You're my best friend

"I told you I had to go to the bathroom."

Splotchy's Viral Theatre Redux

My second tag this week. Normally, when someone throws the gauntlet down in such an aggressive, demonic (but not always wide) stance, I'm ready to rejoice because it means I have to put less thought into a post and you all know how much I love to not think.

Sheesh, don't be so fucking quick to agree. Assholes.

But this tag is a sword with one of those high-falutin' double edges that you can't order off the teevee but have to travel to Old Europe to get: another infection by the greatest meme in the history of the known universe (I can't speak for any parallel ones).

Anyway, Señor Spielbergo has released this New-and-Improved® virus into the electrons and I'm afraid I've been stricken. I'm even more afraid of these exploding pustules on my skin. I'm most afraid of my contribution which really does suck vast fields of ass. Oh well. On with the show.

I had been shuffling around the house for a few hours and already felt tired. The doorbell rang. I opened the front door and saw a figure striding away from the house, quickly and purposefully. I looked down and saw a bulky envelope. I picked it up. The handwriting was smudged and cramped, and I could only make out a few words. (Splotchy)

"Meet me at two o'clock at Grisham Square. Don't be late!"

What? I already had an appointment at that time. In fact, that was the only reason I had even taken off work that Wednesday. But, when I saw the photos, I knew I had to go and see what the hell was going on. Oh gosh, now I wish I hadn't, but how was I to know then that Elizabeth would take this whole thing so far? (Freida Bee)

She had exposed the nefarious Republican oil-for-neckties program, skillfully dismantling its diabolically brilliant mind control scheme, giving each man, woman and child his or her freewill back, and this had made her a national, nay, worldwide, heroine, but -- the fear -- the look of stark, otherworldly terror on the -- could they even be classified as faces anymore?

No, I had to swallow the overwhelming dread that was threatening to force me into complete shutdown, collapsing on the hallowed ground where I would silently, naively wish it all away until it came for -- me. Fruitlessly wiping away a flood of icy sweat, I knew I had to steel my resolve, look upon those photos once more and let them burn their horrific images in my psyche. Permanently. (Randal Graves)

Sorry, you've been drafted. Get writing (or don't):
Dean, anita, (0)(0), Scarlet, Utah Savage.

Ghosts and Specters

Security camera footage of yours truly buried in research for today's post.

I know we often criticize purveyors of crocodile tears and 'thank you sir may I have another!' policies such as Pennsylvania Senator Arlen Specter, but perhaps it's time to bury our doubt and righteous indignation once and for all, especially after yesterday's rant, an instant classic on a timely and vitally important topic that speaks to our nation's very soul:

"I have documented the strong factual case that a Justice Department investigation was neither objective nor adequate," Specter told nytimes.com on Wednesday evening. "If the President doesn't move for an independent investigation, then there will be a permanent black mark on the Bush Administration and the United States' record will be historically tainted. Depending on the public reaction, I may ask the Senate Judiciary Committee to hold hearings on the FISA exemption."













Arlen, you sonofabitch, go on with your bad s -- oh, he was talking about that.

There's a lesson to be learned here, children: don't drink and drive surf.

Highway to Hell

You thought we'd be taking another road? Only one we know.

You can't bury the past like you can a corpse

You know, I'm supposed to be on vacation for a good part of the upcoming week, but getting frozen by tagging is a risk we take when we instigate electrification of our computational machinery. At least it happened before the Official Slack® begins. Thus, for your edification/whimsy/boredom, I humbly answer the following questions. I hope these frostbitten digits don't hinder my world-renowned typing skills too much.

Ten years ago, what were you doing?


















"Come on Randal, let's blow this popsicle stand."

The same thing I'm doing now in terms of parenting, husbandry, employment and entertainment, except I watch The X-Files on DVD instead of over broadcast television. Yeah, baby, I sure do get around.

Five things on today's tomorrow's 'to-do' list:

















Since I'm off (did I mention that I will not be at work? Muahahahaha, etc) enjoying the quiet while the kids are at school only if my neo-redneck neighbor actually goes to his job that I assume he might have thereby preventing him from working on his junky, shit-ass cars, read, write, listen to tunes, vegetate.

