Showing posts with label Photoshoppery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Photoshoppery. Show all posts
Monday, March 31, 2014
And Then The Professor Got His Hands On A Duplicator
About a year ago, I shared some Calvin & Hobbes with my son. This included parts of Scientific Progress Goes "Boink", which has a duplicator on its cover. He was only 1½ years old at the time, so I assumed he wouldn't absorb any of it. Little did I know...
For most kids, Calvin & Hobbes is a fun comic about a boy and his stuffed tiger.
For my son, it's a How-To manual.
Monday, November 12, 2012
Under Cover of Invisibility
I'm still working toward completion of the first draft of my novel. In the meantime, however, I have finished the first draft of the cover of my novel. I hope this will help motivate me to write faster, either since more of you will start badgering me to do so, or because I won't want to wait any longer to have a copy of this in my hand:
I like to think it captures my novel's marriage of action, drama, and humor quite well... perhaps better than the novel itself. Of course, I like to think a lot of things. Over-thinking is one reason I've changed the working title more than a half-dozen times so far.1
More importantly, what do you think?
1 Yes, inquiring readers, the story still contains unseen simians, despite the fact I've strayed from the original title of And Then Came the Invisible Monkeys. At least, for now...
Monday, May 7, 2012
A to Z: The Final Word
Before I get to the good stuff, let me tell you about the even better stuff. Today's the last day to enter my Robot Haiku Contest. Deadline's at 5pm, Eastern Time.
Letters. That was the final word of my Blogging from A to Z April Challenge.1
Of course, if that was all I had for you today, this would be a short post. Yet, as many of you know, I'm no good at writing short posts.
I expected this year's A to Z to be tougher than last year's. With a 9-month-old at home and things getting mighty busy at work, I knew I'd have much less time to participate. So, I did what any sane person would do: I chose a theme that took even more time.2
And I fell behind quickly. Starting on D-Day, every single post was written the night before. And I only really had the chance to visit the bloggers who commented on my posts. Still, I got to discover some fun blogs, and loved the small cadre of loyal visitors who kept coming back to The Wheel for more.
I learned a few things during the Challenge, too:
Creatively, what I enjoyed most about this year's Challenge was creating the letter graphics from my own photos. My favorites, in no particular order, are the ones ED LUVZ. Here are the whole bunch, in case you want to see 'em all in one place:
(click to embiggen)
A close second was coming up with the title for each letter. Here's a recap of all 26, for easy access:
But the best thing to come out of this Challenge? I began writing nearly every day. And I plan to keep up the pace, too. Just not here.
After over two years' hiatus from my novel, I'm finally back at it. Five chapters to go in the first draft. 87.5% done. I'll get this thing finished yet.
Right after I read some robot haiku. (Hint hint.)
1 Unless you're of the mind that the footnotes came last, since they appear lower on the page. Then the final word was V. Which I'll pretend meant Victory.
2 I didn't realize that when I chose it, of course. I'm a master at self-delusion. You might not think I'm a master, but that's because I'm only good at deluding myself, not you.
3 I'm weak. Sleep is gooood.
Letters. That was the final word of my Blogging from A to Z April Challenge.1
Of course, if that was all I had for you today, this would be a short post. Yet, as many of you know, I'm no good at writing short posts.
I expected this year's A to Z to be tougher than last year's. With a 9-month-old at home and things getting mighty busy at work, I knew I'd have much less time to participate. So, I did what any sane person would do: I chose a theme that took even more time.2
And I fell behind quickly. Starting on D-Day, every single post was written the night before. And I only really had the chance to visit the bloggers who commented on my posts. Still, I got to discover some fun blogs, and loved the small cadre of loyal visitors who kept coming back to The Wheel for more.
I learned a few things during the Challenge, too:
- Some people appreciate being introduced to new things, but in general, people much prefer commenting on things they already know.
- I will always be a perfectionist. And a procrastinator. These things do not go well together.
- Sleep is for the weak.3
Creatively, what I enjoyed most about this year's Challenge was creating the letter graphics from my own photos. My favorites, in no particular order, are the ones ED LUVZ. Here are the whole bunch, in case you want to see 'em all in one place:
(click to embiggen)
A close second was coming up with the title for each letter. Here's a recap of all 26, for easy access:
- Like the Fonz Always Said (with anagrammed hosts' names)
- That Buzz in Your Ear
- A Body Off the Coast (Seven C's Edition)
- The End of the World
- The Gad Preceder
- Stop With the Camera
- The Most Common Willikers
- Jesus, Initially
- The Window to the Soul (I Spy With My Little I Edition)
- A Way of Walking
- It's Alright, I Guess
- The Train in Chicago (Double Hockey Stick Edition)
- A Kansas Auntie (Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm Edition)
- The Center of Attention
- A Surprised Utterance
- A Small Green Orb (P's in a Pod Edition)
- A British Line
- The Call of the Pirate
- The Start of Something (Super-Sized Saturday Edition)
- Something You Put Balls On (T for 2 Edition)
- A Ram's Better Half
- Southbound Geese
- The P.O.T.U.S. (#43)
- A Former Flame
- The Age-Old Question
- The End of All That Jazz
But the best thing to come out of this Challenge? I began writing nearly every day. And I plan to keep up the pace, too. Just not here.
After over two years' hiatus from my novel, I'm finally back at it. Five chapters to go in the first draft. 87.5% done. I'll get this thing finished yet.
Right after I read some robot haiku. (Hint hint.)
1 Unless you're of the mind that the footnotes came last, since they appear lower on the page. Then the final word was V. Which I'll pretend meant Victory.
2 I didn't realize that when I chose it, of course. I'm a master at self-delusion. You might not think I'm a master, but that's because I'm only good at deluding myself, not you.
3 I'm weak. Sleep is gooood.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Day 10: One Giant Leap
This post (minus some edits) first ran on January 3, 2010.
Day 1 • Day 2 • Day 3 • Day 4 • Day 5 • Day 6 • Day 7 • Day 8 • Day 9 • Day 10 • Day 11 • Day 12
With all the ladies yesterday, I should have known their counterparts wouldn’t be far behind. When I opened the front door this morning, ten lords paraded past me into the house. How can I be sure they’re lords? Because each one formally announced himself as such upon entering: Lord Jim, Lord Byron, a shorter one named Fauntleroy, and so on and so forth. Most of them are prim and proper, as you’d expect, but two don’t fit the stereotype: One has a sparkly jacket and pants but no shirt, whereas the other is dressed all in black, including a cape and a bizarre-looking helmet. That one calls himself Vader.
At first, the lords were just jumping around Willy-Nilly,1 but Lord Vader proclaimed they would all jump in unison. This naturally caused quite a stir — lords don’t like being told what to do — but Vader calmly lifted a gloved hand, and suddenly his most vocal opponent began to choke. Within moments the guy had fallen to the floor and stopped breathing. Vader beckoned for his two servants, whom I hadn’t even noticed come in, to cart the body away and bury it in the back yard.
Jump with me. It is your destiny.
I assumed the whole thing was an act, but the other lords were sufficiently spooked that they immediately took to following Vader’s lead. Most of them caught on pretty quickly, though the least coordinated of the bunch stumbled into Vader a couple times, and did not live to learn from his mistakes. Fortunately, after those two deaths, everything went a little more smoothly. For the lords, that is...
Do you remember how the Banks’s home shook in Mary Poppins every time the cannon fired from their roof? Well, with all the lords jumping together, it’s kind of like that, except the house quakes every three seconds instead of every hour, and we have far fewer valuables remaining intact.2
With so many people in the house at once, and everyone constantly getting in each other’s way, emotions have been running high. Everywhere the dancers turn, they collide with something.3 The dancers yell at the maids, the maids at the lords, the lords at the dancers, and I at the maids, lords, dancers, and parrots.4
Needing a break from the insanity, I headed to the grocery store to pick up enough food for dinner for twenty-seven people. Both my credit cards were rejected, but they took my debit card.5 I then returned home to the wonderful aroma of chicken roasting in the oven.
Problem is, I knew for a fact that we’d already gone through all the meat in our freezer. It was as I feared: When I looked on the porch, I found only two of the original three hens.
In the basement, I also found that all the jumping had caused two of the newly laid pipes to burst. The pipe-laying geese were going at it beak-to-beak as the basement flooded. The rest of the birds had lined up two by two to climb into a large Rubbermaid storage container they'd fitted with a sail.
I couldn't reach our plumber, but luckily, I remembered a van from Joe’s Plumbing had been parked across the street for two days. Surely, they’d welcome some extra business. As soon as I neared the van, however, it pulled its satellite dishes back inside and tore off down the road, presumably toward some other plumbing emergency.
I hope our plumber calls back soon; all the jumping cracked the shut-off valve, so we have no way to stymy the flow of water. And the mafioso parrot keeps giving me the evil eye because of it.
I fear what tomorrow will bring.
1 That’s one of the lords: Lord William Nilly.
2 Also, at no time has one of the maids tried sliding up the banister.
3 Walls, lords, maids, birds, furniture, large hadrons...
4 Oh yeah, and the pole dancer got into fisticuffs with one of the swans. (She lost. Never mind that the swan had neither fists nor cuffs.)
