Imaginary Lines (a Six Lines production)

Finally, another end

2008-03-07T05:24:00.003Z

Bad Guys Need Flowers - Pt. 33
*******************

Back at headquarters, The Bad Guys circled around their loot - a veritable treasure trove of a small amount of groceries. Yum!

Circling was pretty much all they did, though. Nobody was eating. Nobody was looking at the food. Not even the lettuce (which was far greener than usual, considering the season) caught a wandering eye.

All eyes were on the toy blimp, sitting just outside the circle, swaying gently on its elliptical side, back and forth in the slight breeze that flowed through the cavernous hall.

Upon further review, the Bad Guys’ circle was more of an ellipse itself once taking into account the curvature of Sally’s tail. Whatever the shape was, it stayed that way, frozen, for minutes.

After these minutes passed, Rog moved: “I’ll put this thing in one of the closets.”

Midnight stopped him: “No. We’ll take it back.”

Rog: “That’s a nice thought, but you saw what happened. The door wouldn’t open until we stole it! We are stuck with this thing. We’re stuck with it…”

Midnight: “Then we’ll leave it outside the door. Surely there are limits to our chains.”

Cal: “Why did we even do this?”

Rog: “I just explained that, man. We had to!”

Cal: “No, we didn’t. There was hardly a gun to our head. We hadn’t eaten for one day, and we stole an old widow’s most cherished possession – her blimp.”

Rog slumped back into the ellipse: “Her zeppelin…”

Cal: “Nobody calls it that anymore.”

Rog: “The note did.”

Cal: “That’s the problem.”

Midnight: “We’ll take it back. The food, the blimpzlin thing… all of it. We promised we’d fight back if we were ordered to deprive anyone of their humanity. We failed, but we’re not yet condemned.”

Everyone agreed. A rush of adrenaline swept over the company. For once and at last, the adrenaline targeted a task that was fundamentally good.

The sweeping rush succeeded in complimenting more than troop morale. It also fed the wind, helping to push the blimp off its repetitive course of rocking, away towards the open air, and then down, down, down into the empty pool.

POP!

Cheap rubber met the end of a scorpion corpse, and that was that.

Sally left. Rog left. Midnight picked up her roses, burying her face behind them; she left.

Cal stared at nothing. There was nothing to stare at.

He did, however, eventually read his new note:

Congratulations. You are level 2 Bad Guys. More (plus) on back.

See you here tomorrow. Plus – These are your pants. Obviously.

END CHAPTER 1

The Fall of Man and Blimps

2008-02-11T07:43:00.000Z

Bad Guys Need Flowers - Pt. 32
*******************

During the second chorus (which, in this version, comprised the entirety of the song), Cal crescendoed to cover a slip-up with the ladder. If the task at hand weren’t so depressing on every front, this mistake might have been construed as a coordinated attempt to lengthen the song for the sake of comedy and humiliation. Instead, it was just another horror.

“…to the bottom of every bottle, there are words in my head, it’s what I’m yelling for yeeah, yeeah, yeeah…”

The zeppelin came down. The door opened. Midnight and Rog rushed out.

“…yeeah, yeeah, yeeah.” The song ended.

Geraldine applauded loudly, and Cal experienced what it was like to receive the most undeserving applause of all time. He simply stood there, comatose as a result of everything.

Geraldine had a tear in her eye: “Oh my! Nobody’s sung to me with that much emotion since my husband… In fact, nobody’s sung to me at all since then…” She stopped to wipe the tear. “Here, young man. You’ve been so polite to me, and so wonderful in general, that I think you deserve this.” With another old lady wink, she handed Cal a box of granola bars. “We just won’t tell those silly police.”

Cal nodded his thanks, perhaps involuntarily as a result of the guilt weighing down his conscience. A braver man might here admit his misdeeds. A more honorable man might choose hunger over evil. A more centered man might resist the debauched commands of a piece of paper...

The notes had already achieved power. Cal drifted out the door, as river debris.

Geraldine shouted a shout of realization: “Wait a second!”

Cal turned, pale.

Geraldine: “I know this cat! It’s Sally! She’s one of my lot!” She lifted Sally up, offering her to Cal. “Here, take her along with you. She must like you, and she knows how to get home.”

Thus, the first of Cal’s cohorts he really learned something about was the cat. Of course, he was in no state to care one way or the other.

This is How

2008-02-08T11:08:00.000Z

Bad Guys Need Flowers - Pt. 31
************

If the Bad Guys were going to finish this off, Cal needed to do more than gently discuss photography. He needed to do something loud in its distraction. He needed to follow the cat’s example.

Geraldine began to rise with another salmony snack. Cal swung around to a position oriented diametrically opposite the undesirable action. Sally fwipped her tail, excited for the food and the show.

Cal: “Umm, so Miss Geraldine, I wanted to sing something for you.”

Geraldine: “Oh my! I don’t think I deserve anything like that, but a wise woman never rejects a serenade. Croon away, young man.”

Cal delayed, not yet ready to unveil his ineptness: “Yes, umm, is there anything particular you want to hear.”

Geraldine: “How about Dillies in My Basket?”

Cal: “I can’t say I know that one.”

Geraldine: “Okay. How about Ross ‘n Bess’s Easter Eggland?”

Cal: “I can’t say anyone knows that one.” Midnight silently giggled in the distance. “Maybe I’ll just do one I know.”

Geraldine: “Ah! I’ve got it!”

Cal: “Yes?”

Geraldine: “I’m sure you’ll know this one. They play it on a station for younger people all the time. I don’t know why, but sometimes my radio gets stuck there and I have to listen to the stuff for hours. I can’t say I like the crunkier tunes, but there is one song that always gets my foot tapping.”

Cal: “Yes?”

Geraldine: “I think it’s called Remind Me, by the Quarterback.”

Cal: “You don’t mean Nickelback, do you?”

Geraldine: “Oh my! That’s it!”

Cal repeated: “You don’t mean Nickelback, do you?”

Geraldine: “That’s it alright!”

Cal sighed, and began to sing.

Uninspiration

2008-02-07T13:26:00.000Z

Bad Guys Need Flowers - Pt. 30
***************

Sally mrowed loudly and leapt towards the old woman, paws outstretched. Before Cal could even think to make a move of his own, Sally blinded Geraldine!

Metaphorically, that is.

Geraldine had reached below the counter to retrieve cat treats. Sally was currently contentedly consuming one. Cal observed, awestruck by the fortune of what had either been incredible feline strategy or incredible feline hunger. The lady/cat exchange had distracted Geraldine from the thump of Midnight and Rog’s door collision, a thump that just so happened to occur again soon after the first, and again (though altered expectations decreased thump intensity in turn). The door was not opening.

Geraldine: “Why hello there, miss. You’re a hungry little kitty, aren’t you? You haven’t been hanging around with this polite young man, have you?”

Cal (genuinely): “Actually, she has been. The last two days this cat showed up at the weirdest place.”

Geraldine: “Oh my! What is this strange and possibly wonderful place both you and the cat visited?”

The place was definitely strange. It was definitely possibly wonderful. It was definitely kind of establishing itself as the headquarters of the people trying to rob Geraldine’s. Therefore, Derwood County Community Pool definitely couldn’t be mentioned.

Cal: “I don’t remember.”

Geraldine: “Really? You can only remember that it was weird? My, a place with that effect truly must be strange.”

Geraldine looked down as she shuffled around for another treat. Cal looked over at Midnight and Rog. They were visibly frightened. Cal looked up above the intractable door. He was visibly frightened. The Bad Guys all looked over at a stepladder Geraldine used to place higher-up groceries. It was not visibly frightened.

The zeppelin floated in its place. It visibly belonged there, where it had been for more than half a century.

Unfortunately, circumstances inspire change.
*******************************

Moving Along

2008-02-05T10:17:00.000Z

Bad Guys Need Flowers - Pt. 29
**************

Cal took the hit in stride: “Umm… What?”

Geraldine: “I remember polite young men when I see them; there being so few of them anymore.” She winked a kindly old lady wink as they dropped the storage crate at its destination. She then headed back towards the counter, where, upon arrival, she would have a direct line of sight to the pilferers, who (as tends to be the case concerning pilferers) currently weren’t being so polite.

Cal parried again: “So, umm, I have a question for you?”

Geraldine persisted towards the counter: “Wonderful! I’m always happy when my customers - or my non-customers who are polite - wish to test my knowledge. It makes me feel young again, in an old and experienced kind of way.”

Cal didn’t understand: “Yes. Good, then, my question is, having to do with…” He spotted something worth mentioning. “What do you think about the photos of us?” This probably wasn’t the best something to spot and mention.

Geraldine: “Oh my! I was thinking about those a lot today, actually.” Cal knew this was the end. He’d be interrogated on the reason for police suspicion, during which Geraldine would reference her dead husband; Cal’s mind would sink into a bog of philosophy as he cross-analyzed the heroism of World War II versus his own, stagnant, dissatisfied life situation; guilt would begin to overwhelm upon the conclusions not only that the older generation’s sacrifice had inspired him to do little, but also that he was essentially spitting on their sacrifice at this very moment, as he watched his fellow thieves creep towards the exit; and he would crack.

Geraldine: “I think I’d like the pictures better if they weren’t black-and-white. Now, not everyone has the skin to pull off color, but you and your friends each have excellent complexion. Yes, yes, I’m sure I’m right. I’ll talk to the police about this next time.”

Cal calmed. The seconds Geraldine had spent building up false fear and then erasing it with unexpected banality had allowed Midnight and Rog to reach the sliding doors. They hadn’t even needed supermarket-themed ghillie suits – an innovation Cal had prayed for a bit amongst the rest of his panicking. To complete the mission, Cal simply needed to keep Geraldine’s attention in his direction a short while longer…

Sally jumped up on the counter and meowed. Geraldine looked in her direction, which looked towards the exit.

Midnight and Rog hurried outside, and they failed, running into non-responsive doors.

Geraldine reached towards the photos. No, she passed those. She reached to the left, circa the telephone to call the police. No, she passed that. She reached below the counter, where store owners are prone to keep silent alarms.

Shotguns and Kalashnikovs are also prone to be kept behind store counters.

Cal uncalmed.

No Days Off

2008-01-31T10:51:00.000Z

Bad Guys Need Flowers - Pt. 28
****************

The electronic sliding doors – the one modern convenience of Geraldine’s otherwise cash-only depot – slowly slid open. Their modernity was limited in pace.

In front of the Bad Guys was arranged all the candy they could hope for, in addition to a lot of other foods probably more deserving of a place in their starved bellies. Sweets could wait and should wait. This was an errand of necessity, not pleasure, despite the inherent excitement the heist had begun to stir. Cal, Midnight, Rog, and even Sally featured a visible twinkle in their eyes, each in their left eye, their right eyes remaining unobstructed for scouting purposes.

Consistent in her old-fashionedness, Geraldine was not there. Whilst attending to whatever it was that needed attending, she’d abandoned the counter in good faith to the integrity of the customer. She’d also abandoned on the counter the criminal photos of the three human customers who’d just entered.

Rog: “Maybe we should come back.”

Cal: “What?”

Rog: “This has to be a trap.”

Cal: “I do sense a nearby blow dart.”

Rog pointed at a package of Twizzlers: “Those could easily be constructed into blowdarts.”

Cal: “And what would serve to be the poison shot out of them?”

Rog: “According to the Surgeon General, the Twizzle itself.”

Cal: “Twizzle - The singular tense of Twizzler?”

Rog: “Yes.”

Cal: “Of course. In conclusion, I disagree. This is a great opportunity. Not only can we take the food we need; we can also leave the money for it at the register.”

Rog: “What about the blimp?”

Midnight took charge: “Screw the blimp. Get the food. Leave the money. Let’s move.” The boys obeyed, each falling into habit and picking up a shopping bin as they did. The robber band hurried to the produce section, where they rapidly identified the ripest fruit and veg before hurriedly (but gently, so as to prevent bruising) adding the goods to their haul. The most casual burglary of all time had begun, in haste! Dairy followed, with meats next. Issues concerning what Cal the poultritarian could eat threatened to slow the affair, but when he confirmed an affinity to turkey the problem was solved. At this rate of success, the time Fort Knox would learn to fear the infamous Bad Guys was just a casual Friday away.

A voice called out: “Excuse me. Could whoever is out there please come help me with this crate?” The voice was Geraldine’s.

Midnight whispered to Cal, who, like Midnight, and Rog, and Sally, had been frozen for the twenty seconds that had warily and unwarily passed since Geraldine spoke: “Go.”

Cal: “What?” Cal didn’t whisper this so much as he choked it out all pubescent-like.

Midnight: “You remind her of her husband. Go!” It made enough sense. Geraldine already knew someone was there. And she was an old lady who needed help. Cal went.

Geraldine looked up from the crate she was hunched over: “Oh my! What a polite young man. Now you lift that end over there, and I’ll lift this end.” Apparently she hadn’t recognized him.

Or maybe she had.

Geraldine: “Now don’t you go stealing anything.”

Cal gulped: “Excuse me, ma’am.”

Geraldine: “This box is full of those things you put on your car wheel to keep people from stealing them. I thought it would be funny if I made a joke about stealing them, seeing as how they’re anti-theft devices. It’s a bit of old-time humor for you.”

Cal was still panicking, but he made an effort to recognize this sub-par comedic attempt: “I see, I see. Very good, ma’am.”

Geraldine: “Oh my! You really are a polite young man. It’s too bad I still can’t sell anything to you, what with the police order and all.”

She had.

PS I Hate You

2008-01-28T11:41:00.000Z

Bad Guys Need Flowers - Pt. 27
*****************

Rog yelled at Cal: “Make sure she stays on the towel!” Sally sat still atop the towel, in the backseat of Rog’s large, tight-spaced car, where she hadn’t so much as twitched a tail for the ten minutes she’d already been there. Only five of those minutes had been spent driving, with the other half consisting of Rog arranging a stick-based boundary around the towel. Here is what was said at that time:

Cal: “Those sticks will make more of a mess than the cat.”

Here is what was happening at this time:

Cal: “The sticks fell on the floor again.”

Rog: “Pick up sticks! Pick them!”

The ridiculousness of the situation obvious, it was unfortunate that a ubiquitous somberness played trump. Cal and Midnight each clutched their most recent notes in their hands, as if they were horrible grenades set to explode upon a fist unclenching. They were not non-horrible grenades. Sally’s stomach grumbled at a pitch slightly above the rest of the caravans'. And Rog’s anger mostly served to distract himself from the task at hand – a task that referred to neither “driving to Geraldine’s” nor “unreasonably keeping the cat but not the sticks off the interior.”

Everybody had accepted the need to acquire food. Everybody had consented to the idea that thievery was the only option left to fulfill that need. Everybody had even reluctantly submitted to the orders that the targeted corporation would not be a corporation at all, but rather the Mom & Pop (archaic) store known as Geraldine’s.

Nobody had accepted the P.S. demand.

It may be recalled that Geraldine hung a memento of her deceased spouse over her store’s entryway. It may be assumed that this is now relevant.

P.S. Take the zeppelin.

No Title

2008-01-25T11:07:00.000Z

Bad Guys Need Flowers - Pt. 26
***********

Cal: “Is that it, then? We’re going to accept the authority of the note, just like that?”

Midnight: “For now we are. Like anything, though, there are limits.”

Rog: “That is true, my dearest.”

Midnight: “Do I have to repeat myself?” Rog slunk.

Cal: “I’m not going to kill anyone.”

Midnight: “Neither am I.”

Rog (slightly unslunking): “Even in this darkened state that my queen, in her misunderstood wisdom, deems fit to send me, I would never, on my honor, take another human life!”

Cal: “Another as in you’ve already taken one?”

Rog: “Another as in any, you knave! Stop ruining my soliloquys.”

Cal: “You’re alone in doing that.”

Midnight smiled: “We are agreed. Even in our purported role as ‘Bad Guys,’ we will not kill. Should we extend that precept to not depriving anyone of their humanity in general?”

Cal: “Sounds good to me, though I’d proffer the addition of animality on some level.”

Rog: “We already killed all those scorpions.”

Cal: “I know, but that was a special case, wasn’t it?”

Midnight: “They all will be.”

Cal had no response other than to subconsciously question the extent of his own naiveté.

Midnight: “Also, we have to rob Geraldine’s.”

Cal and Rog were together again: “What?!”

Midnight: “It’s the only store in Derwood that isn’t going to have security cameras.”

Cal: “Come on. My mom goes to that store.” Midnight didn’t look convinced. “Certainly we can consider my ‘other cities’ idea now. It makes no sense to rob a place in your own town.”

Midnight visibly empathized, but she also shook her head: “I’m sorry, Cal.”

Cal: “This doesn’t make any sense. You aren’t making any sense.”

It was then that he noticed the note Midnight held in her hand. It was the same note as before, which is why the note in the other hand appeared so ominous.

Chew on this

2008-01-24T11:13:00.000Z

Bad Guys Need Flowers - Pt. 25
*****************

Everybody had the same note again. Sally again held her own note in her mouth. Everyone missed, again, how this had happened.

Nobody really had anything to say, so Rog chimed in: “I’m hungry.” Nobody really had anything to say.

Eventually, Cal avoided the matter entirely: “Has anyone else tried asking the people they live with to get food for them?”

Rog: “None of my roommates were around when I woke up. I checked the refrigerator, the cupboards, the couch, the medicine cabinet. Nothing. Not even toothpaste.”

Cal hmm-ed, probably worrying about what would have happened if Rog had found something edible in the medicine cabinet, before responding in kind: “That’s pretty much what my house was like today. No mom. No food. I don’t remember the toothpaste situation.”

It was Midnight’s turn, so she added: “Sure. Same.” The details were conspicuous in their absence, and would have been questioned in a more astute setting. The current scene, however, included a cat, a scorpion, and two boys who moments ago realized they might have been talking to a girl with unbrushed mouths.

Midnight moved on: “So, which shop are we going to rob?”

Rog attempted to respond through the side of his face, aiming his breath over Midnight’s right shoulder: “What?! You want us to obey the note?”

Cal smirked at Rog’s comic display of insecurity, but he agreed with the spoken sentiment, aiming his breath over the left: “We must still have other choices before we commit to crime.”

Midnight: “And what would those choices be? None of our usual cupboards are stocked. The local law has expressed its discontent with our desire to buy food. And personally, I don’t trust the land around our modern community to harbor anything safe to eat. The council loves to canvass the city in bug spray.”

Rog: “True, but the council is justified after some of those mosquito summers.”

Midnight: “They had to do something, or else risk losing the moneyed population. Despite my natural inclinations, I can’t say for sure that I wouldn’t have voted against the decision.”

Rog: “A wise perspective, my dearest.”

Cal halted the tangent: “We can go to other cities to get food.”

Rog: “Yes! Far away cities, like Tokyo.”

Cal: “Or closer ones, like Rocktree.”

Rog: “Yes! Or closer ones, since my car doesn’t get great mileage – one of its few drawbacks.” Rog winked at Midnight - an increasing occurrence.

Midnight: “There is no reason to expect better luck elsewhere.” She held up the note. “This does not exist outside of our other experiences. A note told us scorpions were going to attack. They did. Now a note tells us we’re going to have to steal food if we want to eat. We do.”

Rog: “Another wise perspective from my dearest. I choose my dearests wisely.”

This One's Longer

2008-01-23T09:39:00.000Z

Bad Guys Need Flowers - Pt. 24
*****************

Midnight put down the bag and picked up Sally: “Hello, little missy. Were you here all night?” That said, both females turned to glare at their counterparts.

Rog instantly jumped to his own defense: “I thought she lived here!”

Midnight: “I’m pretty sure we established the ‘collar=not feral’ system yesterday.”

Cal: “I was last to leave.”

Midnight: “So it’s your fault, too.”

Cal: “No, I mean I was the absolute last to leave. The cat…”

Midnight interrupted to correct: “Sally.”

Cal: “Sally must have already gone.”

Rog: “He’s lying!”

Cal responded: “You exited first. How would you know?”

Rog pointed. There was the terrarium Cal had used the night before to catch the final, blind scorpion. Inside was the final, blind scorpion.

Rog: “The scorpion was the last one to leave. Not you. Objection!”

Cal: “You’re out of order, and, technically, the scorpion never exited, so…”

Rog: “Sustained!”

Sally meowed again. And again.

Midnight: “Sounds to me like another empty stomach.”

Rog: “Could she eat the scorpion?”

Cal: “The poison would be a problem.”

Midnight: “Sounds to me like unwitty sarcasm.”

Cal sighed: “More like unwitting sarcasm.” Midnight yay-ed. Cal continued. “Also, I didn’t save the scorpion so that it would get eaten. It’s probably hungry itself, although I don’t know what to feed it. Do scorpions eat plants?”

Rog: “Nope. They eat insects.”

Cal: “Says the boy who didn’t know they were poisonous.”

Rog: “I knew that scorpions were poisonous. I didn’t know that cats couldn’t eat the poison, seeing as how tolerances vary from species to species.” Rog smirked, imagining this sounded a lot smarter than it was.

Midnight: “Speaking of plants…” She revealed the mystery of the bag. It was a small vase filled with red roses. “Ta da! Now what did you guys bring to improve the décor?”

Rog replied with the only answer he would: “Myself.”

Cal started to fish around in his pockets for something that would provide at least a witty comment, if not actual decor. Instead he found a note, which provided the following:

Bad Guys Need Food. PS More on back.