If I were a billionaire, I would:













Buy a billion things at the dollar store. (no, I'd probably do some 'good,' but how sexy an answer is that, though I'm sure there will be some sex involved. Of course with my wife. And Gillian Anderson. No, not at the same time. Unless they're both okay with it, which they would be, right?)

Three bad habits I have:


















If I told you, I'd have to kill you. Or throw up all over your shirt.

Five places I've lived:














Cleveland, Akron, Columbus, my head, my other head.

Five jobs I've had:












Salaried sex worker, state employee, federal employee, fortune teller, hot dog cart operator.

Fellow suckers travelers:

The Flying Nunly, La Belette Rouge, b. I can't recall who has and hasn't been tagged by this, so feel free to tag yourself. Just keep it down to a small roar, okay? I'm trying to relax.

The Man With The Golden Gun Hair*

"My friends..."

"Um, you're talking to just me, John."

"I like baseball. Do you like bas --"

"NOW THAT'S REAL CODPIECE MATERIAL!"

"Once I went fishing on Cape Cod."

I've got nothing today, dudes and dudettes -- though it is nice being at home instead of work on a Saturday for once -- so close your eyes for a moment and think of another world. That's right, close them all away ('all' for those of you blessed or cursed with multiple eyeballs, apparently. Why didn't I simply correct that awkward phrase? Beats me.) Clear your mind of clutter and concentrate on this magical place akin to naught but childish fantasy and mysterious whimsy! A thoroughly mad, impossible, fantabulous world of the truly bizarre, one in which *gasp!* Chris Matthews is not a flesh-eating diabolic beast of primordial myth. It's hard work, your President knows.

So have fun this weekend with the woefully inadequate Mad Lib below. No peeking, you bastards! The effort that busts the most guts in comments gets a prize: bragging rights!

What, you thought there would be hard cash involved? Capitalist pigs.

1. noun: a place, adjective, noun, verb: past participle, noun, adjective, famous television idiot.
2. adjective, noun, verb, adjective, noun.
3. adjective, noun, noun.
4. adverb, verb, unconventional occupation.
5. another famous television idiot, adjective, noun, adverb, adjective, noun.
6. vulgarity, adverb, verb, adjective, noun, adjective, noun, adjective.
7. adjective, noun: disarmingly weird locale, noun: plural, adjective, noun: plural.



I said no peeking!



I fucking mean it!



Do I not look Very Serious?



If you scroll down I'll stick a stamp to your ass and mail you to The Undisclosed Location. You really want to be Cheney's next meal?



That's right. Scroll back up like good little boys and girls.



1. One fine, sunny beltway day, Tweety was going to ____noun: a place____ to have his ____adjective____ ____noun____ ____verb: past participle____. On the way, he met his ____noun____, the ____adjective____ bag of gas, ____famous television idiot_____. Tweety was surprised.

2. "Wow, you ____adjective____ ____noun____, I didn't expect to see you ____verb____ your ____adjective____ ____noun____ this early!"

3. "You know the old saying, 'The ____adjective____ ____noun____ catches the ____noun____.'"

4. "Something catches what? Sorry, I wasn't paying attention. I was thinking of The Straight Talk Express ____adverb____ ____verb____. What a colossus of ____unconventional occupation____!"

5. "Shhh! ____another famous television idiot____ might hear you! Do you want that ____adjective____ ____noun____ ____adverb____ blabbing to you-know-who about your ____adjective____ ____noun____ fetish?"

6. "Oh, relax. Don't be such an elitist ____vulgarity____. I'll just ____adverb____ ____verb____ this ____adjective____ ____noun____ until their ____adjective____ ____noun____ disappears like evidence of my ____adjective____ man crushes on vile bastards."

7. And Tweety said goodbye, whistling a ____adjective____ tune as he headed back to his ____noun: disarmingly weird locale____ with his stack of ____noun: plural____ and his ____adjective____ ____noun: plural____ to spend the day reminiscing about John Sidney McCain.

*yes, I realize that it's now red. Blame Ian Fleming for not being proactive.

Inspiration

The spark of creativity is a moody creature, and this is the reason I swig humbly offer libations of wine and eat pizza rolls sacrifice virgins to the indifferent cosmos for the gift of others who heed its call when my muse is out of town on a raging bender. Sorry Erato, that was you calling the porcelain phone, was it not? Now I'm thinking of Roland, after so much bloodshed, blowing his horn at last. Sure, he fought valiantly and with honor and all those other medieval buzzwords, but at the end of the day, he got chopped into teeny, tiny pieces.