5 As in, they didn't give it back.
Day 1 • Day 2 • Day 3 • Day 4 • Day 5 • Day 6 • Day 7 • Day 8 • Day 9 • Day 10 • Day 11 • Day 12
With all the ladies yesterday, I should have known their counterparts wouldn’t be far behind. When I opened the front door this morning, ten lords paraded past me into the house. How can I be sure they’re lords? Because each one formally announced himself as such upon entering: Lord Jim, Lord Byron, a shorter one named Fauntleroy, and so on and so forth. Most of them are prim and proper, as you’d expect, but two don’t fit the stereotype: One has a sparkly jacket and pants but no shirt, whereas the other is dressed all in black, including a cape and a bizarre-looking helmet. That one calls himself Vader.
At first, the lords were just jumping around Willy-Nilly,1 but Lord Vader proclaimed they would all jump in unison. This naturally caused quite a stir — lords don’t like being told what to do — but Vader calmly lifted a gloved hand, and suddenly his most vocal opponent began to choke. Within moments the guy had fallen to the floor and stopped breathing. Vader beckoned for his two servants, whom I hadn’t even noticed come in, to cart the body away and bury it in the back yard.
Jump with me. It is your destiny.
I assumed the whole thing was an act, but the other lords were sufficiently spooked that they immediately took to following Vader’s lead. Most of them caught on pretty quickly, though the least coordinated of the bunch stumbled into Vader a couple times, and did not live to learn from his mistakes. Fortunately, after those two deaths, everything went a little more smoothly. For the lords, that is...
Do you remember how the Banks’s home shook in Mary Poppins every time the cannon fired from their roof? Well, with all the lords jumping together, it’s kind of like that, except the house quakes every three seconds instead of every hour, and we have far fewer valuables remaining intact.2
With so many people in the house at once, and everyone constantly getting in each other’s way, emotions have been running high. Everywhere the dancers turn, they collide with something.3 The dancers yell at the maids, the maids at the lords, the lords at the dancers, and I at the maids, lords, dancers, and parrots.4
Needing a break from the insanity, I headed to the grocery store to pick up enough food for dinner for twenty-seven people. Both my credit cards were rejected, but they took my debit card.5 I then returned home to the wonderful aroma of chicken roasting in the oven.
Problem is, I knew for a fact that we’d already gone through all the meat in our freezer. It was as I feared: When I looked on the porch, I found only two of the original three hens.
In the basement, I also found that all the jumping had caused two of the newly laid pipes to burst. The pipe-laying geese were going at it beak-to-beak as the basement flooded. The rest of the birds had lined up two by two to climb into a large Rubbermaid storage container they'd fitted with a sail.
I couldn't reach our plumber, but luckily, I remembered a van from Joe’s Plumbing had been parked across the street for two days. Surely, they’d welcome some extra business. As soon as I neared the van, however, it pulled its satellite dishes back inside and tore off down the road, presumably toward some other plumbing emergency.
I hope our plumber calls back soon; all the jumping cracked the shut-off valve, so we have no way to stymy the flow of water. And the mafioso parrot keeps giving me the evil eye because of it.
I fear what tomorrow will bring.
1 That’s one of the lords: Lord William Nilly.
2 Also, at no time has one of the maids tried sliding up the banister.
3 Walls, lords, maids, birds, furniture, large hadrons...
4 Oh yeah, and the pole dancer got into fisticuffs with one of the swans. (She lost. Never mind that the swan had neither fists nor cuffs.)
5 As in, they didn't give it back.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Day 8: Cleanliness is Next to Impossible
This post (minus some edits) first ran on January 1, 2010.
Day 1 • Day 2 • Day 3 • Day 4 • Day 5 • Day 6 • Day 7 • Day 8 • Day 9 • Day 10 • Day 11 • Day 12
Happy new year to me. When I looked out at the pool this morning, I only saw five swans. Since I was about to let Sonya out, I stepped outside to make sure the other two swans weren’t wandering around the yard where she could get at them. They weren’t. I found them at the bottom of the pool, sleeping with the fishes.1
Clearly, it was meant to be a warning. I ran to the garage and transferred the parrot mafioso to a warmer spot in the basement. I brought the other two parrots down there as well, though that was more for my sake than the parrots’. As of now, the garage is the only quiet spot in the house.
When I got back upstairs, Sonya was barking frantically out the front window. Dreading the worst,2 I opened the door to find eight maids standing on our doorstep. I sighed in relief: Maids were exactly what we needed.
Birds are not clean creatures. Well, the doves haven’t been too bad, but that’s only because they’ve kept everything inside their shells. All the others drop feathers and excrement everywhere they go. We’ve had to lay down tarps in every room to protect the carpet and the furniture. But it seemed our problems were solved: Finally, we had professional help.
I stepped aside to let the maids into the house. Without delay, they made a beeline for the kitchen. The next thing I knew, they were all standing around drinking. Some had mugs of coffee, others tea, and a couple had grabbed some beers from the fridge. Not one held a cleaning implement of any kind.
I was somewhat perplexed, but didn’t know how long they’d been on the road without anything to drink. I figured I’d go buy some groceries to feed our unexpected guests, and by the time I got back they’d be underway. Alas, no. I returned an hour later to find the maids in pretty much the same spots as before. When I asked about this, they said that they were on break; they’d start cleaning once they’d finished their drinks.
This irked me, but I was soon distracted by two investigators who came by asking about David Cassidy's final days. I told them the whole story about the pear tree and the hunger strike and all the birds, and they had me show them around the house. And can you believe it? When they were in the basement, all three parrots shut up. Didn’t say a word. I asked — nay, begged — the investigators to stay, but they made up some story about going to watch an outdoor hockey game and drove off.
When they left, I found the maids still lazing about with drinks in their hands. I again asked when they were going to start cleaning. This time, all I got in response were some aggravated sighs and rolling of eyes.
Perhaps I’m being cynical, but I don’t think they’re ever going to get to work. They’ve been milking those things for hours.
1 That’s right: along with offing the two swans, someone had also added fish to the swimming pool, presumably just to make that figure of speech accurate.
2 An octet of angry ostriches.
Day 1 • Day 2 • Day 3 • Day 4 • Day 5 • Day 6 • Day 7 • Day 8 • Day 9 • Day 10 • Day 11 • Day 12
Happy new year to me. When I looked out at the pool this morning, I only saw five swans. Since I was about to let Sonya out, I stepped outside to make sure the other two swans weren’t wandering around the yard where she could get at them. They weren’t. I found them at the bottom of the pool, sleeping with the fishes.1
Clearly, it was meant to be a warning. I ran to the garage and transferred the parrot mafioso to a warmer spot in the basement. I brought the other two parrots down there as well, though that was more for my sake than the parrots’. As of now, the garage is the only quiet spot in the house.
When I got back upstairs, Sonya was barking frantically out the front window. Dreading the worst,2 I opened the door to find eight maids standing on our doorstep. I sighed in relief: Maids were exactly what we needed.
Birds are not clean creatures. Well, the doves haven’t been too bad, but that’s only because they’ve kept everything inside their shells. All the others drop feathers and excrement everywhere they go. We’ve had to lay down tarps in every room to protect the carpet and the furniture. But it seemed our problems were solved: Finally, we had professional help.
I stepped aside to let the maids into the house. Without delay, they made a beeline for the kitchen. The next thing I knew, they were all standing around drinking. Some had mugs of coffee, others tea, and a couple had grabbed some beers from the fridge. Not one held a cleaning implement of any kind.I was somewhat perplexed, but didn’t know how long they’d been on the road without anything to drink. I figured I’d go buy some groceries to feed our unexpected guests, and by the time I got back they’d be underway. Alas, no. I returned an hour later to find the maids in pretty much the same spots as before. When I asked about this, they said that they were on break; they’d start cleaning once they’d finished their drinks.
This irked me, but I was soon distracted by two investigators who came by asking about David Cassidy's final days. I told them the whole story about the pear tree and the hunger strike and all the birds, and they had me show them around the house. And can you believe it? When they were in the basement, all three parrots shut up. Didn’t say a word. I asked — nay, begged — the investigators to stay, but they made up some story about going to watch an outdoor hockey game and drove off.
When they left, I found the maids still lazing about with drinks in their hands. I again asked when they were going to start cleaning. This time, all I got in response were some aggravated sighs and rolling of eyes.
Perhaps I’m being cynical, but I don’t think they’re ever going to get to work. They’ve been milking those things for hours.
1 That’s right: along with offing the two swans, someone had also added fish to the swimming pool, presumably just to make that figure of speech accurate.
2 An octet of angry ostriches.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Day 7: Just Keep Swimming
This post (minus some edits) first ran on December 31, 2009.
Day 1 • Day 2 • Day 3 • Day 4 • Day 5 • Day 6 • Day 7 • Day 8 • Day 9 • Day 10 • Day 11 • Day 12
David Cassidy is dead.