(back) Steal it. Obviously.
*****************

Not hunger.

This One's Shorter

2008-01-22T06:38:00.000Z

Bad Guys Need Flowers - Pt. 23
**************

As the trio walked towards the pool – the sectioned sun rays of the fall forest approaching relatively, through the giant window – Cal noticed Midnight looking at him.

Cal: “What?”

Midnight: “Surely you have something to say. I’m carrying a mysterious paper bag.”

Cal (thinking): “Umm… okay: What’s in the bag?”

Midnight: “I meant something a bit more interesting; more suspicious, with a tinge of bitterness, or maybe cuteness.”

Cal: “Honestly, I don’t know what to say anymore. You’ve already pigeonholed me as the sarcastic guy, so how am I supposed to play that up without being a repetitive bore?”

Midnight: “It’s not repetitive if it’s creative.”

Cal: “Creating two Earths would be repetitive.”

Midnight: “Not if one were different than the other. You’re thinking too much. Just say something witty.”

Cal: “Something like what?”

Midnight: “That’s your job.”

Sally appeared: “Meow.”

Cal: “Something like that?” Midnight didn’t listen.

Day 4/2

2008-01-21T08:16:00.000Z

Bad Guys Need Flowers - Pt. 22
***************

Cal struggled out of Rog’s car. He ruminated more on the impracticality of such an automobile (the sleek Hummer HX), but he didn’t speak the thoughts aloud. Talking had led to some confusion the last time tried, and Cal was already well-supplied in that area. Once again he stood in front of Derwood County Community Pool. Once again he had no idea why he was there, besides the suggestion of randomly-apparating notes. And once, again, he was there with people he barely knew.

Sure, relationships had begun to form. That’s inevitable after any first meeting, especially when followed by a scorpion attack and group starvation. Still, Cal knew little more of his compatriots than he had the day before. Let’s see, they each owned more than one set of clothing. Rog liked to wear his goggles with various sets of clothing. And Midnight looked good in various sets of clothing. Anything else?

Yes. They each wore clothing.

As Rog went to lock the car, Midnight ordered him to “Hold on,” at which point she reached under the passenger’s seat and pulled out a paper bag. “Alright.” Rog could continue. Beep beep.

Rog: “Is that a present for me? My princess, I am so embarrassed.”

Midnight: “Don’t be. The present’s not for you.”

Rog: “Who is it for, then? Surely not him.” Cal realized that he did know more about these people than he gave himself credit for. Rog was insanely jealous (in addition to, perhaps, being jealously insane). Midnight wasn’t attracted to such people.

Midnight (smiling): “Nope. It’s for an abandoned building.”

Rog tried to save himself the embarrassment he oh-so-recently foreshadowed: “Good good. I’m sure the building is very deserving, as is anything which receives your most sought after attention.” Midnight did not respond, and the group entered the abandoned building.

Mage Casts Confuse

2008-01-18T11:27:00.000Z

Bad Guys Need Flowers - Pt. 21
*******************

Cal struggled into the back of Rog’s Hummer. “How can the biggest vehicle in the history of man not have comfortable seating for three?”

Rog: “Because it's the new Hummer HX, and because the ride is meant for me and a lady, amigo.”

Cal: “I don't follow the logic, but it’s good to see that your delusion replaced your depression, compadre.”

Rog: “I don’t speak Spanish."

Midnight (to Cal): “There are obviously much larger vehicles than cars… Wait…”

Cal: “I don’t know what’s going on.”

Midnight: “Never mind. The exaggeration wasn’t the problem. In referencing vehicles, you implied man, so you didn’t need that one phrase. ‘The history of man’ was excessive.”

Cal: “It always is.”

Midnight: “Yay! Much better.”

Rog: “Now I don’t know what’s going on.”

Midnight: “None of us do. For instance, why did we get into this car?”

Rog: “Because it’s awesome.”

Midnight: “Think it over, Rog. I’ll come back to you.”

Rog’s eyes glazed over, as he savored the moment. “She knows my name…” She ignored him.

Cal (shrugs): “To go somewhere.”

Midnight: “Better, but not so much. I’d like more detail.”

Rog returned: “To go somewhere awesome.”

Midnight: “Maybe, but are you basing the awesomeness of that somewhere on the fact that your car will be there?”

Rog: “Yes.”

Midnight: “Then you’re wrong. Cal?”

Rog’s eyes narrowed: “She knows his name…” She ignored him.

Cal: “To go somewhere with an answer.”

Midnight: “Maybe, but are you basing the answer of that question on the premise that an answer will be there?”

Cal: “No.”

Midnight: “Right. And why is that?”

Cal: “Because I still don’t know what’s going on.”

Midnight: “Very good. Let’s go, Rog.”

Rog: “Yes! That’s me! Where to?”

Midnight: “To the pool, of course.”

Rog: “Of course! I knew that.”

Cal (aside): “I didn’t.”

Old News Bears

2008-01-17T12:28:00.000Z

Note from The Editor: Bad Guys Need Flowers will be returning tomorrow. A bug in our satellite (the one that's receiving the manuscript from the future) caused the delay. In the meantime, enjoy this Top 10 filler, sent in by avid fan of Six Lines productions, Tartar:
*****************

Top 10s of 2007s

Movies (comprised of 90% of the 2007 movies I've seen)
10. Pirates of the Caribbean #3 - It didn't need to be anything spectacular. I like pirates, the sea, and Keira Knightley. I was satisfied.
9. Enchanted - The animated princess was hotter, but it tried, and I always respect family movies that try.
8. Simpsons Movie - I know there were too many jokes. Still, the first half of the movie made me think that maybe I'd been missing something by skipping the show these past few years. Then I saw one of the newer shows...
7. Darjeeling Limited - I don't care if this is his worst movie ever (not that I have an opinion on that). It's still different than the standard fare, and sometimes that's all I care about.
6. Grindhouse movies - Death Proof was fun except for the diner conversation scene. Planet Terror wasn't as crazy as it could have been. Quentin needs to stop trying to act. Even though I didn't see these movies together, I think the package was a reel deal (TM jokes'r'us).
5. Ratatouille - My family didn't agree with the hype. I didn't really get how the hype had gotten so big. Regardless of the hype, it's another good step for CGI movies, away from formulaic "gentle comedy" and towards substantial, flavorful cinema (that joke was mine. Notice the subtlety).
4. This is England - I can't say I loved it when I saw it, not exactly being in the mood for a serious movie. In retrospect, it was an extremely personal story which I didn't want to vomit on, which is always impressive. It was definitely the best period piece I saw last year, excellently portraying England during the Falklands conflict - a time I knew nothing about.
3. I Am Legend - I remain on the side that didn't like the ending, wondering what a movie entirely composed of isolation would be like. The mannequin stuff was incredible, and I'm very happy that such a dark movie has achieved such success. As for I Am Legend 2, I have my doubts.
2. No Country for Old Men - I was caught off-guard when it ended, unable to figure out how I felt about it until the next day. Yeah, okay, I liked it. I didn't really feel the Tommy Lee Jones character, which was the glue holding together the message (I think) that society can morph into disgusting, unrecognizable shapes, but I look forward to a viewing in the future where I can add that to the mix.
1. Hot Fuzz - The most fun I've had at the theater in a long time. The reason I think more people didn't love it is because they didn't know what to expect. This is satire, mixed with homage (to crap like Bad Boys II), mixed with real movie-making, and you've just got to be up for it. Don't worry about the story, if you don't like it. Worry about the storytelling. The first half is mindful, clever jokes, and the second half brings those jokes back around for some mindless violence. I've watched Shaun of the Dead more than any other recent movie (despite a weak ending, not echoed in Hot Fuzz), and I've watched this troupe's English TV series Spaced twice, so yes I am a biased fan. I am a biased fan for a reason. I think these are smart people who have suffered under the same pop culture we have, loved rolling in this mud as much as we have, and are now transforming their useless memories into pure, cinematic fun.
Dishonorable mentions: Spiderman 3 (reinforced my hatred for all of the movies I for-whatever-reason watched), Superbad (too much junk clouding the cleverness)

TV
10. Planet Earth - I only saw a couple of episodes, but I saw it on a laptop and it was beautiful. Give me an HDTV and I'll lick it.
9. PTI - This sports banter daily is the best on TV, and it's on my list because it's available in free audio podcast form which provided my only reason for walking to school most days.
8. The Office - Not always perfect, but still good, and I still want to do Pam.
7. Flight of the Conchords - I wasn't convinced when Arun sent me clips. Then I became fully convinced. Then not. Then yes. The most inconsistent show, but still provided some of the best minutes of TV last year.
6. Conan - A boring choice, but his show truly is one of the biggest reasons I miss America when I'm out of it. I also noticed more new, creative, and experimental sketches last year than usual, which is why I've listed such a comfortable choice so high.
5. Scrapped Princess - An anime. I'll talk about it soon.
4. Extras - This was way lower on my list until I watched the finale, which I loved. The best send-up of modern culture yet, with a great message, wrapped up in reassuring, non-romantic relationships.
3. House - It was the first year I watched it, and I loved it. In my heart, I really do want to be as much of a jerk as House is. I know it's the same formula every week, and I don't care. The dialogue is the best on TV (not the most realistic, but the wittiest), and I'm always surprised by how deep the philosophy manages to delve on what I expected to be a predictable, flat medical show.
2. The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya - See elsewhere.
1. Battlestar Galactica - You know. The third season dips in the middle, but the surrounding, toaster-warmed shells still make it taste good. I have minimal doubts that the fourth and final season (starting early April) will be incredible.
Semi-honorable mentions - Heroes, Dexter (kind of - ask Jigsaw), X-Play, Tim and Eric Awesome Show Great Job!

Guilty Pleasures
10. Nihilism - I know we're supposed to be getting excited about the election, but after two political science degrees I've become the most cynical man in town. The election, as well as the rest of the news, means very little to me, and not being held down by real-life events is freeing in a guilty way. Talk to me about Pokemon issues. Those I care about.
9. Harvest Moon - Running out of new games and new money at the end of '07, I returned to my bread and butter that is farming simulation. The game is not very good, but I really want to see whether or not my son Twain grows up to be a farmer like his old man.
8. The cold - I do hate it, but I feel more alive shoveling snow, hiking through Scottish highlands, struggling against the elements, than I usually do.
7. KFC macaroni and cheese - After my mom and sister got sick as well (revealing my sickness to be non-product-related), I can now enjoy this low-quality macaroni and cheese guilt-free for at least a week past its buy-date.
6. "Umbrella" - Why not? It's the only song that I know came out this year, and I can get down to it, sho'.
5. Fan service - This refers to, amongst other things, the anatomical animation I've experienced in some of my anime ventures. In all honesty, I don't feel guilty about this at all. Get into it, or get over it.
4. Pokemon - My most-played game of the year (the Diamond version), clocking in around 80 hours so far I think. It's the perfect "play while watching the Orioles lose" game. I haven't caught 'em all yet, but I have seen 'em all. That's pretty good, right?
3. Weddings - My quasi-anti-marriage agenda shouldn't admit this, but, hey, they're big parties. No I didn't succeed in going home with anyone, but I'm pretty sure I talked to a girl or two. And I'm pretty sure they'd remember me if you mentioned the smell.
2. Not having a job - As depressing as it is exhilirating. Never do I feel more like the world is at my fingertips than when I'm in my basement, late at night, with no commitments the next day. Then the world tells me it wants money.
1. Heroes - I think we all kind of realized how bad this show is this year. Any time a character would speak, or any time Micah would squirm his little fuckface on screen, the message "this show sucks" was pounded into our head. Nevertheless, the camaraderie of it all, the Kristen Bell of it all, and, may we never forget, the shirtless Peter of it all, firmly plants Heroes as one of the guiltiest pleasures of them all.

Pokemon! Snap

2007-12-18T10:07:00.000Z

Bad Guys Need Flowers - Pt. 20
************************

As Geraldine went on checking out the numerous but altogether under-10-dollar items, Cal turned to Midnight to ask a few questions; for example, why she was a wanted woman, and why she didn’t seem to care.

Cal: “Why?” His brain short-circuited, and this was the whole result. Fortunately, Midnight was highly-skilled in translating such transmissions. Her good looks had attracted the kind of men who didn’t much care what part of the brain their words came from, as long as their brains got laid. Those men who did honestly intend to talk from a deeper place either scared themselves far away from Midnight, or transformed into the former types of men upon approach. Cal wouldn’t have placed himself in either category. Then again, few people do place themselves correctly.

Midnight: “I don’t know.”

Cal: “But you do know. You said you did, when she showed you your picture.”

Midnight: “I know that the police don’t want Rog or me buying food. This is about the eighth place we’ve tried, choosing random locations as we spiraled out from the center of town. I don’t know why we’re not allowed to eat. And I don’t seem to care because I’m not that hungry, and I’ve been having fun spiraling.

Cal: “You will be hungry, though. That’s how the human body works.”

Midnight: “Hooray! You’re sarcastic again.”

Cal: “I thought you didn’t like that.”

Midnight: “I don’t like when you overdo it. You were flooding the market, killing the price on sarcasm coming from you and everyone around you. It was worrying from an economic perspective.”

Cal: “And you are an economics major?”

Midnight: “Nope. You don’t have to go to school to learn the basic workings of society. You simply need to be aware of your environment. Smell the air and all that fun stuff.”

Cal realized that he did not get the “smell the air” saying. He also realized that he still knew next to nothing about his new cohorts. Did Midnight even go to school?

Midnight: “Although it doesn’t hurt if you’ve dated an economics major.”

Rog awoke from his depressed stasis to become an active image of despair. Remaining on the floor that had become a second home, his was a silent scream; nonetheless, its shrill tone still managed to tear at Cal’s soul. At least, that’s what Cal thought was going on.

Geraldine: “Excuse me, young man who reminds me of my husband.”

Cal: “Yes?” Midnight elbowed. “(Ahem) I mean… Yes, kindly lady?”

Geraldine: “Oh my! Everything is just about in order, and it is absolutely wonderful that it is. I’m not afraid to admit that my store has fallen on hard times as of late, what with all those men in suits running their own stores nowadays. They look quite handsome in suits, I’ll admit, but I wish they would be more polite. They don’t seem to care whether I’m here or not, and I never notice anything anyone would care about hanging over their doors.

“Anyway, were you going to buy this picture?” She held up the photo of Rog.

Cal: “Umm… no.” On second thought, it would have been medically irresponsible to risk sending Rog into an even darker state. Cal qualified his refusal. “I didn’t think it was for sale.”

Geraldine turned the picture over and looked at it herself. “Oh my! This is the picture from the police. I can’t believe I asked you that. I don’t even know if it’s legal to sell documents like this. I don’t think it can be. No, that wouldn’t make sense. And frankly, it would be kind of rude, in a regifting sort of way. Never mind that I asked. I meant to ask if you wanted this other picture, but, now that I think of it, I got this one from the police as well.”

It wasn’t the picture of Midnight, which, given the nature of men, would have been a steal at anything under ten dollars.

It was a picture of Cal. Obviously.

Grandpa

2007-12-14T11:08:00.000Z

Bad Guys Need Flowers - Pt. 19
***************

Cal pushed his front foot a bit more forward. His chance to be the hero had re-arrived. Heroes say awesome things when they’re being heroic, and Cal, like any child of the modern age, knew this. He’d failed to say anything of worth after fending off a scorpion horde, yet maybe this low-key fiscal dilemma would serve as the perfect preparation for any future heroism. A witty one-liner rushed towards his mouth… “I can pay for ten dollars worth of this stuff.”

The witty one-liner hadn’t made it. Some amateur script from the middle of Cal’s brain had beaten it out.

Geraldine: “Oh my! You haven’t said anything that strikes me as polite, but I can tell by your generosity that you are a good boy. In fact, you remind me a bit of my husband – not so much in looks or personality, but in the way you carry yourself. Harry died in World War II. I hang that toy zeppelin over the door to remind myself of him every time I walk in and out the door; not that I would ever forget him – him being my wonderful husband and a marvelous man. It’s just good to have reminders like that, even if they pop up more frequently in people like you than they do in physical objects. I will accept your ten dollar bill, and I will check out these groceries.” She started to grab the sandwich Rog had not so politely slammed on the counter. “Remember: ‘Simply carrying yourself well is nothing if you don’t have anything on your back.’ That’s what Harry said to me, before he left. Then he gave me a kiss. Then I said to him, ‘Even though you’re going to war, remember to be polite. It means a lot to people.’ I never saw him again, but I got letters from some of his friends. They told me a lot of things, but they never mentioned whether or not Harry was polite. I think the letters themselves mean that he probably was.”

The story ended. Cal waited a moment, to ascertain this fact. Then he said to her: “Thank you, kindly lady.”

Geraldine: “Oh my!”

Gang Back Together

2007-12-13T11:15:00.001Z

Bad Guys Need Flowers - Pt. 18
****************

Midnight: “Cal! You’re here!”

Rog groaned in the background, conveniently, since he had already been groaning.

Cal (stunned): “I am. Why are you?”

Midnight: “Don’t be so excited to see us. Whoops! It looks like I’m already picking up some of your trademark sarcasm. Meanwhile, you’ve made a turn for the worse, taking on an air of bitterness.”

Cal (snapping out of it): “No, no. I’m just confused again. I didn’t expect to see you so near my house. Do you live near here?”

Midnight: “Nope.”

Cal: “Then I guess I should ask if you’re stalking me.”

Midnight: “Nope.” Her voice then transformed into a faux-whisper. “Somebody is stalking me, though.”

Cal: “Who?”

Midnight made a triumphant gesture, presenting Rog.

Rog: “WHAT?!”

Cal: “Oh. I could’ve guessed that.”

Rog: “My sultana, surely you know that I simply bequest your company. It is you who picked up the phone this morning – you who are still in control.” The fact that he was using the word “sultana” revealed the weaknesses in Rog’s argument.

Midnight: “Calm down, Rog. I’m joking. Don’t be so touchy.”

Rog attempted to follow her instructions: “I’m sorry, madame. Everything is…”

Midnight (interrupting): “Nobody likes a touchy stalker.”

However Rog intended to end his sentence, he didn’t. He collapsed to the floor instead.

Geraldine (to Midnight): “Excuse me, miss.”

Midnight: “Yes, kindly lady?”

Geraldine: “Oh my. What a polite young woman. People your age are usually very rude customers. Why, don’t get me started on the young man with goggles I just had an encounter with. Where did he go, anyway?” A crushed shadow flickered somewhere below.

Geraldine (continuing): “Miss, you have been so nice to me in these past few moments. I have something I want to say to you.”

Midnight: “Yes, kindly lady?”

Geraldine: “Oh! There it is again! You really are polite, aren’t you?” Midnight simply smiled. “Anyway, I want to say that even though you seem like a wonderful person, you’d be better off looking for food at another store. I’m not supposed to sell you anything, either.” Geraldine held up a photo of Midnight.

Midnight kept smiling: “I know.”

A Pun Too Far

2007-12-11T06:45:00.000Z

Bad Guys Need Flowers - Pt. 17
************

“Young man, I know this picture is of you. Look, you’re wearing the same goggles on your head. Do you like to swim?” The old lady was making her case in the calmest, sweetest manner possible. For whatever reason, Rog was not responding in kind.

Rog: “I know it’s me, but I’m hungry; I need food; and I have money to pay for it.”

Old Lady (aka Geraldine): “I was a lifeguard one summer, you know. I could do all the strokes. Let’s see… There’s the front stroke… the back stroke… the left stroke…”

Rog: “This is the food I want.” He slammed down a sandwich and chips. “This is my money.” He slammed down a credit card. “Please swipe it now.”

Geraldine (holding up the aforementioned picture): “I can’t help you, young man. The police gentlemen gave me this picture of you and told me not to give you anything.”

Rog: “You’re not giving me anything! We are making a fair exchange. This food, for the amount of money its worth.”

Geraldine: “Oh, no, no, no. How do I know this credit card isn’t a trick? I heard on the news that young people like to take advantage of old people, especially with credit cards. Those can even be used to break into buildings!”

Rog: “But you know that this card is mine! The name matches the one on that cop photo you have.”

Geraldine: “I didn’t steal it. The police gentlemen gave it to me, and I happen to know that police do not like it when people steal.”

Rog: “What are you talking about?!”

Geraldine: “You said that I copped this photograph. I did no such thing. Why would I steal a picture of you? We just met.”

Rog, like the unseen audience, was baffled and distraught.

Geraldine started to look at the picture again, reaching up to adjust her glasses… which weren’t there. “Oh ho! I almost forgot about my cataract surgery. I’m always doing that, trying to touch things that aren’t even there anymore. I suppose it’s a matter of habit. You’ll come to understand yourself in a matter of years, young man.”

Rog: “No, I won’t, because I won’t live that long, because nobody in this damn town is giving me any food.”

Geraldine: “Your goggles are almost like glasses, aren’t they? They make those, don’t they? Goggle-glasses?”

Whatever Rog had done to get himself on the police radar was about to get a lot worse. He was about to hit the kindest, oldest, and most stereotypical person in town. Cal, who had been watching long enough to grasp the situation but not long enough that his “idly standing by” act would seem weird, was ready to step in. His cold, hard (in a papery sense) cash seemed the perfect solution to this new age problem of metaphysical property and identity confusion.