Sort of how I feel when I try to write.

Yeah, there's a finished work lying on the table in front of me, but goddamn, is it terrible. Perhaps I should find me a nice, shiny, sharpened broadsword and get to hacking, you hack. Laugh, damn you, laugh.

Anyway, while tossing the bloody, versified chunks into the freshly dug (imaginary, bien sûr) grave and debating which musical piece or work of art I should conjure up in order to spark the creative process, I remembered a painting done by the talented susan -- she tells quite interesting stories, in addition to being an artiste -- that I enjoyed very much, subsequently attempting to write a poem using said painting as my source. Whether it captured a fraction of, or one view of, the work's essence is not for me to decide. The finished product, as you will see, pales in comparison to her wonderful watercolor, but I hope the act itself will transcend any inherent flaws in the lines below.

La danseuse de ciel

Deep light waxes long in brilliant fire
for flora to bloom, blessed by winter’s grace
to display the dawn smiling in a face,
and the storming of a new desire.

Verdant days stray, playing a simple suite,
catching colors in voicing harmony.
Fools and fiends struck by natural sorcery,
worn down by the thunder of their deceit.

Bright dancer, descend from your ancient throne,
changing violet shades to thickest black.
Disappearing sight finds at last the track
where waning, disheartened gloom has since flown

under the cover of your silvered strands
bathing the petals of these wretched hands.

The post you've been dying to read

More hockey predictions!

Once again, I batted .500. I'm going to start flipping a fucking coin. Guess which one of the following will be incorrect and win not a goddamn thing!

Pittsburgh vs. Philadelphia: Come on. Did anyone outside of professional jackass Bobby Clarke think a bunch of young kids, an untested goalie, a free agent signing and a deadline deal would end up four games from playing for Lord Stanley's drinking glass? It's a hell of a story. And it ends at the hands of the most dynamic duo of youth in the sport since Gretzky and Messier. If the Penguins don't fuck this up, can anyone see anything but multiple championships in their collective future? Penguins in six.

Detroit vs. Dallas: There is A Country For Old Men when you have Johan Franzen pretending to be Mike Bossy. Nine goals in four games? Will Randal overuse italics? Stay tuned, true believers! Oh, yeah, the hockey. Dallas is finally living up to its talent (having added playoff-tested and former Conn Smythe winner Brad Richards hasn't hurt), but overtime games, especially those of the near-140-minute variety, can go either way. The Stars are good, but not good enough. Red Wings in six.

The Wizard

Evil power disappears
Demons worry when the wizard is near
He turns tears into joy
Everyone's happy when the wizard walks by

Almost everyone.

Clash of the Titans (and one small man)

"There's two of you legendary figures of the creative spirit sharing the same birthday, two of you kings among musical men? We're gonna need a bigger cake."



Pierre-Laurent Aimard and gang performing the fourth movement of Johannes Brahms' first piano quartet. Odd to see such cuts in a classical YouTube. Someone's been overdosing on some MTV.

If someone held a gun to my head and instead of asking for the three or four singles in my wallet -- take my debit card while you're at it, dumbass, there's jack shit in the bank, too -- asked me to choose my favorite work of his, I would have to say the third symphony. No embed allowed (c'est terrible !) so check out the first movement here. Or better yet, go buy the damn thing.



Michael Tilson Thomas conducting the last movement of Piotr Tchaikovsky's indestructible fourth symphony. Hey, who doesn't love a bombastic finalé?








"Did someone say bombs? Heh, heh."

Chimpy, there's more to love in life than having a torrential downpour of munitions turn vast fields of real estate into a mélange of cracked stone, burnt timber, scattered body parts and fragmented humanity. Yes, there are other things things to love.

Including that giant chocolate cake over there.

I can haz read books, too!

"Where's the blow, er, coke? Heh, heh."
"Over there, Mr. President."

What The Hell Have I

Nothing today sir
or madam, as the case may
be, but a grand theft --

not auto, but this
old poetical style
from ancient isles.