Denise and I were setting up the above-ground, heated swimming pool for my seven new pet swans1 when we saw Cassidy clutch at the pear tree to keep from falling. We helped him to the ground, and though he was struggling to breathe, he managed to utter two words before his heart gave out: “swan allergy.” I have no idea what he meant, but I figure it's probably the name of his sled.
Frankly, I’m surprised he lasted the week, sitting in freezing temperatures without food or water. But he clearly knew death was a possibility when he accepted the gig, since when I rifled through his pockets2 the only thing I found was the phone number for a local Undertaker. Two hours later, a hearse sporting the WWE logo pulled up in front, and — after some pyrotechnics and a bunch of unnecessary posturing — we bade a final farewell to David Cassidy.
It took us a few hours to get the heated pool up and running, and I’m not looking forward to our next electric bill, but I have to say the swans are quite impressive. Backstroke, breast stroke, butterfly, they can do it all.3 I don't know if there’s a market for this sort of thing, but I bet people would pay to see Michael Phelps race a relay team of swans.4
Oh, and last night, a couple policemen stopped by and told me the parrots couldn't stay on the porch, something about county noise ordinances. They were going to let me off with a warning, but overheard the parrot mafia don say some rather unkind things about cops, so now I'm out another $500. I made sure to rattle some cages when I pulled the parrots from their perch on the porch and banished them to the the garage. The parrot don said I'd pay for such an injustice, but he's too late. I've already maxed out both my credit cards to pay for bird food and stinky French cheeses.
Anyway, to make room for the pool, we moved the bricklaying geese to the basement, which is just as well since they were doing a piss-poor job on the patio. They're now building us some (rather shaky) new stairs for the basement hatch. Two other geese are messing with the plumbing, and I threw the last one down there as well after it had cornered Marcelle in the tub for a couple hours. It’ll probably start on an uneven tile floor with too much grout, just like it was doing in the upstairs bathroom.
I don’t have high hopes for any of the geese’s projects. I’ll probably have to rip out all their work and start fresh once Christmas is over and everybody leaves. Wait, they are going to leave after the last day of Christmas, right?
Right?
1 Yay! More birds! Just what I needed. (For reference, here's the current household tally: 2 people, 1 dog, 1 cat, 21 birds. Surprisingly, Hitchcock has yet to make a cameo.)
2 As is the custom with any dead celebrity.
3 And the black one's pretty good at water ballet.
4 Or, failing that, smoke up with a relay team of swans.
Day 1 • Day 2 • Day 3 • Day 4 • Day 5 • Day 6 • Day 7 • Day 8 • Day 9 • Day 10 • Day 11 • Day 12
David Cassidy is dead.Denise and I were setting up the above-ground, heated swimming pool for my seven new pet swans1 when we saw Cassidy clutch at the pear tree to keep from falling. We helped him to the ground, and though he was struggling to breathe, he managed to utter two words before his heart gave out: “swan allergy.” I have no idea what he meant, but I figure it's probably the name of his sled.
Frankly, I’m surprised he lasted the week, sitting in freezing temperatures without food or water. But he clearly knew death was a possibility when he accepted the gig, since when I rifled through his pockets2 the only thing I found was the phone number for a local Undertaker. Two hours later, a hearse sporting the WWE logo pulled up in front, and — after some pyrotechnics and a bunch of unnecessary posturing — we bade a final farewell to David Cassidy.
It took us a few hours to get the heated pool up and running, and I’m not looking forward to our next electric bill, but I have to say the swans are quite impressive. Backstroke, breast stroke, butterfly, they can do it all.3 I don't know if there’s a market for this sort of thing, but I bet people would pay to see Michael Phelps race a relay team of swans.4
Oh, and last night, a couple policemen stopped by and told me the parrots couldn't stay on the porch, something about county noise ordinances. They were going to let me off with a warning, but overheard the parrot mafia don say some rather unkind things about cops, so now I'm out another $500. I made sure to rattle some cages when I pulled the parrots from their perch on the porch and banished them to the the garage. The parrot don said I'd pay for such an injustice, but he's too late. I've already maxed out both my credit cards to pay for bird food and stinky French cheeses.
Anyway, to make room for the pool, we moved the bricklaying geese to the basement, which is just as well since they were doing a piss-poor job on the patio. They're now building us some (rather shaky) new stairs for the basement hatch. Two other geese are messing with the plumbing, and I threw the last one down there as well after it had cornered Marcelle in the tub for a couple hours. It’ll probably start on an uneven tile floor with too much grout, just like it was doing in the upstairs bathroom.
I don’t have high hopes for any of the geese’s projects. I’ll probably have to rip out all their work and start fresh once Christmas is over and everybody leaves. Wait, they are going to leave after the last day of Christmas, right?
Right?
1 Yay! More birds! Just what I needed. (For reference, here's the current household tally: 2 people, 1 dog, 1 cat, 21 birds. Surprisingly, Hitchcock has yet to make a cameo.)
2 As is the custom with any dead celebrity.
3 And the black one's pretty good at water ballet.
4 Or, failing that, smoke up with a relay team of swans.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Day 6: Take a Gander. No, Really. Take One.
This post (minus some edits) first ran on December 30, 2009.
Day 1 • Day 2 • Day 3 • Day 4 • Day 5 • Day 6 • Day 7 • Day 8 • Day 9 • Day 10 • Day 11 • Day 12
Damn it, I thought we were done with the birds!
The latest six arrived replete with their own supplies, and had made quite a mess of the living room before I got downstairs this morning. I tried taking their tools away, but they ganged up on me and pecked at my face, so I quickly abandoned that plan. Fortunately, by the time I returned from the emergency room, Denise had directed them to other areas of the house where they could be more useful.
She led the three bricklaying geese out into the back yard, where they are currently building us a new patio. Two others are laying pipe in the basement, and the last is in the upstairs bathroom, laying down fresh tile.
Da-a-amn! Those bricks got LAID!
Their craftsmanship is extremely shoddy, seeing as how they have to do everything with their beaks, but I’m not about to disparage their work. I’ve already gotten enough stitches for one day.1
Of course, Sonya spent the day trying to catch the geese, so in order to allow them to get their work done, we had to tie her to the pear tree. In the tree above her, David Cassidy isn’t looking at all well. I could only get hold of one local doctor who does house calls, and he wasn’t willing to climb a ladder to do the physical. Hmm... maybe the local fire company has a a doctor among its members.
In other news, when I went out to the porch to check on the hens and parrots today, one of the latter had stopped talking. At first I was excited, thinking the other three might also soon tire, but then I jostled its cage. The bird fell, unmoving, to the newspaper lining the cage. Just my luck, the dead parrot was neither the Verizon spokesparrot nor the gossip girl. No, ‘twas the Norwegian Blue: the stock broker, the least annoying of the four. Someone had nailed him to his perch.
As I carted his remains off to the trash bin, the parrot mafia don said, simply, “So long, snitch.”
1 In case you’re wondering... it’s eight stitches. Eight is enough.
Day 1 • Day 2 • Day 3 • Day 4 • Day 5 • Day 6 • Day 7 • Day 8 • Day 9 • Day 10 • Day 11 • Day 12
Damn it, I thought we were done with the birds!
The latest six arrived replete with their own supplies, and had made quite a mess of the living room before I got downstairs this morning. I tried taking their tools away, but they ganged up on me and pecked at my face, so I quickly abandoned that plan. Fortunately, by the time I returned from the emergency room, Denise had directed them to other areas of the house where they could be more useful.
She led the three bricklaying geese out into the back yard, where they are currently building us a new patio. Two others are laying pipe in the basement, and the last is in the upstairs bathroom, laying down fresh tile.
Da-a-amn! Those bricks got LAID!
Their craftsmanship is extremely shoddy, seeing as how they have to do everything with their beaks, but I’m not about to disparage their work. I’ve already gotten enough stitches for one day.1
Of course, Sonya spent the day trying to catch the geese, so in order to allow them to get their work done, we had to tie her to the pear tree. In the tree above her, David Cassidy isn’t looking at all well. I could only get hold of one local doctor who does house calls, and he wasn’t willing to climb a ladder to do the physical. Hmm... maybe the local fire company has a a doctor among its members.
In other news, when I went out to the porch to check on the hens and parrots today, one of the latter had stopped talking. At first I was excited, thinking the other three might also soon tire, but then I jostled its cage. The bird fell, unmoving, to the newspaper lining the cage. Just my luck, the dead parrot was neither the Verizon spokesparrot nor the gossip girl. No, ‘twas the Norwegian Blue: the stock broker, the least annoying of the four. Someone had nailed him to his perch.
As I carted his remains off to the trash bin, the parrot mafia don said, simply, “So long, snitch.”
1 In case you’re wondering... it’s eight stitches. Eight is enough.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Day 5: Oh, Those Golden Rings
This post (minus some edits) first ran on December 29, 2009.
Day 1 • Day 2 • Day 3 • Day 4 • Day 5 • Day 6 • Day 7 • Day 8 • Day 9 • Day 10 • Day 11 • Day 12
Finally, a worthwhile gift! Each ring expertly crafted, a beautiful golden brown, with just the right amount of breading... easily the best onion rings I’ve had in some time. It’s a shame there were only five of them.