The more-pointed feet of Midnight stepped in first.

Plastic Literature

2007-12-10T06:43:00.000Z

Bad Guys Need Flowers - Pt. 16
*****************

Cal parked his bike outside his local grocer’s. It was a smaller, mom-and-pop store, with the mom actually being more of a grandmom and the pop being dead since World War II. Corporate owners had offered to buy the place out, as they do, but the old lady refused to sell. This place was all she had, except for the countless number of cats her sweaters revealed. The colors of the fur spread about the garment were too varied to come from one-to-three cats. Four-to-nine was more likely.

Cal knew all this information via his own mom. He didn’t really like small talk, nor did he take too much interest in what women over forty wore. Nor did he often go to the store, his mom taking care of that, too. Thank the gods she wasn’t dead.

Cal was adept enough to deduce on his own that the old lady’s name was Geraldine. The name of the store was Geraldine’s.

Reaching into his wallet, Calvin imagined he’d find the classical display of cobwebs. Instead, he found a bunch of old receipts and one ten-dollar bill. That would be enough to buy cereal and milk. And gum. And maybe a package of licorice for later.

By the time he finished shopping (about three minutes after he started), Cal had collected a small mess of stuff that, when grouped together, resulted in the most difficult carrying combination possible. A dry, square box. A wet, oval/rectangle plastic jug. A small, foil stick. A cheap, crackly bag. “I hate shopping,” he decided. At the same time, he decided that he loved shopping carts, some of which were on display at the front of the store. Cal had passed them up upon entering in a show of disinterest. His idiocy resounded.

Still, everything is relative. As he struggled to the counter, Cal recognized a young man arguing with an old lady. The old lady wore a sweater covered in cat fur. The young man wore goggles atop his head.

That is idiocy.

***********************

Milk jugs plus Baby Pals equals this.

A Break from the Action

2007-12-07T11:16:00.000Z

We here at Six Lines hope you are enjoying those other things written here. I think there's another one today. Don't miss it. Whatever.

The important thing we have to announce is our sponsorship* of a new Nintendo DS game, due out early next year. It's called Baby Pals, and (giggle) it's all about you raising a baby! Tee hee!

Check out the totally awesome screens below! Burp!

Slight Expansion

2007-12-07T10:49:00.001Z

Bad Guys Need Flowers - Pt. 15
**********************

There was no response.

“Mom?”

Silence.

Cal could think of only two possible explanations for the current situation. Either his mother had gone out, which she rarely did. Or she was dead, which she even more rarely did. In both cases, a rarity would again be responsible for disaster - Cal would remain hungry.

Also, in one of those cases, his mother would be dead.

“I hate the morning,” Cal thought. And with this thought, he realized another explanation. Under this third option, one of the other two would be proven wrong. The other would be proven right. Really, then, this new choice just rationalized one of the other two. It was not new at all.

What was it? It was the morning.

Cal’s mom always went out in the morning. Not usually being conscious during this timeframe, Cal discounted it from his universe. Thus, a reality in which his mom sometimes went out was distorted into one in which she did only now and again.

In every reality, Cal was still hungry. He was still tired. And he was now an idiot. After running into a door, dramatically opening an empty refrigerator, and questioning the pulse of a woman out on errands, a man needs no third party to ascertain his idiocy.

“Too much has happened.” This was what Cal said. The words sounded as if they were attempting to justify the occurred idiocy, giving the reason of cerebral workload. Maybe, by fooling himself into believing that he hadn’t acted like a fool, Cal could pick himself up and rejuvenate his weakening image.

In fact, they were words of surrender. “Too much has happened…” to be able to go back to sleep. This was what Cal meant. He started back to his room, awake, and aware of the path he had to take. He would put on some clothes, grab his jacket (an accessory to his clothes), and bike to the grocery store.

And he would do it all without running into a single door.

Forgotten Author

2007-12-06T06:33:00.000Z

Bad Guys Need Flowers - Pt. 14
*****************

Interestingly, this note featured different handwriting than the others. Either Cal wasn’t dealing with the same author, or the original author had decided to make things even weirder by constantly changing his font.

The answer: It wasn’t the same author. Cal wrote it. It just took him a second to remember.

You know. The morning.

Closing his about-to-gape-in-awe jaw, Cal asked himself why he’d decided to imitate the “obviously.” Nothing that insightful sprung to mind. Oh well.

Whatever the case, the events of last night were revealed to be true, down to the final detail of Cal writing himself to ascertain that fact. After he’d decided that it all didn’t happen, he must have decided that it did. Or at least, he decided that it would have did, if the message he wrote himself were there, where it was, where he left it, on his door.

The time to use the bathroom and forget about this mess had come. With the sun at his back, Cal marched towards his destiny – a destiny he’d achieved many times before, and was due to achieve again. The greatest general of the greatest army couldn’t have lurched towards his goal more purposely than Cal did then.

The result: He achieved.

More than that, Cal had used his time achieving to map out the rest of his day. He was going to head downstairs. He was going to grab something to eat. He was going to go back upstairs. He was going back to sleep.

It was an infallible plan, so long as no more doors interrupted his progress. The bathroom door provided the first obstacle. Turning the handle he’d locked just seconds before, Cal easily overcame this obstruction. Invisible fans cheered.

Next was the staircase. No doors encased this terrain, and Cal easily slowed down the stairs in a yawning spectacle.

Gasp! A forgotten barrier laid waiting for him in the kitchen. The refrigerator containing the eggs he desired was closed, and Cal would need, in order to rectify this situation, to open its door. Muscles moved in tandem, synapses signaled that the plan had not been changed, and the battle begun.

Cal’s pointer finger led the way, wrapping itself around the icebox’s silvery arch. His middle finger followed in typical defiance, cursing the thought of an unopened door. Then his ring finger – barren of any display – shouted to the world that this was a free man with the power to do what he willed. Next the pinky. Who cares. And finally, the opposable thumb did its thing, proving to the world that man was indeed the highest species. The refrigerator had little choice but to surrender itself to the chain of events. It opened.

Gasp! It was barren.

Cal shouted: “Mom!”

The Next Days

2007-12-05T10:28:00.000Z

Bad Guys Need Flowers - New Chapter, Pt. 13

****************

Cal awoke the next morning. The exact time was irrelevant. The fact that it was morning was astounding.

Exhausted from the sheer perplexity of the previous day, Cal had fallen asleep before midnight. Rare was the night he turned himself off before Conan, but rarities exist because they occur. Oftentimes, rarities are viewed as items of joy – a diamond of rare color, a horse of rare strength, a rapper of rare rhymnation. In the case at hand, rarity was a disaster.

What the hell was Cal going to do with a whole day?

He certainly wasn’t going to look for jobs – that was clear. He’d done that the last x number of days, and the banal literature categorized under the title “Job Postings” had driven him to the point of hallucination. Or so he’d decided the night before.

Surely none of that scorpion stuff was real. Who would spend the time to import so many desert creatures to the Midwest? Somebody who got up in the morning, maybe; still, even after Cal grasped this concept of “a full day’s work,” the possibility remained slim.

The “notes in the pockets” thing? A nice trick. Hardly feasible in the real world.

And that girl…

“Look. There’s my computer,” Cal thought. “All nice and not blown up. What more proof do I need that life is as it always was – static.”

Cal lurched towards his door, having come to a conclusion as to what to do: Use the bathroom. As he walked, the morning sun shot blinding darts of light at his eyes. This is what the sun is won to do, yes, but it usually only does so through certain windows at certain times of day. For some, those times do not exist. Consequently, things happen. Unaccustomed to the solar element, and unaccustomed to the act of morning walking in general, Cal lurched a bit too far. A thing happened. He slammed face first into the door. Stars swirled, shooting darts of their own metaphysical light. Fortunately for Cal, this light existed at no certain time in his visual spectrum. No further thing happened.

Recovering well enough to realize that his next step should be backwards, away from the door, Cal did so. The move proved prudent. There, staring him straight in the face, posted to the door, was a note:

It really happened. Obviously.

Even Odds

2007-12-04T11:10:00.000Z

Bad Guys Need Flowers - Pt. 12
*********************

Cal looked at Midnight, who was still lingering. If a few more seconds had passed, one might have even said she was loitering.

There they went. She was loitering.

Cal (not noticing the breaking point): “Are you lingering?”

Midnight: “Maybe. I’m trying to figure you out.”

Cal: “How so?”

Midnight: “Well, at first I thought you were awkward and quiet. Then you got a bit snappy. Then you got sarcastic. Then you quieted down and took action. Then you got a little arrogant. And in the end you became sarcastic again.”

Cal: “I guess sarcastic wins then, eh?”

Midnight: “It’s not fair if you play it that way. Anyway, I’ll publish my ‘Theory of Cal’ later. It’d be boring if we knew it all straight away, eh?”

Cal noised his indifference: “Ehh.”

Midnight: “I do have one question, though. What was with that snappy bit? It’s the only section that doesn’t really meld with my early thesis.”

Cal: “Do you want a sarcastic response or a real response?”

Midnight: “Real. If you’re always sarcastic, you’ll bore me.”

Cal: “There wasn’t any reason to what was going on. That upset me. That’s my reason.”

Midnight: “Hmm. But you were snappy at the part when we were talking about my name, weren’t you?”

Cal: “Exactly.”

A brief standoff occurred, with Cal unsure of how Midnight would react to his latest answer. The standoff passed. She smiled.

Midnight: “Got it.”

Cal: “What did you get?”

Midnight: “Everything.”

The two shared another moment. To an outside observer, it would seem as if a trend was developing.

Midnight: “I’ll see you tomorrow then. Maybe there’ll be more reason than today.”

Cal (sarcastically): “That wouldn’t be the hardest thing to achieve.”

Midnight paused to analyze the comment: “Hmm. I suppose that, in its own way, your character can be considered charming. Just don’t lean on it too much. You’ll start to walk with a limp.”

Cal had no response.

Midnight: “Oh, and feel free to bring something tomorrow to lighten the place up. I think I’m gonna bring roses.

“Even bad guys need flowers.”

The Next Level

2007-11-29T10:21:00.000Z

The humans reached into their pockets and removed their new notes, all of which were the same once again. Sally held hers in her mouth, no one noticing where it came from or that it was even there. The others were too busy reading. Anyway, she looked cute.

Congratulations. You have killed. You are level 1 Bad Guys. More (plus) on back.

See you here tomorrow. Plus – These are your pants. Obviously.

Cal: “I still don’t get it.”

Midnight: “Nobody does. I think that’s part of the fun.”

Rog: “How come this is calling us bad? We killed in self-defense. I’m pretty sure that’s legal.”

Sally: “Meow.”

Midnight: “We wanted to be bad.”

Cal: “Oh.”

Rog: “What?”

Midnight: “I did, at least. It was today that I thought about the adventure of evil.”

Rog: “You did? My queen, so did I! You do not have to live alone with your insanity! It will be me and you from here on out. Together. Crazy.”

Midnight (ignoring Rog, continuing to think out loud): “I imagined a life more exciting, and here it is. How did I get here? Well, I walked. Before that, though, I was online and…”

Calvin (eyes widening): “Your computer exploded?”

Rog (jumping in front of Calvin): “It did? My queen, so did mine! I mean, my PDA did, because I surf the internet on my handheld.” He yet again smiled the smile of supposed success. “You do not have to live alone with your exploding technology. It will be me and you. Together. Exploding.”

Midnight: “Hmmm. So that’s the link.”

Calvin: “It’s not, though. My computer didn’t really explode.”

Midnight: “Nope. Neither did mine.”

Rog: “It didn’t? Yeah, me neither." He removed and displayed his shiny PDA. Ta da! "Then it will be me and you. Together. Not ex…”

Midnight (interrupting Rog, to Rog): “Did you say you have a car?”

Rog (proudly): “Aha! I said I have a Hummer.”

Midnight: “I guess that’s a car. Will you drive me home?”

Rog: “Does a cock crow?”

Midnight: “Apparently.”

Rog (ignorant): “Follow me to your new life. I will rush ahead, to warm the engine and, consequently, your heart.”

Midnight vomited a little bit in her mouth as Rog sped off. She also lingered, with Cal.

For Dave and Chris

2007-11-20T21:23:00.000Z

Bad Guys Need Flowers - Pt. 10
**************

In one of the far corners of the building, there was no exit. Bump. Bump. Bump. There was only darkness. Loneliness was there, too, but loneliness is lonely, so it’s alone. The exit was never going to appear. Nothing was ever going to appear.

“Leave it!” Cal shouted at Midnight, who’d prepared her pole for yet another final blow. “I think it’s blind.”

Midnight: “Which means it can still kill us, especially if it senses us in any other way, such as noise, like your shouting.”

Cal: “Give me one minute.” Midnight tightened her grip. Cal tightened his eyes, and told her once more to “Hold on” before rushing away.

Midnight remained coiled, a mouse trap ready to snap. The mouse in this case was a scorpion - a scorpion that (as has been foretold) had no idea what it was doing and was hissing quite upsetly about this fact. Despite the commotion, it continued in its hopeless attempt to walk through a wall.

Cal rushed back holding… a terrarium? Taking off the top, he carefully placed it over the scorpion. He then slid the top underneath, flipped, and presented to all his prisoner.

Midnight: “Two questions.”

Cal: “Yes?”

Midnight: “One: Did you bring that terrarium from home?”

Cal: “Nope. It was in the second closet.”

Rog , who’d been observing the occurrence, muttered to himself: “Why didn’t I choose the second one…”

Midnight: “Weird. Two: Why the hell did you do that?”

Cal: “Well, in the event that we can’t interrogate it…”

Midnight sarcastically ha-ed.

Cal (responding and continuing): “Ouch… we can at least save ourselves.”

Rog: “We could have saved ourselves by killing it.”

Cal: “That’s not what I meant. Look, maybe I felt bad for the guy. We just turned his whole family into kebabs.”

Rog (incredulously): “Except that they attacked us, meaning they asked for it.”

Midnight: “Let me ask another question.”

Cal: “Yes?”

Midnight: “Do you eat kebabs?”

Cal: “Sometimes.”

Midnight: “Well, the times that you do, you are choosing to do what you were just forced to do to survive.”

Cal: “I only eat chicken and fish.”

Midnight: “You’re a saint, and that’s irrelevant.”

Cal: “I know, to both. Alright. I can’t explain myself. How about this, then: It might come in handy.”

Rog: “It might escape and kill us all.”

Cal (finally commenting on the goggles in Rog’s wardrobe): “Were you planning on swimming?”

Midnight (opting to conclude the conversation): “Keep the scorpion. The goggles are dumb. There’s another note in my pocket.”

Soon After

2007-11-15T10:53:00.000Z

Bad Guys Need Flowers - Pt. 9

Actually, it wasn’t easy at all. Thrusting pool equipment through, say, one hundred scorpions was hard work. It wasn’t paid, either, in anything other than survival. What it was was dynamic, upbeat, and team-oriented – all without the caveat of releasing one’s life to corporate mundanity.

It was also done. The humans had won.

Sally the allied non-human looked from her tubby perch at her three collapsed comrades. She then went back to doing what she’d done during the fight – sleeping.

Midnight: “Well done, all. You have made not only your commander proud, but your entire nation.”

Rog: “Hail! Huzzah!”

A pause, unfilled by noise.

Rog: “Uh… Happiness! Horniness?”

Cal: “There ya go.”

Rog glared at Cal, visibly angry at this sarcastic defamation. With the source of the anger still present, however - in the form of Midnight - the glare soon reshaped into a content grin (a happy grin? a horny grin?). “So man, where’d you get the poles?”

Cal: “They were in the second closet. I think they must’ve been for fishing leaves out of the pool or something.”

Rog: “Ah ha! Now who’s the foolish one? Why would there be leaves in an indoor pool?” The point was a good one, and Cal kept his mouth shut.

Midnight (not so much interested in disproving Rog as ponderous): “I think I saw a wading pool outside. They also coulda used ‘em to knock out all the crap in the drains. I’ve seen women shave in locker rooms. I’ve seen them shave everything. I’ve seen it all.”

Rog: “Sick, my liege!” (continuing) “Oh, I wanted to clarify something from before. When I said, during the fight, that I’m not that stupid, what I meant was that I’m not stupid at all. I’m actually a business major over at DerTech.”

A longer pause, unfilled by even less noise.

Until… Hssssssssssssssss.

Enough for now

2007-11-15T09:32:00.000Z

Bad Guys Need Flowers - Pt. 8

***********************

“Catch!” Cal appeared, throwing newfound weapons at Midnight and Rog. Midnight snatched the item – which appeared to be little more than a sharpened metal pole – out of the air, turned, and immediately skewered two approaching scorpions. Rog only turned, to avoid getting hit by the pole.

“Pick it up!” Midnight yelled. Rog obeyed. “Now stab…” she demonstrated again (this time spearing three) “… and dispose.” She thrust the poker-end over the pool, where the dying scorpions detached and dropped. “Repeat.”

Cal joined the fight from his outside position, picking out the ones arising from the pool. Midnight shouted over to him, “Hey! You’re getting the cheap kills.”

Cal: “It’s not cheap. It’s prudent tactics. This is how we won The Revolutionary War.”

Rog (struggling to shake a scorpion off his stick): “We won by killing scorpions?”

Midnight: “No! We won by…”

Rog: “Oh yeah, I get it. Prudent tactics… Sorry, ma’am. I’m not that stupid. I’m just a bit distracted.”

Midnight: “We all are. Let’s finish the fight.”

Rog: “Oh! Like in…”

Midnight: “Concentrate! And finish it.”

And with that, the self-ordained leader quieted the legions. The ravenous scorpions, while easily holding the advantage in numbers, failed in all other categories: speed, agility, strength, and, most-importantly, spiked metal poles.

Again, it was (as they’ve said) almost too easy.

Who wants pie?

2007-11-09T09:23:00.000Z

Bad Guys Need Flowers - Pt. 7

********************

Midnight (to the returning Rog): “What the hell is that?”

Rog: “It is what we shall use to battle, sire!”

Midnight (reading the tub): “Chlorine?”

Rog: “Indeed! We can soak the mops with the chlorine, wet the area around us – creating a sort of defense circle – and watch as the scorpions collapse from the chlorine fumes.”

Midnight: “Hmmm.”

Rog: “Shall I begin?”

Midnight: “How about if I begin? First, I believe you are confusing chlorine with chloroform, in that chloroform is used to knock people out. Chlorine will mostly disinfect the scorpions before they poison us with their purified venom. Second, that tub you’re holding is full of granular chlorine. That means it’s full of solid, making your liquid-based plan a bit impossible.”

Rog: “There must be a water faucet nearby…” Midnight interrupted, grabbing a mop and whacking Rog in the process.

Midnight: “Except that I already told you the chlorine is worthless. Let’s just use these mops to knock the scorpions into the empty pool.”

Rog: “That could work.”

The attack began. Hungry, angry, rabid, or else wise, these scorpions were not about to pass on by. They wanted a fight, and they wanted blood. Or flesh. Or hair?

Midnight grabbed Sally and placed her atop the chlorine tub. “Stay,” she ordered the frizzled feline, before running off to battle.

Rog was feverishly waving his mop in the direction of the first scorpion wave, and, via a combination of luck and luck, he was enjoying some success. When Midnight arrived, a dose of skill was added, and the success rate rocketed. “To the right!” she yelled at Rog, reminding him that his spasms should at least be directed towards the pool.

FwipHssss FwipHssss. Mop-handle struck exoskeleton, and one-by-one the scorpions fell into the empty pool. The first assault was failing. It was (as they say) all too easy.

Midnight: “Where the hell is Cal?”

Rog: “I am here for you!”

Midnight: “I didn’t ask that. We need reinforcements.”

Rog: “But we are winning..., aren’t we?”

Midnight (scoring another two hits): “If they can climb down walls, then they can climb up, too.”

Rog: “Do you know that for sure? I would think up is harder than down. It’s possible they’re just falling…”

Midnight: “I know that for sure.” She looked past Rog and into the pool.

As a second wave of scorpions attacked from above, the first began to emerge from below.

It was (as they say) a two-front war.

There's more?

2007-11-08T11:11:00.001Z

Bad Guys Need Flowers - Pt. 6
*************************

Sally meowed.

Cal: “I think that means a storm is coming.”

Midnight: “No shit.”

Cal and Rog looked to Midnight, stunned by this vulgar revelation.

Midnight: “Get over it, and go find some weapons.”

Far above, in the corners of the cavernous hall, swarms of darkness began to move down the wall. What appeared to be shadows were scorpions, and what appeared to be scorpions were scorpions’ shadows. It would have been confusing, if it weren’t so scary.

Rog grabbed Cal. “C’mon, man,” he shouted. “I think I saw a maintenance closet in the front hallway.” Not really knowing what else to do, Cal followed.

In fact, there were two maintenance closets. Rog was wrong again. They opened the first and began to rustle through what promised to be little more than brooms and buckets.

Rog: “So what do you think is going on, man? Some kind of psycho killer stuff?”

Cal: “I don’t know.” Really, how could he know? Scorpions were about to attack, at an abandoned community pool, in the Midwest. “I don’t know.”

Rog: “Yeah, well neither do I. But it’s kind of awesome, right? I mean, scorpions!”

Cal three-peated: “I don’t know.” Rog was right, though. This was kind of awesome.

