K touches my forearm, and this breaks the enchantment. The pot resumes dripping.
I enter the now.
"Isn't it horrible?", she asks me, as if her rambling had reached some sort of closing point .
I'm not sure what she means, but , yes-of course it's horrible.
I'm always ready to agree to that.
I taste the coffee.
It's de-caf and sure enough , it's horrible.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Possum Envy
A new mystery animal in Borneo, pic by the WWF:
This was taken in 2003. It's probably extinct by now.
If my bookie wasn't in jail, I'd bet that this is a tree-dwelling marsupial, perhaps a distant cousin of the possum. Possums are cute everywhere except where I live .
Borneo claims to have the world's largest cockroach.
So does Australia. They already have the world's largest earthworms. Lucky Australia.
Borneo , in my opinion, is full of shit. I've seen cockroaches in Baltimore that were large enough to get parking tickets. Even old Ellicott City has roaches the size of bear cubs, at least it did when I lived there. They burned the place after I moved out and I am uncertain as to what became of the roaches.
Speaking of Baltimore and cockroaches, I wish someone would discover a 500-ft. cockroach that eats concrete and shits heroin. It would be drawn to the Mt. Royal Tavern, which would magically expand ala Baba Yaga's Hut in order to accomodate the giant bug.
Nobody there would blink. They'd just nod.
This was taken in 2003. It's probably extinct by now.
If my bookie wasn't in jail, I'd bet that this is a tree-dwelling marsupial, perhaps a distant cousin of the possum. Possums are cute everywhere except where I live .
Borneo claims to have the world's largest cockroach.
So does Australia. They already have the world's largest earthworms. Lucky Australia.
Borneo , in my opinion, is full of shit. I've seen cockroaches in Baltimore that were large enough to get parking tickets. Even old Ellicott City has roaches the size of bear cubs, at least it did when I lived there. They burned the place after I moved out and I am uncertain as to what became of the roaches.
Speaking of Baltimore and cockroaches, I wish someone would discover a 500-ft. cockroach that eats concrete and shits heroin. It would be drawn to the Mt. Royal Tavern, which would magically expand ala Baba Yaga's Hut in order to accomodate the giant bug.
Nobody there would blink. They'd just nod.
Saturday, December 03, 2005
Put the Fish Down and Back Away
This evening was a rare and much-needed treat. I had the pleasure of recording a series of interviews with John Hodgman , David Rees and Jonathan Coulton shortly before their book tour stop at Chop Suey, a most funkily excellent local bookstore. (Shameless Plug:Holiday gifts are available from all the above links)
Recording a radio interview is pretty simple. It mostly involves watching the minidisc recorder and making sure it doesn't suddenly fly across the room. So far, my success rate at this is nearly 100%.
Conducting an interview takes more effort, so for our first segment we let the trio interview each other. I don't know who's idea this was, but it was hilarious- until things took a sudden, sinister turn.
I was thinking that these guys would be a lot of fun on a road trip, when they suddenly started discussing their recent travel experience and the ensuing conflicts and chaos. Coincidence? I think not.
They were obviously reading my mind.
If so, then they knew my secret.
There's one thing that I just can't stop thinking about, no matter how hard I try.
That thing is hagfish.
After the interviews, I cornered Mr. Hodgman. There were 8,000 screaming fans downstairs, but they were just gonna have to wait. I needed answers.
Now.
"What do you know about hagfish futures?", I asked, all innocent-like.
"About what?", he answered, playing dumb, "I don't know what a hagfish is."
So I had to explain the whole thing again. (see link below)
"No, really, I used to write about food and such, and I've never heard of hagfish", he insisted as he signed my copy of his book.
A likely story coming from a man who, just minutes before, had admitted on tape to telling lies for profit. He cagily referred to this as "fiction", then acknowledged that some consider his book to be "non- fiction". Which is it?
I had already said too much, so I mumbled something about making it all up and slinked away to watch the redoubtable Mr. Rees give a practical demonstration of time-travel using Abe Lincoln and Tic-Tacs. Are there any secrets that these men don't know about?
Anyway, all three are great entertainers, and the fine presentation they gave almost made me momentarily forget the tightrope of hagfish intrigue that I was walking.
Almost.
Not for the first time, I felt like one of the characters in Foucault's Pendulum . Probably Belbo.
Fact: Mr. Coulton was referred to by Mr. Hodgman as a "troubador", which is a fancy word for bard.
Fact: Wm. Shakespeare is often referred to as The Bard
Fact: An obscure Shakespearean joke involving a talking lobster was told.
Fact: The origin of the phrase "pig-in-a-poke" was discussed. Tellingly, it's from a form of con-game that was common during the 16th century.
Fact:Bacon ( a type of food) is derived from pigs.
Conclusion: Francis Bacon really did ghost-write Shakespeare's plays.
Well, if they're talking about Bacon, the Knights Templar can't be far behind. The Knights have nothing to do with hagfish, so maybe my fears were unbased. I hoped so. I have enough problems with annoying but helpfully incompetent Freemason assassins already.