The parrots, on the other hand, have been driving me batty. They gave me such a headache yesterday I had to stick them out on the porch with the hens, where their constant yapping is at least muffled. I also spent a half hour looking for the phones their Bluetooths are connected to, hoping tosmash them into tiny bits shut them off, but I couldn't find them. And the Bluetooths themselves are going strong; the birds must have some covert spot where they recharge them overnight.
Anyway, I thought the Verizon parrot was bad, but the one who quarreled all yesterday has been chattering non-stop today about boys and fashion and mother-sparkling Twilight. Oh, and I’m pretty sure I just heard the head of the parrot mafia calling in a hit.
David Cassidy still has yet to eat, drink, or move from the tree. I think the doves' wings are starting to atrophy, too. At least, now that I've picked up some brie, the hens have started eating (me out of house and home).1
Speaking of eating out of house and home, I think I'll do just that. Maybe, if I'm lucky, I'll even find some more of those onion rings.
1 Yet, the parrots might turn out to be an even bigger strain on my wallet; Denise hinted that all their calls were being added to my phone bill.
Day 1 • Day 2 • Day 3 • Day 4 • Day 5 • Day 6 • Day 7 • Day 8 • Day 9 • Day 10 • Day 11 • Day 12
Finally, a worthwhile gift! Each ring expertly crafted, a beautiful golden brown, with just the right amount of breading... easily the best onion rings I’ve had in some time. It’s a shame there were only five of them.The parrots, on the other hand, have been driving me batty. They gave me such a headache yesterday I had to stick them out on the porch with the hens, where their constant yapping is at least muffled. I also spent a half hour looking for the phones their Bluetooths are connected to, hoping to
Anyway, I thought the Verizon parrot was bad, but the one who quarreled all yesterday has been chattering non-stop today about boys and fashion and mother-sparkling Twilight. Oh, and I’m pretty sure I just heard the head of the parrot mafia calling in a hit.
David Cassidy still has yet to eat, drink, or move from the tree. I think the doves' wings are starting to atrophy, too. At least, now that I've picked up some brie, the hens have started eating (me out of house and home).1
Speaking of eating out of house and home, I think I'll do just that. Maybe, if I'm lucky, I'll even find some more of those onion rings.
1 Yet, the parrots might turn out to be an even bigger strain on my wallet; Denise hinted that all their calls were being added to my phone bill.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Day 4: Who You Callin' Pretty Boy?
This post (minus some edits) first ran on December 28, 2009.
Day 1 • Day 2 • Day 3 • Day 4 • Day 5 • Day 6 • Day 7 • Day 8 • Day 9 • Day 10 • Day 11 • Day 12
We’ve reached day four of the David Cassidy hunger strike. He’s beginning to look a bit gaunt, and gray in color. Denise thinks he may have snacked on some snow from a nearby branch when we weren’t looking, whereas I contend his only sustenance during his time in the pear tree has come by sneaking nips of brandy from a flask hidden inside his coat. Either way, we may have to call in a doctor soon. Or a lumberjack.
Nevertheless, I’ve found that I much prefer the silence of his company to the inescapable din inside the house. The latest additions to my avian menagerie should have come with a soundproof box, or at least a box of earplugs. I don’t see why anyone would ever want even one of these birds, let alone four. Yet, I now find myself the proud owner of a quartet of parrots, each ceaselessly yammering away on its own Bluetooth.
It was better back when birds didn't have teeth.
I have no idea who any of them are talking to, but one seems to think he’s a stock broker. All he ever says is, “Buy! Buy! Buy!” or “Sell! Sell! Sell!” Another is having what sounds like a heated argument with her mother. And if I didn’t know the third bird was a parrot, I’d swear I was overhearing an Italian mafia don discussing the storage of stolen goods.
But the last one... the last one I truly despise. There are only so many times I can hear, “Can you hear me now?” before I'm overcome with the distinct urge to strangle someone.1
Deciding to channel my anger into something more constructive, I grabbed some tools from the garage. I’d hoped to pry the turtle shells off of those poor little doves so they could fly free, but the moment I touched either one, they tried to peck my fingers off. Apparently they’ve become rather attached to their adoptive homes. It makes sense, I guess, as they do provide decent protection from the cat and dog. Then again, Sonya has forgotten all about them, more concerned now with barking in reply to everything the parrots say. And Marcelle is snugly ensconced in blankets upstairs, away from all the noise.
I'm not quite sure how, but out on the porch, one of the hens has developed a French accent.2 And unlike David Cassidy, they're finally eating. It's going to be expensive to keep them around, though; the tag I found on one hen’s foot said they'll only eat baguettes with brie and Camembert.
Damn uppity hens. They eat better than I do.3
If I get any more birds tomorrow, I'm pulling out my new Red Ryder BB gun.
1 I've tried covering their cages, but it doesn’t silence them. Once swathed in darkness, the parrots only start talking louder. Clearly, they're one of those Night & Weekend calling plans.
2 Le cluck.
3 And they may be wearing maid outfits, but they sure know how to make a mess. As snooty as they are about their food, they're not the least bit particular about where they leave their merde.
Day 1 • Day 2 • Day 3 • Day 4 • Day 5 • Day 6 • Day 7 • Day 8 • Day 9 • Day 10 • Day 11 • Day 12
We’ve reached day four of the David Cassidy hunger strike. He’s beginning to look a bit gaunt, and gray in color. Denise thinks he may have snacked on some snow from a nearby branch when we weren’t looking, whereas I contend his only sustenance during his time in the pear tree has come by sneaking nips of brandy from a flask hidden inside his coat. Either way, we may have to call in a doctor soon. Or a lumberjack.
Nevertheless, I’ve found that I much prefer the silence of his company to the inescapable din inside the house. The latest additions to my avian menagerie should have come with a soundproof box, or at least a box of earplugs. I don’t see why anyone would ever want even one of these birds, let alone four. Yet, I now find myself the proud owner of a quartet of parrots, each ceaselessly yammering away on its own Bluetooth.
It was better back when birds didn't have teeth.
I have no idea who any of them are talking to, but one seems to think he’s a stock broker. All he ever says is, “Buy! Buy! Buy!” or “Sell! Sell! Sell!” Another is having what sounds like a heated argument with her mother. And if I didn’t know the third bird was a parrot, I’d swear I was overhearing an Italian mafia don discussing the storage of stolen goods.
But the last one... the last one I truly despise. There are only so many times I can hear, “Can you hear me now?” before I'm overcome with the distinct urge to strangle someone.1
Deciding to channel my anger into something more constructive, I grabbed some tools from the garage. I’d hoped to pry the turtle shells off of those poor little doves so they could fly free, but the moment I touched either one, they tried to peck my fingers off. Apparently they’ve become rather attached to their adoptive homes. It makes sense, I guess, as they do provide decent protection from the cat and dog. Then again, Sonya has forgotten all about them, more concerned now with barking in reply to everything the parrots say. And Marcelle is snugly ensconced in blankets upstairs, away from all the noise.
I'm not quite sure how, but out on the porch, one of the hens has developed a French accent.2 And unlike David Cassidy, they're finally eating. It's going to be expensive to keep them around, though; the tag I found on one hen’s foot said they'll only eat baguettes with brie and Camembert.
Damn uppity hens. They eat better than I do.3
If I get any more birds tomorrow, I'm pulling out my new Red Ryder BB gun.
1 I've tried covering their cages, but it doesn’t silence them. Once swathed in darkness, the parrots only start talking louder. Clearly, they're one of those Night & Weekend calling plans.
2 Le cluck.
3 And they may be wearing maid outfits, but they sure know how to make a mess. As snooty as they are about their food, they're not the least bit particular about where they leave their merde.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Day 3: What the Cluck?
This post (minus some edits) first ran on December 27, 2009.
Day 1 • Day 2 • Day 3 • Day 4 • Day 5 • Day 6 • Day 7 • Day 8 • Day 9 • Day 10 • Day 11 • Day 12
If I had to guess, I’d say they’re supposed to be French. I mean, I can’t be sure, since I’ve never been able to distinguish French clucking from any other type of clucking — despite my many years on the board of the GPC1 — but I don’t know why else the hens would be wearing those black-and-white maid outfits. They’re certainly not doing anything that resembles cleaning.
We've had to sequester the hens on the screened-in porch, since the dog is convinced we got her three new walking, clucking chew toys. In fact, Sonya has completely abandoned her post beneath David Cassidy (who has barely moved the past two days, and still hasn't eaten) to spend all her time whining and scratching at the porch door.
Marcelle finally ventured downstairs, too.2 She isn’t your typical huntress of a cat — she’s been known to be scared by string — but once we deposited the trio of hens onto the porch, her curiosity got the better of her. Only then did she spy the doves. She batted at one a couple of times, but got bored when it retracted its head into its shell, and headed back upstairs.