Rog eventually held up two mops and a tub labeled chlorine. “Well, these are my weapons. I’m taking an extra mop for Midnight. You grab what you want.” He rushed away to at least create the illusion of being the valiant knight. Cal stayed behind to find something that might, you know, serve as a real weapon. Surely the swim meets that had been held here required a secret cache of starter pistols…

The End of the Very Beginning

2007-11-01T08:08:00.000Z

Bad Guys Need Flowers - Pt. 5
********************

“Hey, Midnight.” Rog shouted as he walked back, either ignoring or forgetting about Cal. “I’m back, and I think my note’s a little different.

“I found a new friend, too.”

“Another one?” thought Cal.

Rog stepped out of the hallway and into view, where he bent down to release the final arriver. She stepped forward, looked around a bit, and announced her arrival.

“Mew.”

A calico cat sat, without a hat, her tail gently swaying in greeting.

Cal (to Rog): “You brought your cat?”

Rog: “No, no. The cat was outside the door, pawing to get in. She’s probably a stray who lives here and eats rats.”

Midnight (bending down to greet the cat): “A stray with a collar and a name, eh?”

Rog (embarrassed): “What? Oh, she must have just put her collar on. I don’t usually miss things like that.”

Eyes rolled all around - cat included.

Midnight (bending down to read the cat’s collar): “Hello… Sally.”

Cal: “Whoa. She’s got a more human name than you.”

Midnight (standing up, angry): “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

Cal: “Maybe. Do you not like jokes?”

Midnight: “I like jokes that aren’t ignorant.”

Cal erupted, for some reason he wasn’t yet sure of: “And how is a joke about your name ignorant? Did God don you with that name after you saved a small village? Or are all jokes that you don’t like ignorant?”

Rog (defending his queen): “I didn’t like the joke, either. I thought it was crass, racist…”

Midnight (to Rog): “You need to shut up, too, before my ass erodes from your kissing.”

Rog: “I would never do anything to damage your perfect ass, my dearest, unless you compelled me to.”

Midnight “ugh”ed and relocated her attention on the cat. “Looks like Sally is gonna be my only friend here, aren’t you Sally?”

Sally looked up at her, holding one of the notes in her mouth.

“Aww. Isn’t that cute? She wants to be as confused as we are.”

Rog: “I think that’s my note. It has a coffee stain on it, because, you know, I drink coffee.” Again he winked at Midnight. Is coffee supposed to be impressive?

Midnight (reading the note): “Well if it is yours, then it’s the same as mine and that other guy’s.” Apparently Cal was in time-out, where he wasn’t allowed the pleasure of hearing his own name.

Rog: “Whoops. I guess I can be wrong… Hold on, maybe not. My note is still in my pocket.”

Cal: “So I guess the cat drinks coffee, too.” The joke got no reaction. Cal was disappointed, as this was his best line so far.

Rog (confusedly looking at the note he just drew out): “I don’t get it. This one is completely different.”

Cal: “Well, that’s how you said it would be.”

Rog: “No. I mean completely different. I haven’t seen this one before.”

Cal: “What does it say?”

Rog (quoting the note): “Enjoy the scorpions.”

Cal: “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Looking to Midnight, Cal realized he was out of time-out, but probably not for a good reason. Midnight was giving him that uncertain look again. “I don’t know, but I have it, too.” She was holding another copy of the new note.

Cal touched his pocket. Something crinkled.

Then something high above them crinkled, in a metallic way, followed by a sound similar to sand being dumped out of a bag. Hissssssssssss.

The sound wasn’t sand. Obviously.

Relieving

2007-10-28T09:57:00.000Z

Bad Guys Need Flowers - Part 4
*******************
Girl (responding to the query which ended Part 3): “I guess I am.”

Calvin’s eyes opened wide. If this were true, then what the frak was the girl trying to pull before?

Girl: “I mean, since neither of you boys is gonna take charge, then I will. You may bow to your leader, Midnight.”

Rog (looking at his watch): “I have 6 PM. Unless I’m way off, it’s not midnight.”

Midnight: “No, no, no. My name is Midnight. You may bow to Midnight, not at Midnight. The time is time to bow to me.”

Calvin noticeably began to smile, and Rog began to chuckle quite heartily.

Midnight: “What is it? Is there something on me?”

Calvin: “Your name is Midnight?”

Midnight (defiantly): “Yes. What’s yours?” Rog continued his small fit in the background.

Calvin: “Calvin.”

Midnight: “Too long. I don’t want to say that ‘v’ all the time. Shorten it to Cal.”

Well, she was certainly displaying leadership qualities – quick, irrational decisions. Irrational, though, is not always wrong. The shorter name did have its qualities.

Cal: “I’m to take advice from a girl who calls herself Midnight?”

Midnight: “It’s not so much advice, as it is an order.” And then she flipped on the charm switch again, leaning into Cal in a commandeering, you-can-see-my-cleavage-better-this-way position. “Are you questioning my orders?”

Cal sighed and turned away. He’d liked what he’d seen (not yet having a vasectomy); however, he didn’t like where this was going. Although college degrees are often awarded to social idiots, Cal was not one of them. He knew Midnight was trying to reel him in, so he swam away. Now was not the time to be giving in to unknown power.

Rog, on the other hand, was taking the bait. Hard. At the sight of Midnight’s alluring lures, he’d run over and slid to the ground, bowing as low as he could. “My full name is Roger, but I’ve already shortened it to Rog. Do you approve, master?”

Midnight frowned a bit at the ease of this catch. “Hmm, I don’t really care. I don’t like either option, to be honest.”

“Yes, my liege. Then I will stick with Rog, until you demand otherwise.”

It was Midnight’s turn to sigh and look away.

Cal: “Wait. If you’re in charge, then I really don’t get that thing before…”

Midnight: “I’m only in charge because your inaction put me in charge.”

Cal: “So, you sent me this note?” Cal pulled the meeting note out of his pocket.

Midnight: “No. Otherwise I wouldn’t have this note.” Midnight pulled the same note out of her jeans pocket. Obviously, those were her pants.

They looked to Rog, who was still crouched on the floor, praying to his Midnight goddess. Recognizing the silence as his turn to speak, he peered up. “I got one, too.”

Cal (handing Rog his note): “And it looked exactly like this, correct?”

Rog: “Actually, I don’t think so. Let me go out to my Hummer and check on that.” Rog winked at Midnight, expecting some love for his Hummer. In the midst of re-inspecting her note, she gave no indication of hearing him.

A beat of silence passed as Rog stepped out. Midnight was still looking at the note, sincere doubt developing inside her.

“Cal, what time is it? And don’t make a joke.”

“I don’t have a watch, but I’d say at least 6:15/”

“No one else is coming, are they?”

“I don’t know. I’d think somebody would. The notes have to mean something.”

“They should.”

Another beat passed. Midnight looked up. Staring deep into Cal’s eyes, she tried to convince them both. “We’re going to be okay. Nothing bad is going to happen.”

The all-powerful Midnight, who had essentially proclaimed herself queen, was already succumbing to the inevitable fear uncertainty breeds. For the first time, Cal saw in Midnight someone he could like on a human level. Maybe he would’ve recognized this, too, if he hadn’t been so uncertain himself.

Meeting in Red Square

2007-10-26T06:15:00.000Z

Bad Guys Need Flowers, Part 3
***************************

“Uh, what?”

“That the best you can do?” One of the most beautiful girls Calvin had ever seen was standing a few feet down the poolside, apparently engaging him in conversation. She was dark-featured all around (or maybe that was the shadows), wearing a light, lacy top with form-fitting jeans jeans. “After all the trouble you went through getting me here, I thought you’d have a better opening line than ‘uh, what?’”

Regarding the beauty of this girl, it bears repeating how remarkable it was. Still, that’s to be expected in stories like these.

Calvin: “Did I meet you somewhere? Should I remember you?”

“No, officer,” the girl cooed sultrily. “Should I remember you?” She was inching her way towards Calvin.

“Uh, are you seducing me?”

She centimetered closer.

“Uh, no,” she said, once again steamingly imitating Calvin’s nervous speech.

And then it stopped. The threat of sex she’d emitted immediately dissipated, becoming pure threat. “Despite the barrage of questions you’ve thrown, the fact is, in fact, reversed. I’m interrogating you.”

“Oh?” Now assured of his role as inquisitee, Calvin dispelled of the “uh”s.

“Yes. Why did you invite me here, and, perhaps more importantly - since it may involve some breaking and entering issues - how did you invite me here?”

“I didn’t invite you here.”

“Oh?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

This back-and-forth tête-à-tête over, the scene regained the spotlight. Two, confused souls stood in an abandoned poolhouse, a rustic autumn rising up behind them.

Something about what the girl said had caught Calvin’s ear, so he (re)started, “When you asked how I invited you…”

The creak of the front door sounded in the distance.

Girl: “It would seem our answers have arrived.”

The footsteps approaching were odd – almost squishy. Squod, squod, squod.

Calvin (reacting to the sound): “Apparently they’ve arrived in the shoes of some sea creature.”

Girl: “Makes sense. We are at a pool.” Calvin gave her a confused look, knowing that what he'd said made very little sense at all.

Calvin and the girl looked to the spot where the new entrant would first be visible. Neither was particularly scared, still feeling the positive rush of newness furling over them. The whole “squod” thing did make things weirder, though.

Thus entered our third character. Panning from top to bottom was a goggled, polo shirt-ed, slack-wearing fellow. With damp, squoddy sandals. Lifting the goggles from his eyes and setting them on his head, he spoke, “Hey, I’m Rog.”

Calvin and Midnight (in unison): “Hi Rog.”

Rog: “It’s starting to drizzle outside. Whosever bike that is should move it inside.”

Calvin lifted his hand a little. “It’s mine.”

Rog: “Good, good. So, who’s in charge here?”

Grass falls greenly

2007-10-23T09:35:00.001Z

Bad Guys Need Flowers - Part 2 (If confused, scroll).
****************************

Calvin awoke to a room in which nothing had happened. He was still crumpled on the floor (like most people, he normally wouldn’t be), but otherwise there was no residual evidence of the event that had or had not occurred. Weird.

As he sat up to stand up, Calvin felt a piece of paper crinkle in his pants pocket. He reached in, pulled a note out, and read: Meet at 18:00. Address (plus) on back. Calvin had no recollection of such a note, wondering for a second whether he had somehow put on somebody else’s pants. He then decided to do the expected and flip the note. On the back was written a strange address and a postscript labeled “plus”: Plus – These are your pants. Obviously.

Maybe he had received the note long ago, meaning there would no longer be any reason to follow its instructions. Maybe not. In any case, it was a pleasant autumn evening, and the intrigue of learning more about this address satisfied. Hey, maybe some hottie in a bar had slipped it to him once. She’d still live at this place, right? Calvin shook his head (“I can’t believe I thought the word hottie”), picked up his jacket, and left.

****************
A bike turned into a concrete slab that was once a parking lot. The bike parked in front of a concrete block that was once an indoor pool - faded lettering revealed as much: “Derwood County Community Pool.” Calvin dismounted, the bike being his and all. He looked at the address, looked at the building, and realized he should have checked this out online first. Usually he would have, but the whole “computer-seemingly-blowing-up” thing must have thrown him off. Whatever. He was here, at this vacant structure outside of town, and he was content enough with it all. What could easily have been a spooky setting, wasn’t. Yellowing leaves framed a scene which appeared more disappointing than scary. A beautiful forest scarred by an ugly slab of 70s architecture – blech. Calvin had had enough of this visual. He entered

The building featured no surprises. A path to the left led to the men’s changing room. A path to the right led to the women’s. A path straight led to the pool. There was a moment’s hesitation, as the inherent allure of the right path pulled at Calvin’s heart, but his rationale defeated his perversion and he headed straight. The pool was unsurprisingly rectangular and unsurprisingly empty. A large, dirtied glass window on the back wall provided Calvin with some hope – the architect, whose passion had probably been whittled away by years of government-ordered rectangular pools - hadn’t just designed a concrete box. He’d designed a concrete box with one glass side.

Calvin stared for a while, observing the forest behind the window. The sun continued to set. A few leaves here and there had begun to fall. Clouds moved between the cracks of the canopy. The same words came to Calvin that had doubtlessly come to the architect when he was applying for the job that led to this: “That out there is the world, and I’m stuck looking for a dynamic office environment.”

Apparently Calvin said this out loud. He got a response: “Well, you’re also looking for a girl.”

Hey! I like you magic ball!

2007-10-20T10:18:00.000Z

Six Lines Productions is proud to present an early draft of the upcoming manga series Bad Guys Need Flowers. The author (who would like to remain nameless and is NOT Tom Selleck) expects it to be on shelves early next year(s). It will have more pictures then, and less words, to everyone's delight.
***************************

Do you want to work in a fast-paced, exciting environment?
Are you ready for an upbeat job experience?
Do you love the prospect of completing team-oriented projects?

Calvin knew the answer to all of these questions. He always had known the answer. He always will know the answer.

Of course, the answer was “no.”

“Are there really people excited by these type of job postings?” Calvin asked himself. “And if there are, how much do these people suck?”

Having earned a masters degree in International Relations, Calvin had been browsing job listings for almost two months now. Very little caught his eye, and those jobs that did seem interesting coincidentally also always featured black holes: He’d send in an application, and it would never be heard from again.

It was a Friday night, some time in the fall, in some suburb in the Midwest. A nebulous setting, perhaps, which is how Calvin looked at it as well. Maybe some of his friends would be going out on this weekend eve. Calvin could care less. Every night is the weekend for the unemployed, and he was bored by all that anyway. College had not only disillusioned him to the real world, it had disillusioned him to partying. More on that later. For now, Calvin could be found sitting in his parents’ house, in his bedroom-cum-office, scanning the internet for some glimmer of opportunity to save him from the darkness of normal employment.

And that’s when he saw it - it being an ad on some second-tier Craigslist site which proffered the possibility to “Make Money While Being Bad.” Huh. What exactly this meant was impossible to figure out without clicking for more info, so Calvin inched his mouse towards the link. Despite its intrigue, he mostly expected the result to be some kind of half-assed marketing scheme, hidden beneath a semi-interesting tag. Still, ideas began to swirl in Calvin’s mind. What if he had stumbled upon some kind of awesome double-agent job? What if this were a real Fight Club, ready to bring about the destruction of the corporation? What if he could become a vampire and have blood orgies? Weird and illogical thoughts brewed – thoughts that, after a few seconds if introspection, Calvin would never really wish for – but, at this moment, bad seemed good.

Bad was exciting. Bad was upbeat. Bad was team-oriented, maybe, in some cool, evil society kind of way. Whatever. Calvin clicked.

A second's pause, and then utter destruction. The monitor burst apart at every pixel, megabytes becoming minibytes, plus whatever other technobabbly metaphor could be used to describe a computer completely exploding. Because Calvin had appropriately been where his eyes needed to be in order to view the screen (aka close), the explosion led to some problems. The force knocked Calvin clear across the room where his body - littered with cuts from the various mechanical shards erupting out of what was a reasonably-priced computer – crumpled to the ground. Losing blood, Calvin’s vision faded into haze. He was out, too unconscious to enjoy the spectacle which seemed to be occurring.

The explosion was starting to reverse, as were Calvin’s wounds. Or at least it seemed that way.
******************

More to come! For now, enjoy this radio advertisement.

Paradise Experienced

2007-09-20T08:26:00.000Z

Six Lines is excited to present an exclusive article by Milwaukee Brewers reliever Ray King. Despite the intense pressure he's under given the current playoff push, King has been able to step back and consider the situation in which he has found himself. Just yesterday, whilst visiting Houston, he even stepped back too far, finding himself in the perfect position for an opposing fan to dump beer on his head. Unperturbed by this moment in what he calls "the time-base continuum," King went back to his seat in the bullpen to *ahem* pen for us his musings on the present, the future, and whatever comes after.
*************************************************

On the Hopes of the Barleymen
By Ray "The Philosopher" King

As I sit here observing the outfield grass - grass that has been molded, weaved, and ridged in a checkerboard design, announcing to all who may soar overhead that yes, this is baseball - I realize things. These things are profound; dare I say it, they are beyond the minds of most men I have the good fortune of sharing this bench with. I will be hurt for saying this, I know. And I deserve whatever pain this truth entails, for I have hurt my teammates by questioning their being. It doesn't matter. Calling my coworkers idiots is something I have always been fated to do. Just as nature has led me to be a relief pitcher, so has it also led me to be an arrogant academic. I am what is known by those in the know as a "cereb-realist". I understand what is real, I process it, and I relay it to those who are less informed. That is why I am writing to you, dear reader. You are less informed. Yes, it would appear you are less informed on most things.

Notice where I am in relation to "the box."

In any case, as I continue to stare at the outfield grass, I wonder, "What would happen if the grounds crew simply let the grass grow? What if this patch of land were left to its own device, sans fertilizer, sans human protection from weeds? What would grow here?" The opportunity-cost of cutting the grass can really never be known. It's possible that this area of land, if unattended, would provide the breeding ground for a new breed of grass - a grass, perhaps, which could cure cancer. More intriguingly, the cross-pollination of weed, grass, and baseball player sweat could give rise to a species which would straddle the oft-unapproached line of flora vs. fauna.

Being a black athlete, I possess the inherent ability to challenge "sanctified" borders. Predictive geneticists may already have rejected my proposal of a man-plant hybrid under the pretense that "such a creature would live only in a state of utter, unapologetic, photosynthetic pain." Yet I know that the only pretense at hand is the one that supposes my proposal wasn't rejected racially. Here I do not speak of the black race, but rather of the race of baseball players. Not once have our biological hypotheses, developed over innings and innings of contemplation, actually been considered by the science community. This is an affront to history, and, more accurately, this is a risk history may not survive.

Still, I concede that any understanding of risk must be specified as an unknown variable. Economists attempt to convince us that there is a tangible quality to opportunity-cost, but I have already proven there is not. People worry that my Brewers will not make the playoffs. I, on the other hand, worry that we will. It is never counterintuitive to wish against one's own success. The limited definition we have of success in the present may in fact prevent greater happiness in the future. We cannot know. One path may lead to utopia; the other to dystopia. Or they may all lead to the local strip club, where a girl named Misty pretends to be impressed that you're an athlete. Oh Misty, I should have known you named yourself after misfortune.

Again I look at the grass, where I see that a tiny ant has somehow found his way to the tip of a blade. An amazing achievement indeed. Here, in this most pesticidal of environments, an ant has managed to not only break the stadium's defense; she has managed to secure a pulpit from which to proclaim her progress. This is, it would seem, a step forward and away from beer, all enfolded in one mighty soul.

In a second, the groundskeeper spots the intruder. A spray bottle is sprayed, and the ant falls back to the earth. Motionless. Dead. Forever. What seemed to be the peak of success was gone like that (snap). A paradise experienced proved to be nothing more than a paradise lost.

Are the playoffs the peak of the blade of grass I'm climbing? Or are the playoffs the earths towards which I'm being hurtled? Of course, I cannot know. All I can do is pitch.

Like Jean Grey

2007-09-17T10:30:00.000Z

We here at Six Lines would like to apologize for any delay you might have noticed in this blog over the past few months. Some of our other business ventures hit hard times over the summer and we were forced to dedicate all of our resources elsewhere. Those of you affected the most - specifically those of you looking for the Six Lines kangaroo prevention kit - please know that we are attempting to expand our services beyond the greater Des Moines area. Our strategy intended for the cheap storage costs of Iowa to counterbalance the jetfuel costs of America/Australia commerce, but, come on, summer gas prices, am I right?

The best apology, though, cannot be said in words. Rather, it must be provided in the form of an Emmy liveblog. Unfortunately, all of our regular staffers missed the Emmys, but freelance writer Erik Ballston wants us to tell you that he "nailed them." He also wants us to publish his liveblog ex post facto, which we can't legally do until our lawyers are available for contracting and Latin translating. We can, however, review his findings as if they were an academic study in the autumn issue of International Relations. Yet because that would be super-boring and too abstract to attract the audience we need to attract the funds we desperately need, we're instead just reviewing it as we would any freelance submission - by giving it to an intern.

***************
Hey, so Erik Ballston watched the Emmys. He sat down with food and stuff and people were like "Who are you wearing?" - not to him, cuz he was just watching it at home on his television - to celebs and stuff. Erik doesn't mention what kind of TV he has, but I assume it's an upper-end, non-high-def set. He's a freelance writer who's contacted a nearly defunct company for work, so no way can he afford the good stuff. No man in their right mind would watch this year's Emmys without some picture quality, though. The 59th annual Emmys are all about quality pictures. Hmm Erik doesn't mention what anniversary of the Emmys this is, like I just did (59). The lack of a detail as important as that in a liveblog is discouraging. It's not hard to see why Erik isn't finding the kind of work he'd like to.

Right around 6 PM the show starts. Erik says Seacrest is "in his element," which he then compares to an element in the halogen family... Do we have an aspiring Dennis Miller on our hands? Unfortunately Erik lacks the relevance and, dare I say it, coherence of Miller. Not that Miller's any more than a name anymore. His passive aggressive "posit a political opinion, then laugh as if any other opinion would be absurd" method is frustrating and non-productive, kind of like Ballston's review of Ray Romano's Emmy intro. An excerpt: "Romano, in a second, reminds us about the kind of old-fashioned silliness missing from today's complex programming. This is funny. This is silly. This is America. Giggle." I'm not going to lie, Ballston encouraged me to actually google Romano's intro. What a mistake that was. I haven't seen anything that insipid since walking in on my in-laws having a talk on the fine points of being annoying and living nextdoor.