A posting so fine
later, unless I do not,
laughing at suckers --

comme moi, 'cause Sony
won't permit embeds of stuff
like this rockin' tune

so don't blame me for
the unmoving space above,
ire at bigwigs.

[insert own clever, basketball-related title]

Yes, my brain is currently in the frying pan. No, not because of that, but because of this. At least it's not a math paper. Shudder. Anyway, here's another batch of poorly-predicted, hoops-related guesses. Hey, as Smooth Jimmy Apollo says, when you're right 52% of the time, you're wrong 48% of the time. (For the record, I am currently 6-1, anxiously awaiting the outcome of the woefully underachieving Celtics. Forget all about my hockey predictions. Go Habs!)











"Jeez, what's taking you guys so long?"

Oh, and Boston, you with the 66-16 record and league-best point differential? Thanks for fucking up the timely posting of my picks. I'd like to assume that you'll win at home tomorrow, but you know what they say when you assume. It makes a Republican out of you and me. The ungodly 37-45 juggernaut should fall by your hand, but just in case:

IF Boston doesn't succumb to the greatest upset in NBA playoff history, Boston vs. Cleveland: Well, I did say it would be ug-lee. Celtics, you guys indeed look to be prime candidates for the grave or a few lines in the DSM-IV. Your most dangerous weapon, your defense, got picked apart by rookie Al Horford and Zaza Pachulia while getting matched on the boards by the Joshes. Oh, yeah, you're real scary. I'd like to see Wally World duplicate his game six exploits before he makes me a believer, but if the goddamn Hawks -- they were, and I cannot emphasize this enough, thirty-seven and forty-five! -- can beat you, what chance does an equally average team with the crucial difference of having the best player in league carry? Cavs in six.

Yes, before you move to pick your jaw up off the floor, I'm fully aware of the bizarre, almost supernatural sight of a Cleveland sports fan showing any confidence whatsoever. You don't think it's giving me a case of deathly, the-end-of-the-world-is-nigh fright, as well?

IF the Boston giant gets slain by the pawns missing a king, queen, both bishops and a knight, Cleveland vs. Atlanta: 'bout time that goddamn city feels some sporting pain. Could this have been set up any better? Getting to play the undoubted worst team in the playoffs with a potential matchup against another team who, regardless of their public yammerings, would rather have played the Celtics? You're not going to see a repeat of the 1981 Western conference or the Sonics in 1987. The sub-.500 team goes down like they should. Cavs in five.

Detroit vs. Orlando: Hell if I know which Detroit team will show up. Yes, their collective tooth is a bit long, but they've added some young guys who actually contribute a few quality minutes here and there. Neither Rasheed, McDyess nor Jason Maxiell can handle 20/20 guy Dwight Howard -- Dwight, please, get a Mean Streak®. You'll be able to win series nearly all by yourself if you do, thereby joining the pantheon of all time great pivotmen -- and experience is overrated. Just ask Dallas. But, Motor City has home court and, well, see the first sentence of this paragraph. I'd dearly love to pick Orlando, but Pistons in seven.

L.A. Lakers vs. Utah: Kobe, enjoy your lifetime achievement award as you get blistered in the paint. Carlos The Traitor is due to break out and as someone lit an inferno under Mehmet Okur's shoes -- even AK-47 is a valued member of Mormon society once again -- Utah has the superior starting five. For the Lakers, going up against such a tough squad with Pau Gasol instead of without is triple-word score groovy, but Utah is the better team, period. Jazz in six.

New Orleans vs. San Antonio: The feel-good story of the season versus Old (Cowboy) Hat. The Spurs do have the most powerful triumvirate on paper since Caesar, Crassus and Pompey -- okay, Cream kicked a bunch of ass, too -- but the Hornets proved beyond a shadow of my doubt that they are quite the legitimate title contender. For one more series at least, the Ben Gay savvy of role players such as Kurt Thomas, Bruce Bowen and Robert Horry prove to be the edge. Spurs in six.

What's that smell?

It's not English Leather.

приветствия, камрады!

Happy May Day, fellow pinkos. I was planning on filling the proletariat afternoon with glorious work, tilling the gardens of the collective after this interminably long parade finished up sometime after the next five-year plan, but a goddamn SAM ran over my goddamn foot.