As for the hens, we tend not to keep chicken feed in the house,3 so I went out and bought a giant bag of the stuff. (Apparently, however, they're on the David Cassidy diet; they've yet to touch a single grain of it.) If we could get some fresh eggs out of the deal, that would be wonderful, but a little bird told me we'd need a rooster for that to happen.4 And I’m not buying a rooster.
Of course, with my luck, I’ll find four of them under the tree tomorrow morning...
1 Gonzo’s Poultry Council, est. 1978.
2 Aw, I miss Marcelle. For my newer readers, she was the cat I had before Calypso and Schrödinger. Not that it has any bearing on the story, but she was born in Uzbekistan.
3 Surprising, I know.
4 Actually, it was a rather big little bird that told me. His exact words were: “You’re doing it all wrong, son! You need a — I say, you need a rooster, boy, or you’ll never get eggs!”
Day 1 • Day 2 • Day 3 • Day 4 • Day 5 • Day 6 • Day 7 • Day 8 • Day 9 • Day 10 • Day 11 • Day 12
If I had to guess, I’d say they’re supposed to be French. I mean, I can’t be sure, since I’ve never been able to distinguish French clucking from any other type of clucking — despite my many years on the board of the GPC1 — but I don’t know why else the hens would be wearing those black-and-white maid outfits. They’re certainly not doing anything that resembles cleaning.We've had to sequester the hens on the screened-in porch, since the dog is convinced we got her three new walking, clucking chew toys. In fact, Sonya has completely abandoned her post beneath David Cassidy (who has barely moved the past two days, and still hasn't eaten) to spend all her time whining and scratching at the porch door.
Marcelle finally ventured downstairs, too.2 She isn’t your typical huntress of a cat — she’s been known to be scared by string — but once we deposited the trio of hens onto the porch, her curiosity got the better of her. Only then did she spy the doves. She batted at one a couple of times, but got bored when it retracted its head into its shell, and headed back upstairs.
As for the hens, we tend not to keep chicken feed in the house,3 so I went out and bought a giant bag of the stuff. (Apparently, however, they're on the David Cassidy diet; they've yet to touch a single grain of it.) If we could get some fresh eggs out of the deal, that would be wonderful, but a little bird told me we'd need a rooster for that to happen.4 And I’m not buying a rooster.
Of course, with my luck, I’ll find four of them under the tree tomorrow morning...
1 Gonzo’s Poultry Council, est. 1978.
2 Aw, I miss Marcelle. For my newer readers, she was the cat I had before Calypso and Schrödinger. Not that it has any bearing on the story, but she was born in Uzbekistan.
3 Surprising, I know.
4 Actually, it was a rather big little bird that told me. His exact words were: “You’re doing it all wrong, son! You need a — I say, you need a rooster, boy, or you’ll never get eggs!”
Monday, December 26, 2011
Day 2: Birds of a Feather Stuffed Together
This post (minus some edits) first ran on December 26, 2009.
Day 1 • Day 2 • Day 3 • Day 4 • Day 5 • Day 6 • Day 7 • Day 8 • Day 9 • Day 10 • Day 11 • Day 12
Well, this is an improvement. Sort of. There are no new trees in the yard this morning, no Wally Cleaver or John-Boy Walton perched up above building a nest. Just a box with air holes sitting under the Christmas tree.
The doves sure are cute little things. Their cooing is adorable, as is the way they poke their little heads out when they’re hungry. I can’t help but feel bad for them, though, stuck in those shells.
Stuffing a peaceful bird into a shell? Not coo.
They must be cramped in there; as far as I can tell, they have no way to fully stretch out their wings. And walking's a chore: even when they manage to poke their feet out, the shells are too heavy for them to stand upright. One of them has figured out how to maneuver by pulling itself around using its beak, but mostly they stay where they are and coo quietly. I’ve been hand-feeding them birdseed and giving them water to drink from a tiny saucer.
Speaking of feeding, David Cassidy still hasn’t eaten.1 And despite the freezing temperatures and threat of snow, he has repeatedly ignored our invitations to come inside.2 In the end, we decided the least we could do was provide him with a couple of thick wool blankets to help protect him from the cold. He wouldn’t take them from us, of course. We were forced to haul out a ladder from the garage and drape the blankets over his back.
Goddammit, celebrities piss me off.
1 Nor has he spoken. I know the cat hasn't gotten his tongue; she's too scared to leave the house. His contract must have stipulated a non-speaking role.
2 Sonya wouldn’t come in, either, unwilling to leave her post beneath the nut in the tree. We offered her double her usual amount of treats, but no dice. I had to drag her inside by her collar, with her straining against me the entire way. Once locked in the house, she whined at the door for hours until I couldn’t take it any more and let her back out.
Day 1 • Day 2 • Day 3 • Day 4 • Day 5 • Day 6 • Day 7 • Day 8 • Day 9 • Day 10 • Day 11 • Day 12
Well, this is an improvement. Sort of. There are no new trees in the yard this morning, no Wally Cleaver or John-Boy Walton perched up above building a nest. Just a box with air holes sitting under the Christmas tree.
The doves sure are cute little things. Their cooing is adorable, as is the way they poke their little heads out when they’re hungry. I can’t help but feel bad for them, though, stuck in those shells.
Stuffing a peaceful bird into a shell? Not coo.
They must be cramped in there; as far as I can tell, they have no way to fully stretch out their wings. And walking's a chore: even when they manage to poke their feet out, the shells are too heavy for them to stand upright. One of them has figured out how to maneuver by pulling itself around using its beak, but mostly they stay where they are and coo quietly. I’ve been hand-feeding them birdseed and giving them water to drink from a tiny saucer.
Speaking of feeding, David Cassidy still hasn’t eaten.1 And despite the freezing temperatures and threat of snow, he has repeatedly ignored our invitations to come inside.2 In the end, we decided the least we could do was provide him with a couple of thick wool blankets to help protect him from the cold. He wouldn’t take them from us, of course. We were forced to haul out a ladder from the garage and drape the blankets over his back.
Goddammit, celebrities piss me off.
1 Nor has he spoken. I know the cat hasn't gotten his tongue; she's too scared to leave the house. His contract must have stipulated a non-speaking role.
2 Sonya wouldn’t come in, either, unwilling to leave her post beneath the nut in the tree. We offered her double her usual amount of treats, but no dice. I had to drag her inside by her collar, with her straining against me the entire way. Once locked in the house, she whined at the door for hours until I couldn’t take it any more and let her back out.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Day 1: Hazing the New Guy
This post (minus some edits) first ran on December 25, 2009.
Day 1 • Day 2 • Day 3 • Day 4 • Day 5 • Day 6 • Day 7 • Day 8 • Day 9 • Day 10 • Day 11 • Day 12
Okay, so I kind of get the pear tree.
Ever since we chopped down the crabapple tree back in July, the back yard has felt a little empty. The pear tree fills that void, and I’m certain its bounty next year will be much tastier than those horrid crabapples ever were.
What I don’t understand — and maybe this just shows my utter ignorance of Christmas customs — is why, sitting halfway up the tree, is that guy from the Partridge Family.
Admittedly, as a Jewish Atheist celebrating only his third Christmas, I’m relatively new to the holiday. But please, tell me: What does David Cassidy have to do with Christmas? Is it traditional to give your loved one 70s-era TV stars?
He’s been up there all morning, and has yet to move from that one limb. At first, Sonya barked at him, perhaps thinking he was some sort of giant mutant squirrel.1 She settled down after about ten minutes, but hasn't left her post beneath the tree, nor let her gaze stray from the middle-aged man oddly perched in her yard. David/Keith hasn’t said a word, nor did he seem interested in the plate of bacon and eggs we offered him. He just sits there, shivering, locked in a staring contest with the dog.2
My fiancée Denise3 made some remark this morning about Christmas being 12 days long. That's not true, is it? She’s just hazing the new guy, right? I sure hope there aren't another 11 like this one; I know for a fact that nowhere on my wishlist did I write, “a plum tree containing Greg Brady.”
I'll be keeping my fingers crossed.
1 I checked IMDb. As best I can tell he's never played a mutant rodent of any kind before. The guy's got range.
2 Update: Cassidy won the staring contest when Sonya stopped to eat his bacon.
3 See? You can tell I wrote this two years ago because back then I still called Denise my fiancée, rather than my ex-fiancée. (And she'd prefer I stop calling her that. It's the standard marriage stereotype: She nags at me to change my ways, and I don't listen.)
Day 1 • Day 2 • Day 3 • Day 4 • Day 5 • Day 6 • Day 7 • Day 8 • Day 9 • Day 10 • Day 11 • Day 12
Okay, so I kind of get the pear tree.Ever since we chopped down the crabapple tree back in July, the back yard has felt a little empty. The pear tree fills that void, and I’m certain its bounty next year will be much tastier than those horrid crabapples ever were.
What I don’t understand — and maybe this just shows my utter ignorance of Christmas customs — is why, sitting halfway up the tree, is that guy from the Partridge Family.
Admittedly, as a Jewish Atheist celebrating only his third Christmas, I’m relatively new to the holiday. But please, tell me: What does David Cassidy have to do with Christmas? Is it traditional to give your loved one 70s-era TV stars?