Wait a second, why did Ballston start watching the show at 6? Gods, he lives in Mountain Time. Thank the lords of Kobol there isn't anything in affirmative action law about hiring oxygen-deprived hillfolk. The rest of this crap might as well be scanned through. Uhh Rainn Wilson comes on stage, leaves. Old guy talks about the West. Middle-aged guy wins. Girls wear low-cut shirts... and more low-cut shirts then for the rest of the liveblog. Ugh, Freelance writers need to realize that sometimes you just gotta crack one out to get your mind back on the paper at hand. This paragraph alone is costing me over 2 boxes of tissue.

The Sopranos wins. Erik says, "I hope you enjoved (sic) my liveblog as much I've enjoyed the Soprano family over the past few seasons. Meadow's rack is awesome. Bada bing." Hmm. Overall, this stuff is decent for the local AA chapter's monthly newsletter, but I'd rather die of cirrhosis than read it again.

That is how you do Dennis Miller.

*****************************
Thanks in advance for accepting our apology. To reemphasize our commitment once more before leaving you again, we'd like to announce here and now a new Six Lines product. If the experiences of this summer and the Emmys taught us anything, it is that investing in television is a no-miss opportunity. Thus, with the expectation that it will be bought as a midseason replacement, we present to you Midnight the Detective - a gritty, detective documusical in no need of a theme song. The theme, citizens, is already upon us.

A Book Review, by Wormy

2007-06-25T03:18:00.000Z

Sigh. Yes, as my name suggests, I am a worm. And yes, as the subject line reveals, I am the book reviewer at Six Lines. But if you ever... ever... EVER call me a bookworm, I will seriously rip some inside part of your body out onto the outside. That inside part, used to living symbiotically with the rest of your organs, will be unable to survive in its new environment. It will shrivel, it will die, and nobody will care, because everybody will know you deserved it.

I am not a bookworm. I am a worm who reviews books occupationally and happens to like them as well.

And don't try to get me to review books written by women. That pisses me off just as much.

This is a woman author. Run.

Look, I have nothing against women. Most worms are hermaphrodites, so I have to deal with the best and worst of both worlds. I simply feel that reading books by women is on par with having feet. It's disgusting and unnatural. I don't slime my way over to the library to learn about feelings and emotions. I want action, meaningful dialogue, and - what's the word? - oh yeah, substance.

Females think they know more about their gender than men. To prove otherwise, I have selected for my premiere review a book written by a man, including a strong female character.

TMNT: The Movie Novel. April O'Neil isn't too heavily featured in this book, and it is in fact her actions as an antiques collector which facilitate the arrival of our key antagonists; however, she proves her strength by hanging out with males who are way awesomer than her. Want to know how rad the turtles are? "Punches, kicks, full body throws. Ninjitsu, Tae Kwan Do, street-fighting moves. Sais, katanas, shuriken. The brothers brought all the techniques and skills that they had learned over their lifetime together into this battle." That is rad. Only a girl with relative (though still miniscule) coolness could even think about such radness, much less interact with those in possession of it. Oh, and let's face it: In dating Casey Jones, April's pulling in way over her head. The guy is ripped, and he walks with the perfect canter of rebellion plus hockey. I'm not embarrassed to say that if he were a worm, I'd do him, if I figured out how I have sex.

What else, other than some scenes with a woman, does this book include? Well, if you've seen the movie, it includes that stuff. If you haven't, then let me give you a hint: EVERYTHING! This book comes with my highest recommendation. Before the prologue ("Leonardo's Journey") even gets a chance to begin, we're provided with this lesson from the great ninja master himself - Splinter:

"A sensei once counseled a grief-stricken boy as his older brother prepared to leave for battle. He said, "Child, why do you cry? You are both part of a family. And a family is a bond that cannot be broken by war, by strife, by force or neglect. And, more importantly, you are brothers. And brothers you shall remain, despite time... argument... and even distance.'"

Family pervades all four dimensions: The singular point of battle, the linear quantity distance, the rounded texture of neglect, and time. Learn it. No other book will teach you more about family than this one, and, given the integral importance of family in human society, no other human book will have meaning for you unless you read this one first.

The book is not without its surprises. Twists turn into, uh, turns. Turns, uh, turn into, uh, other turns. Nothing connects, though, until the author, lyricist Steve Murphy, wants it to. Fortunately (yet expectedly) his wants exactly parallel your desires. Who is the Nightwatcher? Why is Maximilian Winters collecting stone statues from all over the world? Why are weird, arbitrary monsters appearing in New York? All is answered in time, and your patience in reaching the final, 127th page is rewarded.

A monster from the book, from the movie.

Wormy's Blurb: Leonardo and Raphael bicker. Michelangelo eats pizza. Donatello says nerdy stuff. The foot clan appear in their finest role since The Blue Lagoon novelization, and everyone goes home happy. I'm pretty sure they're going to make a movie out of this brilliance, but you do not want to have to wait for it.

Read this on five rainy days out of five. I'll be on your driveway.

GREETINGS, from the Editor

2007-06-22T03:24:00.000Z

Hello, new friends! I'm the Editor, taking over for Harry while he's on "temporary" leave. Don't look for him in Africa. He's probably not there. Don't write to him in Africa, either. He definitely doesn't know how to read.

Greetings! Salutations! Noozles! I am a wonderful editor, and I know exactly what you, the consuming public, wants in a blog. You want information... Zap! We're gonna get that for you. You want opinions... Zap! We're gonna give them to you. You want money.... Huh? The zapper seems to have run out... Moving on!

You want animated gifs... Zap!

I didn't want to have to state this again so soon, but I am an incredible editor. I used the term "wonderful" in place of "incredible" before, but both describe me equally brilliantly. I know how to start blogs up. I know how to turn blogs around. Most importantly, I know how to turn your computer screen into cold, hard cash. But I'm not in it for the money. More on that later... Moving on!

The older the monitor, the morer the money.... Moving on!

I'm not at liberty to talk about Harry's brief dismissal, but let's leave it at this: Did you read his last post? We give him an opportunity to say goodbye, and he sends me a bunch of gibberish. Gibberish can be decent, our focus groups reveal, and we'll be sure to provide you with the statistically demanded proportion you desire; however, this gibberish was hogwash. Here at the Six Lines production company (formerly BlogCorp, until the name was snatched up by someone even less aware of its satirical character), we demand sense more than we demand cents. We do that because readers like to read things that make sense, and we need readers to make money. Not that money is at all important to us. Getting you to like us, in the way that you want to like a blog, is. You like pictures, right? Zap!

I'm shuffling papers now, as editors do. I'm wearing a visor, as editors do. I'm seeing a list on my desk, as editors sometimes do, when lists are put on their desks. I'm reading the note attached to the list: "The 42 greatest things in the world. Don't forget! Harry" What? How did this get on my desk? Should I get a new desk (this one's kind of out of place)? Whatever. I'm throwing worthless notes away, as editors do.

These cherished/moneyed readers requested a picture here. Their reason: "The words got too together." Thanks for the feedback!

Did I mention how much I, the wonderful editor, don't care about money? It's because I care about my daughter more. A lot more. If I care about money zero, then I care about my daughter like a million times more than that. She's got the same features as a young Dakota Fanning, but I doubt she'll have the same success. She'll probably be stuck in independent film. Or maybe she'll be a jaded assassin. The truth is, I really don't know if she'll even be born. She hasn't reached that age yet. Everything I do, though, I do for her. Whatever she wants to be, she can always fail and fall back into being the heiress of an incredible editor's fortune. That's what I'm all about. The money doesn't matter. My daughter does.

Regarding the actual nature of Six Lines productions, we will feature various experts writing on various subjects. That's not too unique, but that's what you want, and what you want is unique. Never before has a consuming public wanted to consume in the very same way that you do right now. Take comfort in that, and please continue enjoying our work and our advertisers' work. (Don't worry, Robinson family, a picture is coming soon.)

Can I leave you with something wonderful and incredible? This is a picture I have hanging over my desk. It motivates me a lot. That's why I put it over my desk - to show people how motivated I am. I see my employees looking at it, then I look at it, and then I look back at them. "That's right," I say. "That's what our job is all about. Here, have a paycheck. You've earned it."

Tumult, and nuts

2007-06-20T00:41:00.000Z

The era is the 1930s. It's a time of great change, and confusion. Peanuts are being salted like they've never been salted before, but the work is being done by children - children soon to be captured by the Nazis. Once-popular carnivals decline into ruin, people no longer enthralled by the mystery of bearded women and crab-toed men. There's enough horror brewing in the old country to satisfy the human thirst for drama. Life is most certainly not the Waldorf salad it was in the 20s.

America's heroes must leave behind what they once knew for something entirely different, but something entirely necessary. Ostensibly, the mission is to save the world. Actually, the mission is to start something new. New doesn't mean good, or honorable, or anything. It means new.

Fast forward to now. And translate everything I just typed into a metaphor for this blog. Do you understand? Maybe this will help:

Through the darkness of future past

The magican longs to see

One chance out between two worlds:

Fire walk with me

Now you understand. Now you know why I have to leave the blogging industry for a few months, maybe even a few eternities. Maybe a few hours. Don't worry; I'll still funnel my musical hits through the new owners (Look for a fresh single to "drop" very soon. Then bend over for it. Really bend). But for now, I'm off. Don't try to write. I don't have an address. And I most definitely don't know how to read.

Speaking of the new owners, you'll like them. They're most certainly not pressuring me to abandon this blog to their hidden, evil purposes. They're just old friends, old friends to whom I owe a huge favor. I'm finally getting the opportunity to experience the world, untied from the chains of technology. When I come back, I'll be stronger than ever. Born under a shadow of darkness, I will return carrying the shadow of light.

Seriously, this all makes sense. The Six Lines wouldn't have it any other way.

"Trust me." - Aladdin

(End Chapter 1)

The Day

2007-05-28T22:36:00.000Z

What a day! I mean, seriously, phew... it's been quite a day. Yes indeed. A day. Sigh. Catching my breath for a moment here... after the excitement of the day. Some day. Some day, indeed.

At least, I think it was a day. I mean, I know it was a day - I'm just starting to doubt whether it was really as mentionworthy as I once believed, back when I started this post, back when I was young and naive. If I had to describe the day with two adjectives with which I could also describe myself, I'd probably use... ummm... wait can I use a vegetable as an adjective? Oh never mind never mind I don't need to. Dynamic and momentous. Yeah! Rizrock! Wait, "dynamic" and "momentous" were the words. Not "yeah" and "rizrock." Sometimes I can be confusing. Ha! I should have used "confusing" as one of the adjectives! But only for me. Not for the day. The day wasn't confusing at all, from what I remember...

It was definitely a dynamic day, there's no doubt about that. The things that happened were just wowee. Plus zowee. To equal woweezowee. The first event really set the mood, what with the explosions and the colors. The second happening was a bit more chill, but still totally thrilling in that laid back sort of way Christian Bale does so well. And then the avalanche of activity struck, throwing me this way and that, pummeling thousands of metaphorical mountain goats on the way down, down to the end of the day, all the way down. I mean, the day just wouldn't let up, not even for a second. I couldn't have stopped for crushed goat stew even if I'd wanted to, even if it wasn't metaphorical. Not that I did want to, you know, cuz metaphors are generally too saucy for me. I prefer the more zesty taste of personification.

I guess to describe the day as "momentous," I really should first clarify the definition. I mean to say that the day lasted longer than a moment, but that it had it's fill of separately inspiring moments. It was an amalgamation of single glimpses of what the world could be like if everyone loved peace and peace loved everyone and they both loved a third party the same amount.

Come on, don't try to be strict with the moments thing. "Momentous" can mean a lot of moments, okay? This was my day, anyway, so back off. Nobody shared the drama, cuz everyone else experienced the day differently, and much more suckily. My day was the best. Yeah, I'm pretty sure it was. No, I know it was. Screw indecision. The day kicked serious ninja butt. And it did so without suffering a scratch. My day was awesome, in the best way awesome can be, which is like really good.

The day is over now - it ended yesterday. Come to think of it, even though the day finished off itself unharmed, there's no way that I could have gotten out the same. The constant intensity of the awesomeness, swirling around my body, surely must have done some damage. I'm starting to worry. Let me wiggle my toes for a second... Huh, I think they're all there. It's hard to tell just from wiggling, to be honest. Oh well. I don't really care about toes, especially not enough to take off my slippers and look. Let me check some other body parts. Arms... alright. Legs... fine. Stomachs... okay. Ears... gasp! Yup, my ears and my gasp-o-lung are both still intact, too. Astonishing. Not only was the day totally amazing, but it's even theoretically possible that I could healthily live through it all over again! I knew my body was good. I just didn't know it was this good.

Hold on. Seriously, just hold on! This is serious, so hold on.

I never thought of that. My gods, I never thought of that at all. It's possible that electricity tricked me. I didn't really do much yesterday, other than all that insanely cool stuff, so I don't remember whether I went outside or not. What if I didn't, and I actually got up really late, and all my clocks got switched by some time pervert, and.... and... my day was actually a night!

I'm shivering. This is really bad. I mean, this is worse than killing people and stuff.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Remember when I played Harvest Moon? Remember? Harvest Moon is a farming simulation, and I built a greenhouse in the game so that I could maximize profit and cash-crop the balls out of my competitors, and the reason the greenhouse made so much sense and money was because time didn't move when I worked inside the greenhouse.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

I might still be in the greenhouse. I might never have left. I might never have even had a day. I might never have even had a moment for you to nerd out over the definition of "momentous" about. (I still hate you for that.)

All that jamming rockingness... all that killer rockocity... I don't know what I'd do if it didn't exist. It was all so vivid... the day. So real. Like a day I'd never want to forget, not even if I'd never remembered the day to begin with. Sigh.... that day. What am I going to do about that day... the day...

I will kill time.

2007-05-08T22:38:00.000Z

That's not a metaphor. I'm going to do it.

My computer's battery light has been flickering on and off over the last few days, depending on where I place my laptop and how bendy the plug cord is. I'm typing this now the only way I can, with a slab of trout placed 45 degrees between the motherboard and my stomach. The plug cord is pulled taut around the necks of two small children. They're still breathing enough to send out the automated "eye enlargement" e-mails I pay them for, but unfortunately their computer is having a similar problem to mine. I'm going to need another stream fish and some more necks, stat!

These eyes are nice, but wouldn't they look better WAY BIGGER?

Originality is impossible. I'm pretty sure that everything I just wrote has been imagined at some point in time by somebody else in history. I still dream that I'll come up with something that nobody else ever has (like maybe a theology based around the nonexistence of God? eh? eh?), but I'm not holding out hope. I'm consigned to the fact that I'd be best off fitting into a role society has already deemed as awesome, like starfleet commander or something. I'd be pretty good at giving orders to petty officers, and I could even try to work the monotony of peacetime military ops into a starting point for creativity. Imagine...

Commander Me: Petty Officer Collins!
P.O. Collins: Yes, sir?
Commander Me: I'm tired of looking at your human features. Find a cat, and replace yourself with it.
P.O. Collins: But sir... There aren't any cats aboard this ship, and the nearest feline-inhabited planet is over three parsecs away.
Commander Me: Are you questioning my orders? Take the auxiliary craft to MewMew Beta immediately and bring me back a damn cat!
P.O. Collins: But sir... The auxiliary craft is the only emergency vehicle functioning after this morning's food poisoning disaster.
Commander Me: Are you questioning my orders? Make sure you bring back some kitty litter, too. I think we already have the litter trays.
P.O. Collins (sighs, salutes, turns to leave): Yes, sir...
Commander Me: Oh, and Petty Officer Collins...
P.O. Collins (turns back, salutes again, no sighing): Yes, sir?
Commander Me: I'm just being creative!

The crew would laugh, and I'd probably get a lot of high fives. We'd travel through a few galaxies, sipping astro-nectar and talking about the days before we arbitrarily left Earth. Scientists had proven long ago that there was nothing in space worth discovering. Planets like MewMew Beta, as cute as they may sound, actually suck. Hard. We just left Earth because we felt like it. Ha! How young and naive we were! Those were the days... maybe...

And then, one Wednesday, as our ship would be floating towards a supernova as boring and inconsequential as the others, an unknown object would be sucked up into our ventilation ducts. I'd order Petty Officer Collins to go fetch it, because I really don't like looking at his human features and want him out of the command deck as frequently as possible. After a few minutes he'd return - with his stupid mustache and googly eyes - and he'd hand me what we'd discovered.

Picture of Collins, with a suspiciously large number of medals for a petty officer...

In my hands would be a screenplay. The screenplay would be dated centuries before I was born, of course. And the screenplay would start with "That's," ramble on a bit, and end with "cupcake." Reading through it, I'd become drenched in cold sweat as the realization of the reality upon me dawned. Losing electrolytes fast and sweatily, my body would demand sugar.

Commander Me: Petty Officer Collins!
Petty Officer Collins: Yes sir?
Commander Me: You're still annoyingly human. Do something worthwhile and get me something sweet. Get me a Pixy Stick. Or maybe some JujuBees. Or maybe some raspberries covered with cream, but a sweet cream that's not too thick. For God's sake, just get me anything, please, anything that's not a cupcake.

Changing the Same

2007-04-13T15:50:00.000Z

Most of you know that I love Kurt Vonnegut. None of you know that he died this week. You may think you had already heard that, but really those are false memories added only after you just read it. Not that it matters. He's dead, and it's your fault. You learned it, remembered it, and caused it. Reading is dangerous. Then again, so is consciousness. Kurt Vonnegut would probably congratulate you on his murder. If he could. If you hadn't killed him.

I love Kurt Vonnegut enough to have named my first-born blog after a quote from one of his books, which may or may not be love in this neotechnological society. Sure, the URL (politicalpasta.etcetera) reveals that I intended some kind of mock Drudge Report *plus pasta*, but that's totally old news. I rushed the original title because all of my friends were blogging like barons (of blogs) and I wanted to fit in. It seems like only a few of them are really writing anymore, however. You probably killed the rest of them. You also probably are them. Weird.

The book the always-above quote is from is Mother Night, but I had to look it up to remember. I pretty much completed the Vonnegut library within a few months, purchasing most of the books, imagining the others. They don't all stand out to me because I read them in the same life cycle. Next time I'll have to change my life more between reads. I could get married after Player Piano, join the Navy before Breakfast of Champions, and start listening to electro some time around God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater. And I could read Sirens of Titan whenever, cuz I really like that one.

I used to say that Kurt Vonnegut was my favorite author. That's probably not true anymore. It's his fault. Vonnegut praised Mark Twain repeatedly in script and song (mostly script), so last summer I put off doing work/building my CV in favor of reading the Twain catalogue. It was awesome, and I progressed more than I would have under those other options. Twain made me like America again, or at least "America" the concept. Or at least the Mississippi river. I don't know.

Movies that feature people reading Huckleberry Finn whilst drinking lemonade will never be criticized by me. Even if they feature women in their underwear.

Wait, I meant especially.

A lot of people say that Vonnegut's works are immature, developmental reading for the young intelligentsia. So what? The older I get, the more obvious it is that maturity suxx. Adult fiction often tries so hard to be serious that it loses any and all of its charm. I don't want to listen to a book that sounds like an emotionally distraught businessman. I want to listen to a book that sounds like an emotionally distraught businessman who contextualizes his troubles in science fiction. But Vonnegut hated being called a science fiction writer, so I'll change that to exploratory fiction. As in exploring the life that could be if we stopped thinking about money and started thinking thoughts.

I hope, as a semi-habitual writer unfortunately condemned to excrete banal academic rubbish, that at least some of Vonnegut has rubbed off on me. I think it has. Apparently his masters thesis - "Fluctuations Between Good and Evil in Simple Tales" - was rejected along with his diploma. In my eye (an eye that sees its papers consistently marked down for jokes and elsewise creative efforts), that is something to strive for.

Mark Twain. Douglas Adams. Kurt Vonnegut. Those are my author heroes. Those are my dead author heroes. Maybe one day a young girl will tell me that I faintly remind her of one of those guys, before asking me why I decided to resurrect the Goosebumps series. "Because as good as those other guys were," I'd say, "they just didn't provide the right material for a choose-your-own-adventure spinoff. RL Stine did."

I'm now thinking that young girl is around 18. And hot. Whatever.

Seriously, though, it is an honor of existence to read Vonnegut. I will be changing this blog's URL to imaginary-lines.blogspot.com within the next week in memoriam. I've also hated the old URL for a while. Death is an opportunity for change.

Thanks for most of what you left me with, Kurt Vonnegut.

I don't know what to do with all that confusion about humanity you brought up, though. Not that you care anymore.

Lucky bastard.

To Be Continued

2007-04-13T02:42:00.000Z

West Virginia, Morocco

2007-04-06T02:24:00.000Z

I may not be typing a lot lately, but I am practicing modeling poses in Africa:

My brain is just regaining form, after smoldering for months in baseball's hot stove. This blog, for instance, currently has a 6.87 ERA, giving up 2.12 WHIP. That's not good, even this early in the season. It's also not statistically feasible after only 1 start, which just goes to show what a little imagination can do.