But when I got home , I had this in my inbox . (verbatim cut& paste,I changed the writer's address):
From:Paul <loyolaxxxx@yahoo.com>
Sent: Saturday, Dec. 03, 2005 3:52 PM
To:camelsback@msn.com
Subject: hagfish hatcheries
hello,
Can you tell me more about this hagfish hatcheries in your town and its prospects ?
Is this real or a joke? I thought hagfish farming was not possible because its a salt water fish plus its difficulty in farming such fish. thanks
What 'Paul' is referencing is this fact-filled hagfish article. Go ahead and click the link. Can you tell if it's "real or a joke?"
If you can't, please go to the link at the bottom of that post and transfer all your money into my PayPal account. Once the payment clears, I will be glad to answer any questions.
After I read my mail, I looked at what Mr. Hodgman had written inside my copy of his book - right there on the middle of the signature page was the "H" emblem of the Hagfish Cult, only he attributes it to the failed 1932 Hobo Coup, which everyone knows was a sort of Bay of Pigs for an errant branch of Templars, only using Hobos instead of Cubans.
A clever ruse, Mr. "H".
Or is it "Paul?"
Goo goo ga joob, indeed.
Recording a radio interview is pretty simple. It mostly involves watching the minidisc recorder and making sure it doesn't suddenly fly across the room. So far, my success rate at this is nearly 100%.
Conducting an interview takes more effort, so for our first segment we let the trio interview each other. I don't know who's idea this was, but it was hilarious- until things took a sudden, sinister turn.
I was thinking that these guys would be a lot of fun on a road trip, when they suddenly started discussing their recent travel experience and the ensuing conflicts and chaos. Coincidence? I think not.
They were obviously reading my mind.
If so, then they knew my secret.
There's one thing that I just can't stop thinking about, no matter how hard I try.
That thing is hagfish.
After the interviews, I cornered Mr. Hodgman. There were 8,000 screaming fans downstairs, but they were just gonna have to wait. I needed answers.
Now.
"What do you know about hagfish futures?", I asked, all innocent-like.
"About what?", he answered, playing dumb, "I don't know what a hagfish is."
So I had to explain the whole thing again. (see link below)
"No, really, I used to write about food and such, and I've never heard of hagfish", he insisted as he signed my copy of his book.
A likely story coming from a man who, just minutes before, had admitted on tape to telling lies for profit. He cagily referred to this as "fiction", then acknowledged that some consider his book to be "non- fiction". Which is it?
I had already said too much, so I mumbled something about making it all up and slinked away to watch the redoubtable Mr. Rees give a practical demonstration of time-travel using Abe Lincoln and Tic-Tacs. Are there any secrets that these men don't know about?
Anyway, all three are great entertainers, and the fine presentation they gave almost made me momentarily forget the tightrope of hagfish intrigue that I was walking.
Almost.
Not for the first time, I felt like one of the characters in Foucault's Pendulum . Probably Belbo.
Fact: Mr. Coulton was referred to by Mr. Hodgman as a "troubador", which is a fancy word for bard.
Fact: Wm. Shakespeare is often referred to as The Bard
Fact: An obscure Shakespearean joke involving a talking lobster was told.
Fact: The origin of the phrase "pig-in-a-poke" was discussed. Tellingly, it's from a form of con-game that was common during the 16th century.
Fact:Bacon ( a type of food) is derived from pigs.
Conclusion: Francis Bacon really did ghost-write Shakespeare's plays.
Well, if they're talking about Bacon, the Knights Templar can't be far behind. The Knights have nothing to do with hagfish, so maybe my fears were unbased. I hoped so. I have enough problems with annoying but helpfully incompetent Freemason assassins already.
But when I got home , I had this in my inbox . (verbatim cut& paste,I changed the writer's address):
From:Paul <loyolaxxxx@yahoo.com>
Sent: Saturday, Dec. 03, 2005 3:52 PM
To:camelsback@msn.com
Subject: hagfish hatcheries
hello,
Can you tell me more about this hagfish hatcheries in your town and its prospects ?
Is this real or a joke? I thought hagfish farming was not possible because its a salt water fish plus its difficulty in farming such fish. thanks
What 'Paul' is referencing is this fact-filled hagfish article. Go ahead and click the link. Can you tell if it's "real or a joke?"
If you can't, please go to the link at the bottom of that post and transfer all your money into my PayPal account. Once the payment clears, I will be glad to answer any questions.
After I read my mail, I looked at what Mr. Hodgman had written inside my copy of his book - right there on the middle of the signature page was the "H" emblem of the Hagfish Cult, only he attributes it to the failed 1932 Hobo Coup, which everyone knows was a sort of Bay of Pigs for an errant branch of Templars, only using Hobos instead of Cubans.
A clever ruse, Mr. "H".
Or is it "Paul?"
Goo goo ga joob, indeed.
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