He’s been up there all morning, and has yet to move from that one limb. At first, Sonya barked at him, perhaps thinking he was some sort of giant mutant squirrel.1 She settled down after about ten minutes, but hasn't left her post beneath the tree, nor let her gaze stray from the middle-aged man oddly perched in her yard. David/Keith hasn’t said a word, nor did he seem interested in the plate of bacon and eggs we offered him. He just sits there, shivering, locked in a staring contest with the dog.2
My fiancée Denise3 made some remark this morning about Christmas being 12 days long. That's not true, is it? She’s just hazing the new guy, right? I sure hope there aren't another 11 like this one; I know for a fact that nowhere on my wishlist did I write, “a plum tree containing Greg Brady.”
I'll be keeping my fingers crossed.
1 I checked IMDb. As best I can tell he's never played a mutant rodent of any kind before. The guy's got range.
2 Update: Cassidy won the staring contest when Sonya stopped to eat his bacon.
3 See? You can tell I wrote this two years ago because back then I still called Denise my fiancée, rather than my ex-fiancée. (And she'd prefer I stop calling her that. It's the standard marriage stereotype: She nags at me to change my ways, and I don't listen.)
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Not a Creature Was Stirring
This post first ran on December 24, 2010.
'Twas the night before Christmas,
And all through the house
Not a creature was stirring,
Not even a—HEY!
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Judaism But Were Afraid to Ask
Two years ago I gave you Uncle Nate's Wholly Unsubstantiated Hanukkah Primer. Last year, in my first Jew & A session, one crazy guy explained eight crazy nights. So, break out your dreidels and gefilte fish, since once again...
I will answer any question you have about Judaism.
Have you ever wondered why God chose to talk to Moses from inside a flaming shrubbery? Why challah is braided while French bread isn't? Why Orthodox Jews can't listen to Black Sabbath on the Sabbath? Why the Hebrews are so obsessed with bagels and lox? Any question you might have, I have the answer.
And don't hesitate to ask a question simply because I've answered it before. As everyone knows, religions as old as Judaism don't survive by remaining constant; they constantly have to adapt and evolve. Thus, my answers to any repeat inquiries will undoubtedly be different this time around.
So, if you're curious about some aspect of Judaism, whether cultural, historical, pedagogical, or megalomaniacal, just post your question (or questions) in the comments section below. In one week, on the first day of Hanukkah (12/21), all shall be revealed.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
The Evolution of a Newborn
Early last week my wife discovered she had given birth to a hobbit.
Our son, a.k.a. The Professor, was barely five days old, but the evidence was undeniable. He was tiny, but had big feet, and every day he would eat breakfast, second breakfast, elevensies, etc. (It probably didn't help that I'd look at his wee little hands and hiss "my precioussss.")
But soon other, conflicting evidence also became undeniable. His feet were not hairy. He did not reside in a hole in the ground. Nor did he live in the 'Shire (a.k.a. Cheshire, CT, which is 30 miles away). Alas, our hobbit was not a hobbit.
It didn't take long to figure out the truth, though. He was a pale child who we were advised to keep out of direct sunlight, and he stayed awake throughout the night. Women were uncharacteristically drawn to him, and he would feed by sucking on the flesh of another person. Clearly, The Professor was a vampire.
Except that he wasn't. Not only can he be seen in mirrors, but he has no adverse reaction to garlic, wooden crosses, or holy water. Once again, we were wrong.
Over the past week, we've come to a series of similar conclusions, only to find logical discrepancies every time:
He's small, with the right sort of hat, and sometimes has a dopey look on his face. Thus, we believed he was a dwarf. Yet, he doesn't work in a mine or live with six older brothers in a house in the woods, so that couldn't be right.
Like a werewolf, he has claws, and he howled during the full moon this past Friday night. Nevertheless, he didn't become hairy, his basketball skills didn't improve, and he's not in London.
We thought he might be a young Starfleet Captain: There's always a lot of beaming when he's around, sometimes he cries out what sounds like "KHAAAAAAN!", and he can't always control his Number One. But he only boldly goes where many babies have gone before, so that couldn't be it.
The Professor's head can nearly turn to face backward, he keeps us up all night with his unearthly wailing, and spews liquids from his mouth. Therefore, he must be inhabited by a poltergeist, right? Wrong. His face always remains angelic, and the power of Christ does not compel him.
Perhaps he escaped from a retirement home. He needs others to feed, clothe, and bathe him, has no memories of his youth, doesn't try to hide his infatuation with breasts, and looks like an old man when he cries. But we've checked with every place in the area, and they have no record of him.
Also, he coo coos, and kachoos, but never does he do them in a row like that, so it's obvious he's not The Walrus.
And then we hit upon it: Harry Potter! He can't see clearly without wearing glasses, he was brought to live with a muggle family by a bearded man who was somewhat hagrid, has a pet (stuffed) owl, and he always surprises us with how quick he is with his wand.
Unfortunately, he can't see clearly with glasses, either. And his scar was Photoshopped.
So it looks like we still don't know what sort of creature The Professor is. But maybe you can help us out with that. Any ideas?
Our son, a.k.a. The Professor, was barely five days old, but the evidence was undeniable. He was tiny, but had big feet, and every day he would eat breakfast, second breakfast, elevensies, etc. (It probably didn't help that I'd look at his wee little hands and hiss "my precioussss.")
But soon other, conflicting evidence also became undeniable. His feet were not hairy. He did not reside in a hole in the ground. Nor did he live in the 'Shire (a.k.a. Cheshire, CT, which is 30 miles away). Alas, our hobbit was not a hobbit.
It didn't take long to figure out the truth, though. He was a pale child who we were advised to keep out of direct sunlight, and he stayed awake throughout the night. Women were uncharacteristically drawn to him, and he would feed by sucking on the flesh of another person. Clearly, The Professor was a vampire.
Except that he wasn't. Not only can he be seen in mirrors, but he has no adverse reaction to garlic, wooden crosses, or holy water. Once again, we were wrong.
Over the past week, we've come to a series of similar conclusions, only to find logical discrepancies every time:
He's small, with the right sort of hat, and sometimes has a dopey look on his face. Thus, we believed he was a dwarf. Yet, he doesn't work in a mine or live with six older brothers in a house in the woods, so that couldn't be right.
Like a werewolf, he has claws, and he howled during the full moon this past Friday night. Nevertheless, he didn't become hairy, his basketball skills didn't improve, and he's not in London.
We thought he might be a young Starfleet Captain: There's always a lot of beaming when he's around, sometimes he cries out what sounds like "KHAAAAAAN!", and he can't always control his Number One. But he only boldly goes where many babies have gone before, so that couldn't be it.
The Professor's head can nearly turn to face backward, he keeps us up all night with his unearthly wailing, and spews liquids from his mouth. Therefore, he must be inhabited by a poltergeist, right? Wrong. His face always remains angelic, and the power of Christ does not compel him.
Perhaps he escaped from a retirement home. He needs others to feed, clothe, and bathe him, has no memories of his youth, doesn't try to hide his infatuation with breasts, and looks like an old man when he cries. But we've checked with every place in the area, and they have no record of him.
Also, he coo coos, and kachoos, but never does he do them in a row like that, so it's obvious he's not The Walrus.
And then we hit upon it: Harry Potter! He can't see clearly without wearing glasses, he was brought to live with a muggle family by a bearded man who was somewhat hagrid, has a pet (stuffed) owl, and he always surprises us with how quick he is with his wand.
Unfortunately, he can't see clearly with glasses, either. And his scar was Photoshopped.
So it looks like we still don't know what sort of creature The Professor is. But maybe you can help us out with that. Any ideas?
Monday, June 27, 2011
The Too Big to Fail Whale
I've been on The Twitter for about a year now, and although I'm occasionally amused, I still don't quite get it.
Eventually, as the technology progresses, Twitter will outlive its usefulness. As much as people enjoy yelling out into the void and seeing what other people yell back, Twitter will only last so long. Like AOL, MySpace, and others before it, it will die a slow death as newer, fancier ideas supplant it. This may happen in two years or in twenty, but when it succumbs we won't mourn it for long. We'll adapt and keep on going, because no matter how the media evolves, we'll always have something to say. At least, I know I will.
My whale is too big to fail.
(Okay, so I really just wanted to mess with Twitter's imagery. Not that it makes anything I've said any less true...)
Eventually, as the technology progresses, Twitter will outlive its usefulness. As much as people enjoy yelling out into the void and seeing what other people yell back, Twitter will only last so long. Like AOL, MySpace, and others before it, it will die a slow death as newer, fancier ideas supplant it. This may happen in two years or in twenty, but when it succumbs we won't mourn it for long. We'll adapt and keep on going, because no matter how the media evolves, we'll always have something to say. At least, I know I will.
My whale is too big to fail.
(Okay, so I really just wanted to mess with Twitter's imagery. Not that it makes anything I've said any less true...)
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
DOOOOOM!
In the past, I’ve called this blog the place where memes go to die. When I’m given a blog award, I redesign it in Photoshop, ignore most (if not all) of the associated rules, and pass it along to absolutely no one. Well, today that’s going to change.