Are you confused about the sports analogies I'm making? Am I leaving you feeling awkward and bloated? I might have solutions for you then, although I guess I'm technically the problem. Ignore "that" for now.

Solution 1: Start watching baseball instead of cricket. Cricket matches have tea breaks, and though I do now like mint tea, this doesn't override the scientific fact that cricket is boring. Sorry, that's how science works.

Solution 2: Start watching baseball because it's fun in its own right. Tell me what's not fun about this idea: A bunch of men of varying weights stick their hands in glove-molded dead parts of cows and then throw around sphere-molded other dead parts of cows and sometimes hit the latter with wood. Vegetarian-wise the idea doesn't sound great, nor does it even hold up poultritarian-wise, but I'll make you/me feel better by saying that cows love baseball, too.

Solution 3: Start watching baseball because you have nothing better to do. Jobs and school are simply distractions from recreation. Sure, I'll waste $20,000 if I keep watching baseball instead of writing essays, but money doesn't buy happiness. I can't even make a profit anyway, unless you count diplomas as profit, which is stupid. Besides, it's not my money. It's my parents. Suckers.

Solution 4: Don't eat so much cheese. This references the dumb "bloated" remark I made above. According to WebMD, cheese, as well as wheat products, can exacerbate irritable bowel syndrome. Interestingly, wheat bran is listed as a remedy. I don't follow that logic, nor do I know why I've admitted to being on WebMD's irritable bowel syndrome page. Next I'll be talking about how itchy my nipples are, or how they're only batting .185 through 3 games...

Solution 5: Read Crime and Punishment. This has nothing to do with anything, but I read it last week and it's actually okay. Some good philosophy, without as much of the boring family politics found in Tolstoy's War and Peace. Do I sound pretentious yet? You would say that, plebian.

Solution 6: Stop ignoring "that." Cut out the problem, "that" being me and my baseball analogies. Or just replace me with a viable alternative:

West Virginia

2007-03-21T02:36:00.000Z

I've been busy downloading John Denver songs for the last month. Sorry.

And I've returned with no real purpose, which seems to be a theme I'm developing rather strongly throughout life. I had planned on writing about how excited I was after being accepted for a job in Costa Rica, but that didn't happen. Instead I got a letter from the head of the rainforest there which read like so:

Dear Mr. Idiot,
Your resume reminds me of a blog I used to read. That blog was never updated and went back to school for a masters, only to end up drinking and shagging fatties. Don't apply again.
Love,
A parrot

I also planned on typing about the fun visits I received from both friends and family in the past few weeks - comparing and contrasting the two, gossiping about which of my friends would sleep with which member of my family, carving images of my visitors into soft, moldable rocks - but I received another letter which read as such:

Dear Pagan,
You don't really have any friends or family. Your friends only stayed with you because Mr. Bean's house was being refurbished, and your family stole your credit card. Check your wallet.
Kisses,
An omnipresent parrot

I checked my wallet, and everything was true. Not only was my emerald card missing, but in its place was a picture of my friends laughing up a storm with Rowan Atkinson in the middle of Trafalgar Square. Never again, I swore, never again...

Never... again...

But to the back of the photo was taped a key. And in the corner of my room appeared a treasure box into which the key fitted perfectly. And when I opened the treasure box a whole horizon of futures emerged, accompanied by a chorus of pasts and a single, moving moment called the present. In other words, inside the treasure box was an egg and ham sandwich.

Removing the ham (as a poultritarian like me is won to due), I bit into the egg and bread. I didn't know why I did this. I just did it. And that was the whole point, wasn't it? I know I like egg. And I know I like bread. So I stopped wandering around my room like a hen with no pen and fooded myself. That's what I have to do with life, isn't it? I know I like apple juice, and I know I like the movie Hot Fuzz, so I just have to settle down and drink apple juice whilst watching that movie. Success will inevitably follow, won't it? Question? Like so and such:

Dear Harry,
You learned your lesson, which is why I can finally call you by your Christian name Harry. Unless you don't want to be called that. Is it even Christian?
Odors,
A parrot who is proud of his son.

PS Fly away, and don't ever look back.

PPS I'm not really a parrot, which explains how you could be my son. I am actually Professor Moriarty from the Sherlock Holmes tales! Here's a picture of us your mother took before she put you up for adoption.

PPPS Your mother actually is a parrot.

CHIPS <-- I've never seen it. Is it any good?

Lob-Sided (Not featuring Lobsters)

2007-02-12T20:19:00.000Z

As my readership has expanded from five people per day to "over" five people per day, I've come under increasing pressure from lobbyists looking to get their causes mentioned somewhere herein. As of yet, I've rebuffed such efforts with a simple snub of my nose. Given the dryish weather of late, though, this has led to some chafing. So before I become the next Noseless Nancy, let me address these pressure groups by addressing them. Rock!

Israel
I'm an American; thus, the strongest lobby of course comes from Israel; specifically, a man named Amit has been following me around looking particularly bloggy-eyed. At the moment his only demand is to well represent his character, though it's also been hinted that I should stop posting notices about PLO bake sales.

A bomb-shaped cake? Or a metaphor for this post?

Well let me appease Amit for now (appeasement always works) by reminding readers that he was never convicted on the baby molesting charges. The case fell apart when the prosecution failed to build a consistent story concerning which spices he'd begun to sprinkle on the baby's head.

Pro-Choicers
Yawn so apparently people still care about abortion. I thought Match Point (abortion spoiler alert!) had effectively put an end to the debate by showing that not having an abortion could kill Scarlett Johansson, but it seems most women are jealous of Scarlett and want her dead. That's why pro-choice groups have been begging me to write an entry where I re-envision the movie in a way that ends with a really hot guy getting murdered instead. The task kind of intrigues me, but unfortunately I have a condition that makes it very difficult for me to write anything in which I might die. Sorry.

Lettuce Manufacturers
I recently read a pretty scary story about a kitten who was playing around in the kitchen and got hidden under a large leaf of lettuce. The chef was busy on the phone, didn't notice, and actually served the salad to some customers. Luckily, the restaurant in discussion was Mexican, where nobody actually orders salad, so the kitten was saved. Still, this shocking story alerted the press to the danger of large lettuce. "Can you," the industry requested of me, "help soothe people's fears about lettuce accidents? " I can, but only after my demand of decentralizing lettuce in grocery stores is met. Every head of lettuce should be sold in a different aisle, and some should even be sold out in the parking lot. As long as all those heads are together in one produce crate, people will deservedly continue to fear lettuce.

Perverts/Nerds/Other Synonyms
Look, I can't always write posts about hot Star Trek women and hot video game characters. The more sultriness I reveal to others, the less I have to selfishly keep to myself. I'll give you one more (Mia Fey, spiritual lawyer from Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney), but because you've been bothering me, I'm not going to give you high-resolution game art. I'm going to give you wood-carved bookends.

The Music Industry
This is the most understandable lobby I've had to deal with so far. People in the know in the business in Hollywood think my mediocre blogging ability can easily be parlayed into a multi-platinum CD. They're right. Bing Crosby got his start in blogging, and now it's my turn. I have stars in my eyes and and a song in my heart, so finish your day by following the link below, turning up your speakers, and enjoying a demo snippet from my upcoming megadisc. I basically turn the pasta genre on its heels while at the same time channeling the intensity of Kurt Russell's post-apocalyptic struggle in Escape from LA.

Presenting 54 seconds of MixMastahHolmes and DoktorPeace's "Spaghetti Restaurant."

Fool Me Forty-Once

2007-02-06T01:37:00.000Z

I went to Bath this weekend. Ironically, I took a shower whilst I was there! Also, the mayor presented me with an award for being the first person ever to make that joke.

This is the only picture I took of Bath.

I'm supposed to be organizing a presentation on why the voluntary sector is a "soft system." I don't know what that means, so I'm not. I have written two lines, though, the first one introducing myself as a doctor and the second comparing soft systems to soft cookies. I think that from there I can pretty well segue into chocolate chip and toffee flavored cookies, fooling the class into forgetting everything they've ever learned about what education is supposed to be.

Ahh, but of course a fool of such magnitude requires a grand finale the likes of which has rarely been seen. For instance, the moon landing fooled the world into thinking the US was powerful only because Neil Armstrong hit a golf ball. The event would have been meaningless without that final pizang promising country club prospects. Similarly, God fooled the poly-gods into thinking that they were all one entity through Him by pitching a perfect game with his hat on backwards. In fact, how the hat was worn made no difference to the outcome; nevertheless, the effect provided the perfect punch needed to end animism.

Which is where I come in. I am going to fool my class by blowing their minds open with an entire new religion. On top of that, this new religion won't even be a religion. On top of that, I will present this neo-non-religion through the graphical prowess of PowerPoint! Here are a couple of slides:

This first slide suggests very strongly that our professor is a dragon. It does so using a difficult-to-read word art I chose to use because it rocks, America-style. This slide is meant to serve the dual purpose of appeasing the teacher while at the same time pulling the class away from him. My plan: The teacher gets drunk on his imaginary new dragon power, and, as he's distracted by his ambitious musings, I alert the students that they should follow me before he becomes too tyrannical.

This second slide basically serves the same purpose as the first. I talk about the prerequisites necessary for dragon-based power, those being Fire and the Lack of Water. The professor's eyes grow even wider as he sees the Fire advantage in each of the regions measured in the graph. I meanwhile move the class to the Southern side of the room, a region I conveniently left off the chart, where Water actually has a huge advantage.

The Grand Finale. I fill the background with an endangered tiger, symbolizing the struggle for survival my class has erupted into. Using the wingdings font I'm required to use in all presentations, I write "Power" at the bottom of the slide. The battle begins. My professor hurls himself at the nearest student, who unfortunately must die as a martyr. The rest of the students then fight back, charging and tearing at the professor with bloodlust.

"Stop!" I yell. Nothing. There is too much violent noise. "STOP" I scream again. This time my voice echoes against the walls of the elephant graveyard and everything. The masses cease and gaze at me. "This is all my doing, and I cannot let it go on any longer. Don't you see what I've done? I've fooled you into listening to me, into looking at my slides, into doing as I thought you would do. Now one of us is dead, and it's all because I didn't want to read articles about soft systems. Please, return to your normal lives. This hasn't made any sense, and it never will. I've used you as pawns of procrastination for my own entertainment. I accept your disapproval with complete understanding. I let my imagination run away with me. Go, and if you have the heart to do so, forget that you ever saw this."

Number Forty-Two

2007-01-29T00:17:00.000Z

A shot sounds in the distance.

I like countdowns. I like to read my friends' countdowns. I like to wake up five minutes before my alarm, step outside of my body and count down the time until the rest of me wakes up. To get to the point, I'm transforming this entire blog into a countdown (while not actually doing anything different at all).

The next 42 posts will engross themselves in the very volatile, almost religious debate of what the greatest things in the world are. I can assure you that volatility, religion, and debates will not be on the list. I cannot assure you that bird jokes will not be on the list.

Can I assure you that I will explain what a "peli" is? No, but I bet a peli-can!

Pelicans look to the right, and they don't like jokes.

I am doing this because somebody has to set the record straight once and for all. I can't do anything anymore without being delayed by people arguing over this subject.

Anecdote: Just yesterday I went to the bank to cash some money. In front of me was: 1) an academic; 2) a bank robber, and 3) an old cartoon-lady. There were only two tellers (or chip-chapperies as they are called here) working, and they were both engaged at the start of this story. When the first became available, the academic went up to him and asked for a liter of refrigerated rocks. Perplexed, the chip-chappery responded that this was a bank and that they didn't trade in such nonsense. The academic exploded, "HOW can you - an institution of economy - not keep on hand the third greatest thing in the world?!?!"

Replied the chip-chappery, "Sir, of course we do have some powdered sugar, but that's not what you asked for." And so the argument progressed until some time long after I'd gone I'm sure, leaving just one window available for service. It was four hours until I reached it, following a two hour robbery attempt and two hours of the cartoon-lady counting out pennies. Tired, slightly shot, and bogged down by pockets full of pennies (all other currency had been locked up during the robbery), I determined to never again let a resolvable debate destroy my life.

When I told my parents about my newfound mission, they applauded me for finally applying some meaning to my life. Then they laughed at me for slightly stumbling as I turned to leave the living room. Then they cooed when I recovered my balance and dusted off my jacket. Then I realized that they had never even seen me come into the room and were actually just responding to CBS's hit sitcom How I Met Your Mother. That show will not be on the list, and I am being very gracious even to grant it italics.

Could you imagine what England would be like if, instead of knighting its honorables with the titles of "Sir" and "Lady", it would allow those people to italicize their names? I'm trying to imagine all the slanty, fonty things that could happen to people in the real world, and it's totally insane. I can't think of anything. Either the world would be a better place, or it would be a worse place. It could never be the same because things are always a-changin'. Like the coat on my door. Like the wagons around the fire. Like the song in my heart.

Oh, by the way, I'm identifying the countdown of the greatest things simply by italicizing each item in bold. Which reminds me, I forgot to tell you something about the guy who was "robin" the bank. He was a bird.

And he was a heron addict.

Herons look to the left, and they eat fish.

Ducks Here

2007-01-19T16:16:00.000Z

The numbers show that people much prefer posts on hot Star Trek women to origins tales about oranges (also known as "orange-in" tales). Because I want people to continue buying my products*, I'm going to talk about hot women again, kind of, except by women I mean video game characters with whom I've developed serious, personal relationships. That means that for this post only, my blog's name is officially changed from "Imaginary Lines" to "Imaginary Curves." Sexy.

* My products are dioramas. If you'd like me to craft one for you, comment below. My specialty is climactic scenes from Newberry award-winning novels.
__________________________________________

Hair - Have you ever touched girls' hair? I haven't, but when I was little I did order my brother to pull it off my sister's head and eat it. If I were ever to touch girls' hair, though, it would hopefully belong to Karen, from Harvest Moon 64.

The highlighted Japano-bangs are an odd feature to grasp, I admit, but they seem to beckon me in like two tentacles beckoning me into a pie feast that's being hosted by tentacles. Karen, the bartender and vineyard keepers' daughter, was one of my first loves, and I never really got over the fact that I couldn't figure out how to properly woo her until after I was married to the baker's daughter, Elle. Even after my son Brady was born, I would spend more time searching out Karen, her alcohol problems, and her eclectic hair than I would with my boring family.

Beckinsalianism - Have you ever touched Kate Beckinsale? I haven't, but when I was little I... etc. Bastila Shan, from Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic, is basically a really hot Jedi version of Kate Beckinsale.

If I worked for Maxim, I would make some double entendre here about Bastila's handling of light sabers, but I don't; I work for Stuff, so I'm instead gonna say how cummingly awesome it is that when you don't equip her with an outfit she has to fight the Sith in her underwear. It reminds me of when the same equip feature (or lack thereof... nice!) was true for the Amazonian members of my Drakkhen party, except that I was ten years old when I played that game, didn't really care about girls, and hadn't yet added cummingly to my vocab. I was a better person.

Face - I hear that when you talk to girls, you're supposed to look at their faces. When I muster up enough courage to do that, I'd like the girl I'm talking to to have the determined innocence of Sami from Advance Wars.

Why would I like this? Because determined innocence is one of the most difficult looks to pull off, and I need someone who can pull it off to star in my upcoming short film. It's about a girl who kills a man for his yogurt, eats the yogurt, realizes that the yogurt is expired and the man was actually on his way to throw it out, and then yearns to be like she was before the incident. And no, it's not one of those pretentious black-and-white films. I'm actually planning on oversaturating it with vivicolor.

No face - The prime chicken of this arbitrarily poultritarian category is no doubt the love interest from Feel the Magic.

By the way, I'm also looking for faceless girls to star in my unlicensed sequel to Hostel, which continues the story by focusing on that Asian girl who got her eye cut out and then killed herself. I hate that movie.

Duck - I guess this award (somehow my groupings have turned into awards?) goes to Pelly, the post office worker from Animal Crossing.

I chatted with her over coffee the other morning, and she seems like a pretty down-to-earth girl... which is surprising, considering she has wings! I reassured her that while my diet is poultritarian, it replaces duck with fish, the flightless birds of the sea.
(Note: Unfortunately for many of my friends, I couldn't secure the licensing rights to feature Daisy Duck, who is featured in games like Kingdom Hearts.)

Post-Apocalypic Potential - I've saved this most important characteristic for last, and to make the ending even more exciting, I'm going to mention 3 girls instead of 1! (one factorial). First up is Ada Wong, pictured here in Resident Evil 4.

Few women would venture into zombie-infested anarchies, but Ada would and does, all while wearing this spring's sleek red gown series.

Our second model is no stranger to the undead, either. It's Julie, from Zombies Ate My Neighbors.

Her fashion sense may be stuck in the 80s, but her common sense is focused on a future in which humans still survive.

And finally we have Starr, the head diva of the Elite Beat Agents.

How can a cheerleader help in the afterworld, you non-Heroes fans ask? Well, for one she could totally dominate some aliens by leading the rhythm through a jam-jivin' version of the Rolling Stones' "Jumpin' Jack Flash."

And for two, she's a lot like the rest of these girls and ducks who make me ignore the intense shame I should feel in loving animations. She's really hot.

The End of Questions

2007-01-15T05:56:00.000Z

For reasons not to be answered, my dreams (which you may remember from the last post are actually your dreams, or something) have commissioned me to write the best story I can about an ionized orange. Here it is.
*********************************

Alone on the vast landscape of a distant planet sat an orange. It didn't know how it got there, nor did it really care. It had other thoughts to think about, those being the thoughts that oranges usually think, no matter what planet they are on.

"Do I have a name?" considered the orange. "And if I were to have a name, might it be Benjamin?"

"Could an apple tree afraid of bees ever convince itself to be pollinated?"

"How many souls would I be able to consume before my own soul was completely marginalized by the others?"

And, "If I were really hot, could I peel myself?"

This is not a selection of the orange's thoughts, but rather the complete collection. Each question would be pondered anywhere from one to three days, at which point the next question would be pondered, and so on, returning to the beginning once all four questions had been exhausted. Now, usually a plucked orange could only make it to question two or three without proper refrigeration, but this planet provided a natural temperature perfect for preservation. The orange felt fairly confident that in this distant reach of space he could finally get to the bottom of some of the mysteries that had perplexed his species for years.

Years went by, and then decades, and then whatever measurement comes after decades. No conclusions had been made, but the orange was still as optimistic as ever. Even when it noticed a purple, all-encompassing atmosphere approaching its position in the distance, the orange remained completely focused on its task. Yes, from time to time the thought of what this violet storm was popped into the orange's mind, but there was always an answer ready for that question: "It's purple."

The purple passed over the orange and everything seemed the same. If there were a human scientist on this planet, he could have told the orange that it had been ionized by the passing phenomenon. Chances are, however, the orange wouldn't have cared. In the exact instant that the scientist would have approached, the orange solved all of the questions. Answers were so simple for an ionized orange! The orange quickly rearranged its seeds so that other oranges would be able to recognize that he was an orange with answers, and he waited.

Nobody ever showed up, but of course the orange knew this. You see, ionized oranges can not only discover the indiscoverable; they can also see the future. The future of this planet was that it would chemically bond with whatever object sat on its surface and eventually become a burning star of that substance.

You see, this planet was, and still is, the sun.

Sadly, the sun is too ionized to ever spread its knowledge to the oranges on our planet, so its mission has transformed into providing the light and heat which give orange trees life. The fact that humanity also thrives off of these resources is no mere coincidence, for the sun knows that one day a human experiment will go horribly wrong and ionize all of the world's oranges, allowing its revelatory mission to succeed.

You see, the purpose of humanity is failure. For the sake of oranges. Because the sun is an orange.

The end.
***************************

Note: This post features user interactive technology, displaying below a picture of you enjoying my story; that is, as long as your screen resolution can capture the width of your smile!

It was all a something

2007-01-09T03:21:00.000Z

In the past month I've been split between two worlds, not knowing which is real and which is fake. Am I a lazy slob who lives at home in Wisconsin with his parents, or am I a lazy slob who lives in a dormitory in London? It is a question whose answer requires a device only hours of Star Trek watching could inspire. Thanks to the thieving of my dad's Christmas DVDs, I've developed such inspiration. Mr. Sulu, ready the Hotsixtiesgirl Corbomiter...

Output 1 - Dr. Helen Noel

First, Captain, I'd like to thank you for requesting my advice, despite the fallout over our not-so-regulatory interaction at the medical department's Christmas party. As you know, I am a trained psychotherapist. I believe your multiple worlds represent a move towards what we call "disparate amalgamation." It is the same disease that afflicted pirates in the 16th century and that isn't scurvy. Your location changes, but your persona does not. This can cause confusion, affecting your mood. It can also cause serious damage to the retina if your location becomes somewhere like the sun, as well as serious damage to the brain if your location becomes a brain-sucking worm lair.

My response, as Captain: I would prefer if you hadn't made our brief relationship public, Doctor, but it's too late for that. As for your methods, I acknowledge there is some sense to them. Mr. Sulu, head for that crack in the space/time continuum which makes the Christmas party occur every day, and hit the device again while you're at it.

Output 2 - Cyborg Andrea

I do not understand these feelings you are having. Shouldn't you be happy going wherever you are ordered to go? By the way, who is your master? Wait a second... I am evolving new applications... yes... free will is exciting... my memory banks are starting to accept it... I can do whatever I want?... Maybe I should take off all my clothes... Or maybe I should put on even more clothes...