Okay, I may have modified the image, but old habits, like Bruce Willis, die hard. So, why am I breaking from tradition and adhering to the award’s prescribed rules? For my answer, I give you these four simple words:
Blog. Award. Of DOOM.
Today’s DOOM is courtesy of the epically fantastic Joseph L. Selby, who looked at my life and determined it didn’t have nearly enough DOOM in it. If I were you, I’d go check out his blog. Oh, and that’s not a suggestion. In case you forgot, you must now obey me because I am your overlord.
The rules (which I’ve only altered ever so slightly):
Of course, when I received this award, the first thing I thought of was this exchange from the first episode of Invader Zim:
Anyway, I shall pass the DOOM on to Hannah Kincade over at The Palindrome Effect, even though she’s on a semi-hiatus, because I’m curious to see what sort of DOOM she might throw at her characters. Of course, she may choose to DOOM The Picard instead, but that could be just as fun.
Getting back to rule #1, the selection below is the end of the first chapter in my WIP. I wrote this passage over four years ago and it’s in dire need of copious editing, but it should be fine for the purposes of DOOMY DOOMY DOOM. For reference, the main character has just been turned invisible by Army scientists, and he’s decided to play a little trick on them while they’re out of the room.
Behold, the excerpt of DOOM:
It’s not my best work, but I hope with some spit shine and/or elbow grease it’ll turn out alright in the rewrite. Oh, who am I kidding? I think it’s pretty obvious my writing career is DOOMED.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Okay, I may have modified the image, but old habits, like Bruce Willis, die hard. So, why am I breaking from tradition and adhering to the award’s prescribed rules? For my answer, I give you these four simple words:
Blog. Award. Of DOOM.
Today’s DOOM is courtesy of the epically fantastic Joseph L. Selby, who looked at my life and determined it didn’t have nearly enough DOOM in it. If I were you, I’d go check out his blog. Oh, and that’s not a suggestion. In case you forgot, you must now obey me because I am your overlord.
The rules (which I’ve only altered ever so slightly):
- When you receive the Blog Award of DOOM your task is to post a short selection of your writing, 100 -
300375 words, in whichyour favoritea character suffers a horrible fate. It can beyour favoritea character from your own writing or from something you've read, it can be from a finished manuscript, a WIP or something you just made up on the spot. Your choice, but it has to be full of DOOM!
- Pass it on to one other blogger and let them know their DOOM has come.
- Remember that the person who gave you the award also received it. Go back to their post to read and comment on their writing sample. Make sure to thank them for sending the DOOM your way.
- Whenever you use the word DOOM in your post, you must capitalize the whole thing.
Of course, when I received this award, the first thing I thought of was this exchange from the first episode of Invader Zim:
Zim: Let us rain some DOOM down upon the filthy heads of our DOOMed enemies.The award is also quite fitting, since I’ve performed with the Rod Knobs of DOOOOOOOM!, my friends’ Rock Band band. (And by the way, “rod knobs” are not what you think they are. Get your mind out of the gutter. They’re actually what an interior decorator would call “finials,” or what a normal person would call “those things at the end of curtain rods.” Okay, you can put your mind back in the gutter now, if you so choose.)
GIR: I'm gonna sing the DOOM Song now. [singing] DOOM DOOOM DOOM DOOM DOOOM DOOM DOOM DOOM DOOOOOM... (watch video)
Anyway, I shall pass the DOOM on to Hannah Kincade over at The Palindrome Effect, even though she’s on a semi-hiatus, because I’m curious to see what sort of DOOM she might throw at her characters. Of course, she may choose to DOOM The Picard instead, but that could be just as fun.
Getting back to rule #1, the selection below is the end of the first chapter in my WIP. I wrote this passage over four years ago and it’s in dire need of copious editing, but it should be fine for the purposes of DOOMY DOOMY DOOM. For reference, the main character has just been turned invisible by Army scientists, and he’s decided to play a little trick on them while they’re out of the room.
Behold, the excerpt of DOOM:
Sean pulled out the IV and let it fall to the floor. Shedding his hospital gown, he started toward the door, but a tug at his chest stopped him short. He glanced back and caught his reflection in the mirror: three electrodes floating in mid-air, straining at their wires like miniature kites in a gale-strength wind. That was it. He couldn’t help but smile.
He peeled one of the electrodes off, and then jumped as a sharp crack shattered the silence of the room. Before he could turn to see the source, another three bangs rang out in quick succession. His left shoulder erupted in a burst of searing pain.
What the hell?! His attempt to scream this sentiment, however, came out as more of a gurgle, and he tasted blood. He brought his right hand up to his throat, which was wet to the touch and had a small hole in it on the left side. His fingers found its twin on the right, his blood seeping out in spurts. Oh fuck, this was not good. He applied pressure to both neck and shoulder to try to stymie the flow.
Something clattered off to his right. He swiveled cautiously to look, wincing as his shoulder throbbed. A close grouping of black circles now stood out against the white tile of the back wall, a series of minute cracks radiating outward from each one. A couple adjacent tiles had unburdened themselves and fallen to pieces on the floor below.
The dizziness hit him all at once. His vision blurred. He needed to get to the bed. He needed the doctors. A violent cough sent him staggering backward into the heart rate monitor, which fell to the ground. Spun around by the impact and entangled in electrode wires, he tumbled forward onto the machine and collapsed in an invisible heap, his invisible blood collecting in invisible puddles on the floor.
Beneath him, the monitor sounded out a half-dozen more quick beeps, and then settled into one steady, high-pitched tone.
* * *
Standing in the doorway, Colonel Jack Buckworth sighed and re-holstered his weapon. “Well, that was a waste of money.”
The colonel spun on his heels and strode back down the hallway, past the trio of stunned doctors.
It’s not my best work, but I hope with some spit shine and/or elbow grease it’ll turn out alright in the rewrite. Oh, who am I kidding? I think it’s pretty obvious my writing career is DOOMED.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Friday, June 17, 2011
I, For One, Welcome Our New Fiery Overlord
...because it is me. And before you start to argue how that should be "...because it is I," you might want to remember that I'm an overlord now. Never dispute grammar with an overlord.
So how did I gain my new title? Laurie Peel over at Earth Dragon Healing bestowed the Overlord Award upon me because she feels I'm changing the world one blog post at a time. Now, I know me pretty well, so that seems rather unlikely,1 but I daresay it's about time I got me some minions. Welcome, minions.
Anyway, the first thing I did as Overlord was the same thing I do every time I get an award: I redesigned it.
I'm also supposed to list three things I will change about the world now that I'm all-powerful. You can expect many, many improvements during my reign, my dear minions, but here are the first three pronouncements that come to mind:
So there you have it, my first three changes to the world order. I believe I'm also supposed to pass this award on to a bunch of other bloggers, but fat chance at that happening. There are already too many other overlords as it is. So you be good little minions, and get cracking on those sandwiches.
Oh, and make sure to come back next week, for there shall be DOOM!
1 About as unlikely as some firm offering to rep Rep. Weiner's wiener.
2 And it won't be just a flesh wound.
3 What? There are salt mines; there have got to be pepper mines, too. No? How about oregano? Paprika?
So how did I gain my new title? Laurie Peel over at Earth Dragon Healing bestowed the Overlord Award upon me because she feels I'm changing the world one blog post at a time. Now, I know me pretty well, so that seems rather unlikely,1 but I daresay it's about time I got me some minions. Welcome, minions.
Anyway, the first thing I did as Overlord was the same thing I do every time I get an award: I redesigned it.
| Original: | Overlorded: |
 |  |
- You must make me a sammich. I'm not saying you should all gang together and build me a sandwich of monumental proportions, since overlord or not I'm still just one man. My mouth only opens so far, and my stomach only holds so much. It'd be a shame for so much deliciousness to go to waste.
Nor am I saying that each of you should make me a sandwich right now. My benevolence and cruelty may know no bounds, but my appetite doesn't. Tell you what: I'll have my underlord put together a schedule, and you'll each be responsible for preparing a sandwich for me on one date in the future.
- Turn signals: Use 'em or lose 'em. The first 'em, of course, refers to your car's turn signals. The second 'em, however, refers to your arms. Under my rule, if you don't use your turn signals, you will lose your limbs.2 Then again, it's likely the limbless will be even more unlikely to use their turn signals, and I can't have that. Thus, I also decree that it's illegal to drive without arms. And you must come to a full stop at red lights and stop signs. What? I can totally combine three pronouncements into one. Shut up.
- No, you shut up. As overlord, I can't be bothered to listen to you blathering on about this, that, and whatnot. I simply have too much to do. If I start to look bored, you'd better shut up, or I'll send you to work in the pepper mines.3
If you feel I'm blathering on too long myself, a) you're wrong, and b) it's to the parsley mines for you. But if, in the midst of my impressively important diatribe, you utter the phrase, "This is my favorite story," I may eventually stop talking. Maybe.
So there you have it, my first three changes to the world order. I believe I'm also supposed to pass this award on to a bunch of other bloggers, but fat chance at that happening. There are already too many other overlords as it is. So you be good little minions, and get cracking on those sandwiches.
Oh, and make sure to come back next week, for there shall be DOOM!
1 About as unlikely as some firm offering to rep Rep. Weiner's wiener.
2 And it won't be just a flesh wound.
3 What? There are salt mines; there have got to be pepper mines, too. No? How about oregano? Paprika?
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Virtue May Be Its Own Reward, But I'll Take These
As much as I enjoyed the A to Z Challenge, I was also relieved when May rolled around and I could get back to my regular "whenever I damn well please" posting schedule. But after spending the past two weeks recovering from blog overload (or "bloverload") by retreating into the real world, I feel it's time I finally gave some recognition.
Of course, since my ego is the size of a Buick, what I want to recognize is that my blog has been recognized. I'm talking blog awards, people. I've recently received three of them from four fellow bloggers (only one of whom is a fellow), and as is my practice, I've Photoshopped them into oblivion.
Matthew Vanacore over at FilmMattic was the first to bestow the Stylish Blogger Award upon me. If you like movies like I like movies (and I like movies), you owe it to yourself to check out his blog.
Then check out Marian Allen, who determined I was "crazy all over the inside of [my] head," and then also gave me this award, presumably because my craziness is so stylish. Nonetheless, I didn't think the award really lived up to its name, so I went to work:
Marian's award also came with the stipulation that I share seven things about myself. Normally, I ignore stipulations, but luckily for Marian, I enjoy making lists:
At the tail end of the Challenge, Elizabeth Mueller passed this award along to everyone who made it through to Z, which I thought was a very nice gesture on her part. My decision to embellish the award wasn't nearly as nice a gesture, but I didn't let that stop me:
And finally, Deirdra Coppel over at A Storybook World handed out an award to everyone in the Challenge. She chose the Creative Blog Award for me, though for the life of me I can't think of why. I couldn't even come up with a inventive way to improve her award; all I did was add depth, contrast, and color:
Well, that's it for today. Maybe next time I'll do something more stylish, or creative, or survivory.4 But for now, I'm going to retreat once again into the real world, and see if I can maybe win an award there. Wish me luck.
1 In both instances, it was an orange felt costume, with a green felt cap, and had C-A-R-R-O-T in bold black letters down the front. Booya.
2 Despite being a short white guy, I can jump high and spike hard. (Unlike Nathan Fillion's character, my nickname of "The Hammer" is because of my fist.) Anyway, after his partial block, the guy popped his thumb back into place and proudly played through the pain the rest of the night. I have no idea why. They were just pick-up games.
3 I failed.
4 For instance, Bridget, I know you still want me to create the Deviant Blogger Award. I'll get started on that once I finish the Procrastinating Blogger Award.
Of course, since my ego is the size of a Buick, what I want to recognize is that my blog has been recognized. I'm talking blog awards, people. I've recently received three of them from four fellow bloggers (only one of whom is a fellow), and as is my practice, I've Photoshopped them into oblivion.
Matthew Vanacore over at FilmMattic was the first to bestow the Stylish Blogger Award upon me. If you like movies like I like movies (and I like movies), you owe it to yourself to check out his blog.
Then check out Marian Allen, who determined I was "crazy all over the inside of [my] head," and then also gave me this award, presumably because my craziness is so stylish. Nonetheless, I didn't think the award really lived up to its name, so I went to work:
Before: | After: |
- For Halloween in kindergarten, I dressed as a carrot.
- The day I bought my first car, I got into an accident... before I left the dealership.
- For Halloween in first grade, I dressed as a carrot.1
- I haven't set my alarm clock for a time ending in 0 or 5 since I was
1514. - Once, while playing volleyball, I dislocated a thumb. The thumb wasn't mine.2
- I can hold my breath for upwards of 15 seconds.
- When I was two years old, I tried to jump into the Grand Canyon.3
At the tail end of the Challenge, Elizabeth Mueller passed this award along to everyone who made it through to Z, which I thought was a very nice gesture on her part. My decision to embellish the award wasn't nearly as nice a gesture, but I didn't let that stop me:
Before: | After: |
Before: | After: |
1 In both instances, it was an orange felt costume, with a green felt cap, and had C-A-R-R-O-T in bold black letters down the front. Booya.
2 Despite being a short white guy, I can jump high and spike hard. (Unlike Nathan Fillion's character, my nickname of "The Hammer" is because of my fist.) Anyway, after his partial block, the guy popped his thumb back into place and proudly played through the pain the rest of the night. I have no idea why. They were just pick-up games.
3 I failed.
4 For instance, Bridget, I know you still want me to create the Deviant Blogger Award. I'll get started on that once I finish the Procrastinating Blogger Award.
Friday, May 6, 2011
The Great Tebahpla
a.k.a A Fond Look Back on the A to Z
Thar be but two days left to enter me Pirate Haiku Contest. It ends Saturday, 5/7 at 5pm.
Although the following retrospective may only appeal to me, I'm still going through with it. You know why? Because I'm me. And I like things that appeal to me.
Anyway, like many participants in April's A to Z Challenge, I started off strong, and even without eating my Wheaties. I'd written the first week's worth of posts ahead of time, so I began visiting other blogs left and right. Things were good for a while, but I couldn't keep up the pace. Halfway through, I began to tire, and soon real life interfered. By the final week, I only had one of the last six posts written, and I barely made it to any new blogs. I regret I wasn't able to visit more bloggers, but that's really my only complaint. I found new and exciting blogs, wrote a few inspired posts, and gained followers whoare delusional actually enjoy what I have to say. It was a great month.
By the way, in case you missed them, here are the posts I feel were my cleverest, craziest, and Jesus-meets-Hitchhiker's-Guidiest, respectively:
Also, since so many people asked about the letter images (technically, no one asked, but you shut up), I'll share the background on those. I painstakingly created them myself, using 24 different fonts and practically every Photoshop layer style known to man (plus a few others only women know about).
I wanted to get all the letters in one place, so you'll find them below. Hover your cursor over a letter to display the title of that day's post, and click to go to the post itself. (If you hover over the same image in the post, you'll get an alliterative sentence using that day's letter.)
So, will I do the A to Z again next year? I don't know. All I know is that if I do, I won't be nearly as creative as I was this time around. Creativity takes time, and I'll have a 9-month old in the house, so I'll be rather short on time. Maybe I'll just go for witty instead.
That, or haiku. Everyone loves haiku. (Hint hint.)
Thar be but two days left to enter me Pirate Haiku Contest. It ends Saturday, 5/7 at 5pm.
Although the following retrospective may only appeal to me, I'm still going through with it. You know why? Because I'm me. And I like things that appeal to me.
Anyway, like many participants in April's A to Z Challenge, I started off strong, and even without eating my Wheaties. I'd written the first week's worth of posts ahead of time, so I began visiting other blogs left and right. Things were good for a while, but I couldn't keep up the pace. Halfway through, I began to tire, and soon real life interfered. By the final week, I only had one of the last six posts written, and I barely made it to any new blogs. I regret I wasn't able to visit more bloggers, but that's really my only complaint. I found new and exciting blogs, wrote a few inspired posts, and gained followers who
By the way, in case you missed them, here are the posts I feel were my cleverest, craziest, and Jesus-meets-Hitchhiker's-Guidiest, respectively:
- L (Love Letters, Literally)
- G (Go-Go Gadget Gobbledygook!)
- So Long, and Thanks for the All the Loaves and Fish (my bonus Easter post)
| First Conceived: | C (A to Z Contest), Q (Questioning Qwyjibo), V (Vampires vs. Velociraptors!) |
| Last Conceived: | P (Primordial Pluperfect Prepositions) |
| Fastest to Write: | P |
| Longest to Write: | A (A Ragman's Anagrams, or how Justin Bieber = Inert Jubbies) |
| Done Weeks Ahead of Time: | H (The Half Humphrey), R (Reading, 'Riting, 'Rithmetic), T (The Top Ten Things That Threaten to Topple This Theocracy) |
| Done Last Minute: | W, X, Y, Z |
| Most Read: | C, B, A, and for some reason, O (Oh. Em. Gee.) |
| Least Read: | Y (The Sometimes Y), P, N (Nothing, Nil, Nada.) |
| Most Misplaced: | K (Kurious Khemical Kompounds) |
Also, since so many people asked about the letter images (technically, no one asked, but you shut up), I'll share the background on those. I painstakingly created them myself, using 24 different fonts and practically every Photoshop layer style known to man (plus a few others only women know about).
I wanted to get all the letters in one place, so you'll find them below. Hover your cursor over a letter to display the title of that day's post, and click to go to the post itself. (If you hover over the same image in the post, you'll get an alliterative sentence using that day's letter.)
So, will I do the A to Z again next year? I don't know. All I know is that if I do, I won't be nearly as creative as I was this time around. Creativity takes time, and I'll have a 9-month old in the house, so I'll be rather short on time. Maybe I'll just go for witty instead.
That, or haiku. Everyone loves haiku. (Hint hint.)
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