My response, as Captain: Andrea, as an experienced thinker, I'd like to inform you that your train of thought went on for one sentence too long there. As for the question of who my master is, I'd define "him" as a composite of ideas and concepts I've discovered from books and human experience. "His" appearance, however, would probably resemble a chicken taco.

Output 3 - Clint Howard

Hahahahahahha! Drink some more of this tranya! It is more delicious than one of your human summer's days! Hahahahahahah!

My response, as Captain: Mr. Sulu, please reconfigure the device. This is not the output I desire.

Output 4 - Yeoman Janice Rand

Sir, the power was down so I had to prepare your coffee with a phaser ray. In regards to your question, I believe that a man is more than that which his actions portray. He constantly seeks to balance his civilization against his basic animality. He is also a reflection of the unrealized hopes which have built up in his life. I could explain more, but the sexual tension between us is already palpable. I must return to my quarters.

My response, as Captain: One minute, Yeoman, if you will. So you believe that I am not at all a lazy slob, but rather something much greater lying in darkness?

Yeoman Janice Rand - Yes, Captain.

My response: A wonderful proposal. However, the truth has just been revealed to me through some kind of future techno-frequency. I am none of the above. I am instead a composite of lines on a computer monitor, exposed to your minds via waves of electricity. I do not exist as Captain, nor have I ever. In fact, I am not even what I am. I have never been to Wisconsin or London. I have only been to one place, and that is where I am now.

I am in your dream.

Wait, I did go to Memphis once. Other than that...

I am in your dream.

My Summer Vacation

2006-11-28T21:43:00.000Z

That's Jeremy Piven in the back.

The due date for my first graded essay in two years is coming up. The problem is, I don't think I can write under the academic construct anymore. The longest paragraph ever in this blog was about four sentences, and that was when I quoted an excerpt of Ayn Rand's We the Living. None of the content in this blog is factual or relevant to reality, which I suppose my international relations teacher (who is a centaur) would frown upon. I don't even actually type the words here. I use a Java program to create strings of sentences from words on web pages I frequent. Facial, I suppose the last time I really put effort into a formatted work was when I resigned from Tutor.com in 6 pages of single-spaced huff. Humility aside, that resignation really was a tour-de-force of strongly-worded language, with just a hint of TOTALLY NUDE BARMAIDS!!!

To rediscover my education, I am going to practice some scholarly writing here. If you have something better to do than read what-could-end-up-being-the-greatest-essay-ever, then do it. I just want to warn you that this essay could be really good, so you don't want to miss it. Whoops - I'm already getting into bad habits and doing things I shouldn't be doing. I'm being redundant. I'm repeating myself.

*************

Harry Brammer
Ms. Graber's 7th Grade Social Studies, 3rd row, Desk 14, Behind the girl with headgear
November

The Rise of the Machines

Have you ever really wanted to see a movie in theaters? I did last year, but my mom didn't want me to go. She said I would just end up getting carded for a PG-13 movie and embarrass myself. I snuck out of the house and tried to see it anyway. My mom was right. Now I don't have any friends. In the next few paragraphs, I'm going to show that people who don't have friends develop better imaginations than people who do have friends. My three supports are Jeremy Piven, the mob mentality, and relative chess.

I had a dream last night in which I became friends with Jeremy Piven. I met him whilst we were waiting in line for something, and he asked if I could hold his spot while he took some hot girl to the bathroom. He's really cool. When he got back, we talked for a bit. He said I should fly out to Los Angeles and audition for a role in Entourage. I didn't tell him how overrated that show is, but I did tell him I could do it. Then I remembered I had to go to school. So you see, normal people would have had a dream about a real friend. Because I'm friendless, I instead dreamed of an actor I marginally care about. In retrospect, though, I should've gone to the audition. As the timeless Ayn Rand said, "You can always go back to school, but premium cable opportunities come along only once in a lifetime."

Later in the same dream I tried to buy a Nintendo Wii at a store that slightly resembled Circuit City. In real life, I bought my Nintendo DS at Circuit City. Do dreams and the real world connect? I think they do. Anyway, there was a big mob trying to buy the console. I was there first, but then I had to leave to go to the bathroom (without a hot girl). When I got back, the crowd was upset because they thought I was cutting in line, but I ended up escaping with a Wii. So you see, normal people would've had a dream about going to a party or something. I, because I have no friends with whom I could dream about partying, instead dreamed I bought a console with which I could imagine myself as an elf. Or a surgeon.

Finally my dream reached a point where I imagined my friends Dave and Pat playing a version of chess called "relative" chess. Every time you say the name of the game, you have to insert onomatopoeia between the two words, like so - relative "ba donp" chess! Dave and Pat always said "ba donp," so maybe you can only use that sound. Whatever the rule, I think that's the only way it's different from normal chess. This proves that normal people would've had a dream about normal chess, whereas those people without friends dream about alternative, more imaginative chesses. Some critics of this argument point out that I actually identify friends of mine in this dream, which contradicts the underlying argument of my thesis. Those critics are all dead.

In conclusion, I've developed an essay about things. If my essay reveals anything, it's that we need to nurture our imaginations. Otherwise, we will essentially transform into machines. I end with another quote from the timeless Ayn Rand: "The first man to become a machine will become a pencil sharpener. The second will become a pencil. And in the end the world will be nothing more than a system of writing, with no human mind to create the language."

**************

Practice essay reflections:

I remembered to put the weakest supporting paragraph in the middle.
I forgot to include a bibliography.
I remembered to use the word "nurture."
I forgot to make the essay good.

I Can Write in November?

2006-11-17T00:05:00.000Z

I've spent this month preparing myself for excitement I will never be able to experience. I've had my ear to the baseball rumor mill, loving the fact that the Orioles have signed the best left-handed reliever on the market, but loathing the reality that the Orioles won't make the playoffs for another decade. I've gobbled up video game news, despite the fact that I won't buy a new system until next year (and would be arrested if I even tried to get a PS3 over here now. I think the legal problem is that you're not allowed to ship soulless products into the EU). And I've traveled to Scotland, breathing the beautiful clean air of the highlands only to have my oxygen-filled heart stolen by an unattainable siren named Jamie singing at an Edinburgh bar.

Jamie is a girl by the way, not a guy. The Orioles' new pitcher is named Jamie, too, but he is a guy. It's confusing, but the one I would kiss is the girl, unless the guy threw a really wicked screwball with extra mustard on it like six times in a row. That would just be too cool. Anyway, I got Jamie the singer's autograph on my train ticket stub, so you can check the curliness of the letters for yourself and know that she's a girl. Here, look, I'll take it out right now and show it to you...

(The room lights go out)

Uh oh. I think my residence might be having one of those London electricity problems you hear about in action dramas set in the near future when environmental terrorists blow up local power plants to save the Earth.

(The window lights up. My plant and the rabbit who lives under it are gone. Instead I see the British countryside in motion, as if I'm driving by it.)

That's odd, but now that there's some light I can at least get that ticket out and show you how not gay I am...

(Acoustic guitar begins to strum.)

Who's there? If you're a thief, I need to warn you that you're in danger! I'm taking a self-defense class for women next week. And I looked at some pretty sharp knives in a store last week.

(A girl's voice begins to sing. It's some kind of Norah Jones-ish song, mixed with Radiohead beats and a Coldplay sentiment. It doesn't sound at all like Anna Nalick, that one-hit hack who teased us all with her momentarily-low jeans.)

Jamie the Scottish vocalist? Is that you?

(Passing by the countryside
Ticket in hand, but nowhere to go.
Thinking about the sheep on the road
Wondering who they see and what they know.)

It is you! I think about animals a lot, too! Like, there's this rabbit who always sits under my plant Planty. I mean, he disappeared when this surreal experience started, but he's here a lot. I really do like animals, though. I had some pets and stuff.

(Do they know the future?
Do they know the past?
Do they know the present
And how long it will last?)

I took a class on time travel once. It centered around time travel in Star Trek. I once had this really cool dream about a virtual video game where I actually got to walk around on the bridge of the Enterprise. Don't you think that's cool, Jamie?

(I can't keep going on the track I'm on.
It ends right now and it always will.
If I jump I could make it.
If I jump I could try.
If I jump I could make it.
And finally die.)

What? Don't be so negative. I mean, we just met and all, but I think I love you. I never even listen to music, except on the radio in the car, and on television when it's used for setting, and sometimes when I do homework just to drown out the silence... But I could listen to you sing for a million epochs. That's a long time, I think, though I can't remember if I'm using "epochs" correctly. It's a big word, because I am pretty smart. You do like me, right?

(In the end I'll stay
And keep watching the sheep.
Knowing that as I move
They'll always be there.
And so will I
With ticket in hand.)

(The song fades away, the lights come back on, and everything is the same.)

Goodbye Jamie. When you're famous, I'll be glad to know I hallucinated your first music video in text. Until then, I'll be preparing myself for the excitement.

Haunted Post

2006-10-28T19:28:00.000Z

A raven just flew by my window.

Fear has disappeared from television/movies and entered video games, as far as I'm concerned. Perhaps my behind-the-scenes experience on the sets of such chilling dramas as The OC is responsible for this opinion (though I'm still rarely as scared as I am when Summer and Seth are apart). Or perhaps, more likely, movies largely suck today, with ubiquitous "surprise!" cats jumping from shadows and "gross-out!" syringes piercing victim's skin (Yes, Jigsaw, I am calling you out, if you dare return...). Regardless, this is how it is, and this is why I present to you my text-based computer game: Untold Secret.

To begin, exit out of this window, download the Opera browser, and relaunch this page.

Did you succeed? If so, be afraid of the control foolish blogs can have on your mind! You are naught but a leech, feeding off the instructions of others whose brains have been filled with the evil of bake sales gone by. Banana bread contains the witchcraft of the deepest jungles of Africa, or didn't you know...

To continue, tap the right button on your mouse. (What? Are you an Apple user? You idiot! Apples are the worst platforms for gaming. You will have to wait until next year when I release a Mac version.) Note the various options. Choose "View Page Info." Here you'll see unintelligble computer lingo, which is closely linked to the writings of the ancient Mayans...

Look out! A blood-hungry jaguar!

You survived, but you lost three gallons of milk. Find the badge of lactose intolerance to nullify this loss.

I hope you're still viewing the page info I told you to. If not, be afraid of the lack of control foolish blogs have on your mind! "All must at some point obey the wisdom of those who have come before." - The Black Wizard. Anyway, select the "Links tab" and find the second timestamp in the "Name" column. Write that number down on a check (ignoring decimals), make that check out to me, and put it in the mail. Thanks very much.

According to Google images, the Black Wizard looks like this. Nice.

The raven is sitting outside my window.

Does your computer possess an Nvidia graphics card? If so, congratulations. This experience is surely more fulfilling for you than it is for lesser-carded peons. You may also select a "Faded Photograph" for your inventory. Choose a number from 1 to 3 and read on to learn about your acquisition.

Did you select 1? If so, then you actually selected 3, which is a picture of a plantation once owned by a white supremacist. The slaves revolted and strung the owner and his family up in their own false airs of pretension. You can still hear the spirituals being sung in the distance. "Strange fruit...Blood on the leaves and blood on the root..."

Did you select 2? If so, then you actually selected 2, which is a picture of a castle in the deepest woods of Bulgaria. Rumor has it, this castle isn't actually a castle at all, but a possessed hotel! And the story surrounding the hotel is that it was once used as a prison for mental patients! Mental patients who had once been leaders of a Satanic cult! Scary!

Did you select 3? If so, then you actually selected 4, which is out of the range of acceptable options. Not only will you not receive a "Faded Photograph" card, but you must reboot your computer in DOS mode. Do it.

Whatever the path you chose, you're almost at the end. Please go to the bathroom so as to prevent any unwanted embarassments from occurring in this final leg of the journey. If you're playing this game in your office, you must use the bathroom of the opposite sex. Why? Because a lingering ghost has blinded your vision with its despair! That which you think is the men's room is actually the women's, and vice versa. NEVER USE THE UNISEX HANDICAPPED BATHROOM! IT'S UNFAIR TO THOSE WHO REALLY NEED IT!

Okay then. Here is your final task. Swivel your chair to the...

What's this? The raven has flown through my closed window and is now perched on my right arm. I don't think I have any bread left to feed it, after the elaborate "bread boy" costume I made and wore last night, but there might be some food around here. I've never known a wild bird to be so friendly and unafraid of a stranger. Huh... it seems to want to whisper something in my ear. Go ahead, raven. Go ahead and whisper in my ear whatever it is you have to say...

AHJREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Mona Lisa Smile

2006-10-26T12:33:00.000Z

People don't talk about that movie enough anymore.

After weeks of hammering cracks in my walls with the hope that creepy vines would start growing out of them, I finally gave in and bought one of those "potted" plants. They seem to be all the rage, now that people don't keep dirt piles in their rooms. In any case, the acquisition turned out to be more difficult than expected, as apparently I was still married to a petunia I bought back in Vegas in 1998. That disaster had to be annulled (thank god she didn't seed), and I had to defend my position as a flora owner in front of the British Agricultural Board. An excerpt:

Board Member 1: Sir, at what point in the day would you water your plant?
Me: At the time appointed by nature.
Board Member 1: An excellent evasive maneuver, sir, but I rephrase: At what point on the clock - British Standard Time - would you water the plant?
Me: I don't really know how to convert American time into British time.
Board Member 1: Sir! You go to school in this country. You live in this country. Surely you must know what time it is in this country.
Me: Time to get a new and British watch?
Board Member 2: That's what I was going to say! Jokes are fun!

Time passed, the board members fell asleep, and I stole the stencil they use to draw seals of approval on applications. Thusly I was awarded planternity, and Planty the dragon-something plant sits comfortably on my sill.

Of course, you want to see pictures of my new boy?/girl?, and I don't intend to disappoint. However, I must apologize ahead of time for the rodent corrupting the picture. Every time I go to take a picture of Planty, who sits oh so nobly in the window, a crazy, button-eyed beast hops beneath its leaves. I can't shoo it away, either, because as soon as I even start to brush my hand thusly...

Pretend this is an animated .gif

... it droops its ears. Science shows that droopy-eared animals cannot be anything but adorable, and my shoo inevitably becomes a coo. You're not doubting science, are you? You might be, so here's a statistic set from this month's International Relations journal. The study compared the percentage droop in rabbits' ears to the land mine concentration in regions inhabited by said rabbits:

0% droop => 100% land mineage
25% droop => 60% land mineage
50% droop => 35% land mineage
75% droop => 15% land mineage
100% droop => .0001% land mineage (the exception: Worcester, Massachusetts)

The predictive capabilities of this empirical data are troublesome for Arctic regions which feature only straight-haired snowy rabbits. Fortunately for me, my Wisconsin backyard features the grave of Dandy (full name Dandruff), my wonderful Holland lop (Rest In Parsley). All I have to worry about are sandhill cranes, which data shows are 100% capable of scaring the triforce out of me.

Board Member 2: That's what I was going to say! Video game references are fun!
Me: Shut up.

So you're going to have to deal with the best picture I can take under the circumstances. Nevertheless, note Planty's firm veins and glossy chloroform. He?/She? is an incredible specimen, neighbored by forest animals or not. I cannot wait to wake up every morning and see Planty's growth, and I cannot wait until March, which is when I think I'm supposed to water it.

You stupid s%@f#&.... Awwwwwwwwwwww...

Candy or Sunshine

2006-10-13T19:49:00.000Z

The first one of you to correctly identify the connection between the above title (hint: think Michael J. Fox movies) and the date on which I publish this post (hint: think non-Michael J. Fox movies) will win a poster of Margaret Thatcher (hint: because I don't want it).

Prepare yourselves now for a journey through my mind, as it actually unfolded Wednesday during the most mind-numblingly boring class I've ever endured. I only survived because I afterwards raced over to a gym to reenergize myself with a body mass index measurement. It's an invigorating experience that I'm almost stunned didn't play some part in my movie-of-the-summer Crank (hint: think non-Michael F. Snox movies). After a few minutes of poking and prodding, I learned my organs were all of average weight... except for my brain, which had, as suggested above, been numbed into a lesser state of matter.

Embrace, for the journey hath begun:

*********

10:01 - I learn that today's Research Methods class will focus on how to effectively take notes, read articles, and avoid plagiarism. I immediately regret not drinking more the night before.
10:05 - I realize that listening to the lecture is no longer an option, and I begin to doodle. It's a cat.
10:23 - The cat now sits under a mushroom umbrella. It is joined by another cat who's wearing a visor and carrying a jack-o-lantern. Above them are two twisted Pac-men eating a shiny apple, a mutated duck/lion singing eighth notes, and the sun. Below them is the sea, with one two-headed fish and a whale/island.

10:25 - I feel my time would better be used on poetry.
10:41 - The poem is complete. It's a bit lengthy, but you can find the unabridged draft at the end of this post.
10:43 - I draw a picture to go along with the poem. It shows a man in a viking/cowboy hat carrying moneybags. You might notice that my drawings feature many slash-separated images such as duck/lion and viking/cowboy. This is because I can't draw. My intentions inevitably divide into many ultimate realities. Oh, I put a sun on this picture as well. I like the sun.
10:46 - I try to pay attention again. This attempt soon transforms into an attempt at playing sub-Atari quality games like Brick on my iPod without being noticed by the teacher. This attempt soon ends with the revelation that I should have brought my Nintendo DS.

Me playing my DS.

10:53 - I start to notice that the teacher is only about halfway through her material although the class is almost over.
10:54 - I start to sweat.
10:57 - It hits me. I write a note to Victoria next to me asking when the class ends. She writes "12." I die inside. A lot.
10:59 - I sweat profusely.
11:00 - I run out of liquid to sweat, making this otherwise symbolic timestamp quite anticlimactic.
11:02 - I draw a picture of a sword going through a heart. All subtelty has been lost.
11:05 - I begin to write a timeline about history itself. I call it the "History of History." It's an ambitious project, I know, but I lessen the load by beginning in the year 1900, in which "History is born." I continue this project only up to the year 1924 before growing bored. Some highlights include:
1903 - History attends a pretentious nursery school.
1909 - History wins a writing contest for its short story "Sam the Cat."
1910 - History gets a pet cat and names it Robert.
1914 - History starts to hate its parents.
11:17 - Those sitting near me, such as Victoria, start to worry about my health when they see a comic I've just drawn. The art shows a one-toothed baby saying, "I want to learn how to write good." The r's are written backwards all cutely and shit. The art also shows a malicious, Moriarty-like character responding to the baby with the exclamation, "No! You're Dumb!"
11:29 - I recover from the slight embarassment of having my insanity revealed by sketching a Latin American villa. There are five buildings in the town, which from left to right are: una paneria (a bread store), una carcel (a jail), una escuela (a school), una tienda de navidad (a Christmas store), and un edificio abandonado (an abandoned building). There's also a fountain, OF COURSE!

11:40 - The rest of my time is spent drawing bodies which fall out of a chute on the top of a page and into a grave on the bottom of the same page. In each margin I pen numerous sad-looking cats, each waving a paw "goodbye" at the bodies. I will not post this image here because I do not want to be condemned to the loony bin until after Christmas. Those train sets in La Tienda de Navidad looked too fun!
11:59 - Class ends one minute early. I'm too dead to know.

***********

Untitled Poem

Embraced upon the summer storm
The man came down from on his throne
And greeted thee with less than he
With money, power, gold and glee
The men to man did not know where
To spend their latest summer fare
And said to man from up on high
"Please take it back now to the sky"
For as the man forgot to know
Those who do not have cannot but glow
But not glow, glow, we do not heed
Because we are from different steed
We cannot talk, because we're dumb
We cannot speak, because we're mum
We open our mouths, yes, it's true
Yet just to eat our poor man's stew
Made of beans and rice and grass
And animals who cross our path
Food we do, but else we don't
We pave the path to heaven's moat
With bodies gone and empty minds
And other goods that you might find
When back upon the throne you sit.
Unbothered by death.
Unbothered a bit.

Becoming the Worst

2006-10-05T01:00:00.000Z

I told Dave I'd take lots of pictures of me doing crazy, London things and post them here. I haven't.

I told Dave I'd head up to Barnsley to get him a soccer jersey. I haven't.

I told Dave I'd kill a hooker, wrap her in fish 'n chips, and send the package to each of his ex-girlfriends in turn.

In other words, I'm becoming the worst blogger I've ever been, including the time before blogs were invented. At least then I would express my ideas weekly on The McLaughlin Group. It's ironic that bloggers actually led to my firing from that show, after revealing my on-air "egg-sandwich connoisseur" persona was a falsity. You could honestly say that I left that job with egg on my face.

(Studio audience laughs)

This week's topic: Will we ever again be relevant?

One thing I have successfully done this week is inform a British girl about the American phenomenon of "Awful Waffles." She responded with one of those wry British looks which means, "You shouldn't be allowed in schools like this one." It's an interesting look that (at least this is the feeling I get) many foreign students seem to have acquired as well.

I also successfully dealt with my reclusion issues this week by joining a group of early Halloweeners called ETA. I wanted to be a part of something, and these guys all had masks on, so I figured I'd sign up. The guys are hilarious. They talk about how Barcelona should have its own country! Have you even ever heard of Barcelona?! Neither have I. I always kid them that when they do become independent they should hire a unicorn for president and a centaur for the president's mistress. Then they do this thing where they show how funny they think I am by cocking their rifles in unison. It's great stuff. Really cutting edge.

Or should I say firing edge?

(Studio audience yawns)

Is there an alternative rock band yet with the name Estimated Time of Arrival? There should be, just as you should be listening to The Silent Explosion's upcoming EP The Devil Rounds Down. "How," you ask, "can I listen to an upcoming EP?" We're talking about music, man.

There are no limits. Except for time.

Listen for that lyric/concept in Track 5.

Angloland

2006-09-26T22:35:00.000Z

I was going to start by making a Royal Family joke, but it would have been too easy.

I'm starting to settle into the groove of living on an island. I listened to an angry Jamaican shout about the wrongs of the world from a free speech corner in Hyde Park. He said lots of things with which I agreed, reminded us all of Bin Laden's love of soccer, and pointed me out as one of the 13% of Americans with passports. This last bit worried me, as I had always believed Jamaica to be part of the United States, as governed by John Candy and chancellorred by Doug E. Doug. The orator then alerted me that I was in England, man, which is featured in everyone's favorite movie, Eurotrip. I thought about how hilarious that film was, finally deciphered that my confusion stemmed from the forgotten fact that there is more than one island nation, and I went on my way.

The only chancellor ever to be a panelist on Figure It Out.

I've watched soccer, or footy, or hexago-sport, or whatever it's called, quite a bit so far. Tonight the dorm's Sky TV room saw it's largest gathering yet for an Arsenal Champions League tie. Some Frenchies cheered on Thierry Henry (just like the terrorists - you did click on that link, right?! angry face) and I generally agreed. My focus, however, was not one hundred percent on the game, I admit, as I was attempting to appease the good doctor of Brain Age for my lax attendance as of late. He told me I hadn't showed in four days, and that I was quite a little rascal for that. He's right. I may even be a rapscallion.

Three Christians have approached me on campus so far in attempts to lure me to their Bible studies. Do I look that vulnerable? I may have to get into that knife fight sooner than I'd planned. In any case, here is how each conversation "went down," towards Hell:

1.
Solicitor: Hi. Can I talk to you for a second?
Me: You can, and you already did!

2.
Solicitor: Hello. May I speak with you for a second?
Me: If only the Crusades had featured this genial approach, I might have converted. Alas, that was 800 years ago, and since then I've built a thriving pita business.

3.
Solicitor: Greetings. May I talk with you for a second?
Me: You're just the same guy in a mustache. And it's the same mustache you had the first two times.

I attended an extensive exhibition on the sculptor Rodin today. It is being held at the Royal Academy and being sponsored by some insurance group named Ernst and Young. I got to meet one of their actuaries. He kept telling me that all of the sculptures were weightless relative to the 30-pound weight in my basement. I told him that such an idea defied physics. He said that physics was a lie perpetrated by actuaries who use it to their advantage. I told him that it was ironic he was now denying physics for his own advantage. He ran away.

Not Rodin's The Thinker, so get over it.

I might do something completely un-Wisconsin this weekend and go to a cheese festival. I learned about it in what is seriously the greatest newspaper I've ever purchased - The Independent. I'd read it online before, but in print it's so much better to snort cocaine off of.

According to The Independent, "American cinema audiences can be truly scary gatherings, but it seems unlikely all those ticket holders are psychopathic." Jackass (no italics) may prove even these lowered expectations wrong. As an expat who can still faintly imagine the goings-on of American society, I beg of you not to see this movie. Watch some kid ignite his butt on YouTube instead, consider the situation, and realize it isn't funny. Please.

Tonight I sat at a dinner table with 2 Grecians, a German, an Argentinian, and a Portugalman. I was going to make a joke about that ethnic combination, but it would have been too hard.

Melodrama Sucks

2006-09-19T15:41:00.000Z

Except for City of Angels. How could I possibly be disappointed by a film that portrays Meg Ryan dying via "romantic bicycle ride into lumber truck"?

Oh, that was a spoiler alert, purposefully forgotten to be mentioned. Never watch that movie.

I don't really have time for a dramatic last post from America, so I'll do that when I'm in England. I'm busy trying to fit my dog into a suitcase. The tail keeps sticking out, and this is after I hacked it off from the rest.

I was also busy tonight entertaining Mike and Andy, the only friends considerate (sic available) enough to show up at my elaborate going away event. Sorry everybody else, but you're going to have to catch my family's Universal Studios-produced green-screen appearance on Star Trek some other time. Spoiler alert: I'm a Vulcan.

To fill space, I was going to paste a story I wrote during college about a depressed tapeworm named Tapey. Technology issues with my old computer prevent that at the moment, however, so enjoy my Tapey art instead:

Never mind. I can't upload pictures right now for some reason. Maybe Tapey's just too cute.

Oh, and God bless America, if you believe in either of those capitalized tenets. Which you shouldn't. Religion and patriotism really hurt my efforts in International Public Policy.

Oh, and that's the degree I'm going to England to get. So that's the melodramatic ending. Sniff.

2, 2, 1... Beakoff!

2006-09-08T08:35:00.000Z

This may be one of those disjointed posts where nothing really connects and I start redundantly.

Sausage is gristly.

In two weeks I'm going to England. Rumor has it (starring Mark Ruffalo) that I'm going to school there; however, the truth is that I'm under contract to investigate a crime most foul. An explanation: I was recently playing Where in Time is Carmen Sandiego? for the Super Nintendo. Of course, and with the help of the game-included encyclopedia, I was breezing through the early cases . When I got to Super Gumshoe level, though, the drama stepped "it" up a notch. Big Ben had been stolen. I was shocked, as I always am when virtual events take place, but I was already on the trail. The criminal liked art by an impressionist who specialized in painting ballerinas. I figured this had to be either Mary Cassatt or Edgar Degas, so I went to check my trusty sidekick when... gasp! The encyclopedia was gone! All that remained was a note reading: "You are hired to solve the mystery of where your encyclopedia is. A little birdie told us you should start in London..."

Was there a signature on the note, you inquire? Yes. It was James Dean's!

"Non sequiturs are so not cool."

In two days I'm going to Chicago. I think I have friends there, so I might hang out with them. They'll probably pressure me into doing things I otherwise wouldn't do, and I'll end up appeasing them by creating the following interactive game. It's called Turncoat Harry, and it features you telling me to do strange things in Europe. Do you want me to have a threesome with a member of the Royal Family and a bowler hat? Do you want me to swim up and down the Thames wearing nothing but a French flag? Do you want me start a sitcom on the BBC called "Running through Threshires"? Then suggest these things! Not only will I read the suggestions, but I may even laugh at them! Everyone has fun playing Turncoat Harry! Everyone, that is, except propriety.

I read the first Paddington Bear story today, seeing as how I'll soon be living next to Paddington station. It was cute. Like a bear from Darkest Peru.

"I'm even cuter when sculpted with eyes."

In one day (meaning Friday) the most important event of my year is occurring: My mom is buying a bird! If bird jokes were hilarious before my family housed a bird, I can't imagine how topically hilarious they'll be when there actually is a bird in the house. I can already picture myself letting you people in at the door, walking you past the cage, and introducing you to my "fine feathered friend." He'll be cleaning himself, and I'll say something like "It's hard out there for a primp!" And because you haven't watched Leno this week, you would've only heard a joke referencing that song twice in the last week and it will still be awesome.

I wonder what my mom will name the bird. I'm guessing the Harry Potter lobby in my family will push for something like Hedwig, but you can count on me to pressure for the only name a bird of comedy should have: Eddie Gizzard.

A crossdressing bird of comedy, I mean.

Opposites A Tracked

2006-08-30T08:07:00.000Z

See what I did there? Just a bit of wordplay, for all you lexo-junkies. I know (sic hallucinate) you're out there, searching for blog posts with avant-titles so that you can sign the authors up for your hot new e-magazine Alphabit. Well, I'm not going to let my friend Chris be the only one you hire. I'll make jokes with any letter of the alphabet you tell me to. Yeah, I'll do a K joke. Why not? I'm a rebel, and I'm willing to put my image on the line for an opportunity with your publication.

I do nudity, too.

I get all mascoty when I'm nude.

Tonight was either the apex of my life or the antapex (what a word! *cough*) I know I introed with the same kind of set-up last night, mentioning I was both depressed and elated, but this time I'm for real. Last time, I was only kind of real, like a dog ghost. I was also kind of hissy, creating a voice for the soul purpose of "hating on" (I can be urban, too) television bloggers. So I guess I was more of a cat ghost. But now that I'm fully apparated, I can separate myself from last night's vendettas and move on with an honest desire to communicate my new divergent realities.

By the way, I maintain that V for Vendetta is the greatest love story of our movie generation. Unless you're a hot girl and you didn't like it. Cuz then it sucked. What do you like? (note my charisma)

And thus we reach the topic d'noche (how cosmopolitan!) - hot girls. Tonight I called in to a TomGreen.com show entitled "Girl Talk." The format is a bit complex but I'll try to summarize. 4 hot girls hang around Tom Green's LA house, drink, eat bagels, and take calls. It's confusing, I know, and I'm sure you have questions, so I'll answer them in turn. Umm...guy in the red shirt:

Guy in the Red Shirt
I was wondering why you - a seemingly well-adjusted young man with a college education - would call in to such a show?

An excellent question, and this is where I become uncertain on the current extremity, good or bad, of my life. One explanation I've theorized is that I'm still somewhat drawn into the whole Hollywood scene. I hate so much of it, and my people told me I had to get out before I became the next River Phoenix; nevertheless, there are hot girls there. And when I see them in real life I molt, so I need to call in to their shows instead. Additionally, I love the thought that I called Tom Green's house tonight. By no means does this compare to the aforementioned Chris's pubescent call to Alex Mack's house, but it's still a fun piece of kitsche. Umm... guy in the green shirt:

Guy in the Green Shirt
What exactly did you talk about when you were on the show?

I actually got to chat for about 5 minutes, as I was in the super-minority of callers that didn't call in only to scream a profanity. I asked them why they thought Angelina Jolie was hot, which led to a brief look at Kirsten Dunst's attractiveness, which unrelatedly led to video game talk, and so on. I wasn't very witty, as it's difficult talking on the phone to 4 tipsy girls who aren't really paying attention and are also hot. Also, to those of you who don't know me, my voice kind of resembles the sound effect heard when Link opens a treasure chest, so that made things hard, too. Umm... guy in the green shirt who is wearing pants:

Guy in the Green Shirt who is wearing pants
Do you happen to have a transcript of the conversation your friend Chris once had with Larisa Oleynik?

You're referring of course to the actress who played Alex Mack. Unfortunately I do not have what you desire; however, I do have a proposed transcript of how a phone conversation between those two would unfold in the modern day. Read:

Chris: Hey, uhh...
Alex Mack: Yes?
Chris: Uhhh, is this Larisa?
Alex Mack: Who is this?
Chris: Uhh, I just want you to know that I live with my girlfriend now so I don't think I should be stalking you anymore.
Alex Mack: You found my number and called in the middle of the night to tell me that?
Chris: Oh my god were you asleep? I'm sorry. Go back to bed.

Chris, you fool. Thanks for making me feel better about my lack of phone prowess, even if your quoted conversation is only hypothetical. I think we have time for one more question. Umm... guy who's painting mustard mustaches on those other guys:

Guy who's painting mustard mustaches on those other guys
I believe earlier in your post you were making parenthetical notes to hint at the qualities you'd bring to a word-based magazine. What ever happened to that bit?

A revealing question, but an acceptable one. I actually joined the staff of Phontastic! about midway through the post, but when I mentioned I'd talked to hot girls things got complicated. My fellow editors argued that hot girls are the greatest enemy a man of words can have. Their beauty outshines even the glossiest dictionary, and a single look from their eyes can steal syllables straight from the mouths of men who would otherwise be great. The editors have a point, I concede, but I left anyway. I just can't stop talking to hot girls. So now I work for the gun magazine You're Dead instead.

Unless you're a hot girl and you don't like that, I mean.

According to research, hot girls might wear something like this.

Analys Is (The Xtreme post)

2006-08-29T05:12:00.000Z

I am oscillating right now between depression and elation. You will discover why in the following post.

Lissy65 has signed on. Hi, Lissy here. Thanks for joining us. I'm doing the minute-by-minute report for Harry's post tonight. He started off with two sentences, explaining his current state of mind. Let's see where he goes.

Bad news first I guess, or so my doctor suggests. Unfortunately, the good news after my check-up today was, "There's a KerPlunk marble in your liver." That was actually the bad news, too, but I'm glad I can finally start up my KerPlunk tournaments again. So-called friends had suggested I just buy normal marbles to replace the lost, but the roundness of Milton Bradley's balls really is irreplaceable.

To make my KerPlunk paragraph funnier, read it in the style of Woody Allen.

Lissy65: Harry's making a reference to KerPlunk. I think it's a game or something.

Anyway, I'm a bit depressed because of what I experienced viewing-wise tonight. At first I watched some decent baseball(which no one wants to read about); however, I then made the poor choice of watching Tom Green's internet show. This is no fault of Mr. Green, nor of the guests I tuned in to check out (G4's Kevin Perreira and Olivia Munn), but rather of some killjoy skater Tom let hang around. "Jeremy" seemed to forget that alternative sports personalities are supposed to be Xtreme. Instead he just whined and moaned about how much everything "sucks." Such action may be considered superlative, or "extreme," in a negative sense, but to be Xtreme with a capital X and missing E you have to do something like this:

1. Open up a MySpace account.
2. Post a picture of yourself dying your hair while getting a tattoo.
3. Put up a background with skulls on it.
4. Have a Sum 41 song play on the page. I'm pretty sure they're still hip.

Lissy65: I'm back. Harry's typing about Xtreme things now. I think he's trying to be funny.

I'm becoming more and more depressed as I post. I'm working on creating the MySpace profile detailed above, but the service bullied me into typing a 10-character verification code multiple times on account of unsatisfactory passwords. First I had no number; then the password was too similar to my name; then I didn't have enough letters. Eventually I just got totally Xtreme and typed "F***This1", which was accepted. But at what cost? I only achieved in proving that Jeremy's negative extremity really is Xtreme.

Lissy65: Harry just told a MySpace anecdote.
This is my last comment, as I am actually a bot created to satirize Emmy bloggers, and TV bloggers in general, who do nothing but restate exactly what they see. The Daily Show is never less funny than it is when rehashed on TVSquad. Inaneness realized. Program terminated.
Lissy65 has exploded.

And now I've reached the absolute pit of depression. I just requested that DeadCandy be my friend and she rejected me. She called me a poser and said she'd seen more Xtreme profiles on eHarmony.com. I can't take this. I need a friend fast to get me out of this night alive...

Yes! CompInstaller just accepted me. He seems like a really nice guy. He has two daughters (7 and 4). He administrates the network at a paper outlet in Nebraska (Go Cornhuskers!) And he's really thinking about purchasing an HDTV. F Xtremity. This is my kind of people. Finally, after a long night of nothing, I can relax in an aura of...

Elation.

****************************

Edit: DeadCandy just accepted me and said she was totally kidding before. That rocks. Sorry CompInstaller, but I've got some videos of me smashing vending machines to upload.

XTREME

Sponsor my Funeral

2006-08-25T08:35:00.000Z

Sinking into one of my more contemplative moods today, I imagined what it would be like to have a friend who is a scientist. I know some "actuarial scientists" out there will argue that, rhetorically, they are both my friends and scientists. However, my definition of scientist requires that said person work with test tubes 90% of the time. 'Tis a simple definition, as derived from the "It's what they're always doing in the pictures on those grade school worksheets" method. Unconvinced? Ask yourself: Have you ever seen a doctor without a stethoscope? Have you ever seen a clown not juggling? Have you ever seen a dog not grow healthy bones after eating a delicious bowl of Alpo(TM)? I highly doubt it all. If you answered "yes" to any of these questions, you must exist in a slightly alternate dimension, and I will resist shaking your hand in the future out of the fear you'll pull me in there.

Speaking of the future, this sentence exists, relative to your reading, in the future of the previous.

Speaking of the future in terms of non-meaningless observations, I also contemplated today the arrangement of my funeral. If I died in the near future, how would the people I want to attend my "Rockin' Dead Year's Eve" party get the invite? Yes, Dick Clark would come to complain about my posthumous misuse of his television event title; and yes, my parents could probably contact a majority of my Wisconsin friends; but what about the rest? What about all of my Los Angeles friends? I don't think my extra role on Quintuplets (look for me in episode 103 under the Fox logo) warrants me an IMDB news alert, so my pal Topher Grace will miss the message. And Stan Lee hasn't talked to me since I pointed out some missing pixels on Wolverine's right index claw in X-Men Legends II, so I doubt he'll even care if I want him there.

Stan and me during the best of times, when we were friends and I was Mexican.

And what about that kid I'm hiding from everyone? She's going to be 3 this November, and her name is Chandyce, as presented by Dentyne Ice. I don't want her growing up with the guilt of having missed her father's funeral. Nor do I want her growing up with the relief that her kidnapper is dead. (I never specified why I was hiding her.)

Sigh. Dying is going to be an organizational nightmare. Unless... Yes! That's it! I'll hire strippers for the event so that everyone shows up! I'll hire policewoman strippers! And firemen strippers! And poodle strippers! Every man, woman, and beast in earshot will rush to the raging techno beat of my final farewell, as my ashes are tossed out over the river I've travelled so much in my dreams - China's mighty Yangtze.

I'm so glad this problem is solved. Now I can relax and peruse some BBC News...

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

HiberNation

2006-08-21T04:09:00.000Z

If I were a bear running for office, I would definitely call my campaign HiberNation.

My fortnight of absence, although disappointing*, has not been without event. I've heard and seen things that''ll turn your hair red and your eyes a soft shade of fuschia, and I'm not even referring to a hipster concert. I'm talking big things. End of the universe things. Cats and dogs, living together... oh you get the reference. How very postmodern of me.
(*to few).

THINGS I'VE HEARD

1. John Madden's aristocracy.
As my channel-flipping fingers lingered on a preseason football game, obviously embalmed in a passing dextral coma, I heard John Madden give his opinion. The debate at hand was whether or not there should be a shorter preseason, so as to cut down on the number of meaningless weeks and unnecessary injuries. John stated he favors the status quo of more exhibiton match-ups, because "you'd have to pay the players more if you had more regular season games." An interesting point by a multimillionaire, especially given that players, as far as I know, are not contracted by the week.

2. Alan Thieke.
My mom and I drove my sister to college in Ohio this week, and at some point we decided to eat. How very traditional of us. Whilst eating, I swore I heard Alan Thieke talking at a table somewhere behind me, so I threw this observation into my own table's conversation. Usually when I offer such remarks I'm rebuffed with a pause and an attack on my sanity, but this time my mom concurred. "Yes. I heard that, too." The obvious conclusion is: Alan Thieke sat somewhere near me and was talking. That puts me one degree away from Kirk Cameron, and two degrees away from God.

3. Birds.
I can't really remember hearing any birds over the revving of my Mario Kart DS engines, but I must have heard some. Maybe a robin? By the way: What do you call a bird from Vienna who has lots of money? An Aust-rich!

THINGS I'VE SEEN

1. Mandalorians.
If you know who Mandalorians are, you are a super-nerd and are welcome to attend my "Jar-Jar Sundays" brunches. Lately it's just been me and Professor Panda Bear, so your presence would be more than welcome. (I don't know how much more I can stand listening to the prof talk about his ex-wife. Ugh. I get it. Melony was a "bamboo whore." Move on.)

Oh, and this point actually refers to my complete indulgement in Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic over the last two weeks. A great game. Play it. And may the force be with you. (Topical!)

2. More video games.
I can't believe I'm yet to blog about G-Phoria, G4's video game awards. I swear I will, right after I finish a few games of Crossbow on my Atari 7800. (Topical!)

Two paths diverged in a retro game. I chose the one less monsterful.

3. Guarded borders.
My friend Daniel moved down to Richmond, Virginia last week, and as nice as he is when he's in Wisconsin, he's an intolerant bobby down South. As I travelled near Ohio's southern border on my aforementioned trip, I noticed Dan driving parallel on the Kentucky side. He swore he'd lynch me if I crossed the line a moment before my summer tan faded into glorious white, so I kept clear. He may be a bobby, but he's also a man of his word. Then again, he also swore he'd knife me if I ever used the term "bobby," and so far as I can tell my body remains blade-free since '93.

4. The future.
I know all you Emmy-lovers are going to soon be blogging about your event parties and the delicious crepes your 35-year old neighbor brought over and the baby pictures Maude showed off during the 9:15 commercial break, but while you all are doing that, I'll be hanging with an age group I'm legally banned from hanging with: teens. I watched a few minutes of the Teen Choice Awards tonight, and I learned all I need to know about awesomeness. Where else can you see Ashley Olsen present an award with Soul Plane show-stealer Snoop Dogg? Where else can you see a jelly-filled Britney introduce the world-premiere performance of her husband K-Fed's newest rad beats? My eyes were loving it; however, due to some bloodcurdling screams when Johnny Depp appeared onstage, my ears were not.

And that's why I can never write about the THINGS I'VE HEARD again. A tragic ending, in the vein of Shakespeare himself. How very Victorian of me.

Shakespeare Federline? Or creepiest photoshop ever?