Samurai Platypus

Wed, 03 Mar 2004 00:18:10 GMT

He glided out of the gathering dusk and seated himself at the other end of my bench and gazed absently across the lakes toward the Sherry Netherland. The setting sun had dribbled blood in the sky. Central Park was enjoying its eventide hush: there was only the rustle of leaves and grasses, the cooing of distant and
shadowy couples, the muted toot of a bus way over on Fifth.

When the bench quivered its announcement of company I had glanced along it expecting to find some derelict seeking a flop. The difference between the anticipated and the seen was such that I looked again, long, carefully, out one corner of my eye so that he wouldn’t notice.

Despite the gray half-tones of twilight, what I saw was a study in black and white. He had thin, sensitive features as white as his gloves and his shirt-front. His shoes and suit were not quite as black as his finely curved eyebrows and well-groomed hair. His eyes were blackest of all; that solid, supernatural darkness that can be no deeper or darker. Yet they were alive with an underlying glow.

He had no hat. A slender walking stick of ebony rested against his legs. A black silk-lined cloak hung from his shoulders. If he’d been doing it for the movies he couldn’t have presented a better picture of a distinguished foreigner.

My mind speculated about him the way minds do when momentarily they’ve nothing else to bother them. A European refugee, it decided. A great surgeon, or sculptor, or something like that. Perhaps a writer, or a painter. More likely the latter.

I stole another look at him. In the lowering light his pale profile was hawklike. The glow behind his eyes was strengthening with the dark. His cloak lent him majesty. The trees were stretching their arms toward him as if to give comfort through the long, long night.

No hint of suffering marked his face. It had nothing in common with the worn, lined faces I had seen in New York, features stamped forever with the brand of the Gestapo. On the contrary, it held a mixture of boldness and serenity. Impulsively I decided that he was a musician. I could imagine him conducting a choir of fifty thousand voices.

“I am fond of music,” he said in low, rich tones.

He turned to face me, revealed a pronounced peak in his hair.

“Really?” The unexpectedness of it had me muddled. “What sort?” I asked feebly.

“This.” He used his ebony stick to indicate the world at large. “The sigh of ending day.”

“Yes, it’s soothing,” I agreed.

We were silent awhile. Slowly the horizon soaked up the blood in the sky. A wan moon floated over the towers.

“You’re not a native of New York?” I prompted.

“No.” Resting long, slender hands on his stick, he gazed meditatively forward. “I am a displaced person.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” he said.

I couldn’t sit there and leave him flat like that. The choice was to continue or go. There was no need to go. I continued.

“Care to tell me about it?”

His head came round and he studied me as if only now aware of my presence. That weird light in his orbs could almost be felt. He smiled gradually, tolerantly, showing perfect teeth.

“I would be wasting your time.”

“Not at all. I’m wasting it anyway.”

Smiling again, he used his stick to draw unseeable circles in front of his black shoes.

“In these days it is an all too familiar story,” he said. “A leader became so blinded by his own glory that no longer could he perceive his own blunders. He developed delusions of grandeur, posed as the final arbiter on everything from birth to death, and thereby brought into being a movement for his overthrow. He created the seeds of his own destruction. It was inevitable in the circumstances.”

“You bet!” I supported wholeheartedly. “To hell with dictators!”

***

The stick slipped from his grasp. He picked it up, juggled it idly, resuming his circle drawing.

“The revolt didn’t succeed?” I suggested.

“No.” He looked at the circles as if he could see them. “It proved too weak and too early. It was crushed. Then came the purge.” His glowing eyes surveyed the sentinel trees. “I organized that opposition. I still think it was justified. But I dare not go back.”

“Fat lot you should care about that. You’ll fit in here like apple pie with your proud spirit.”

“I don’t think so. I’m not welcome here either.” His voice was deeper. “Not wanted - anywhere.”

“You don’t look like Trotsky to me,” I cracked. “Besides, he’s dead. Cheer up. Don’t be morbid. You’re in free country now.”

“No man is free until he’s beyond his enemy’s reach.” He glanced at me with an irritating touch of amusement. “When one’s foe has gained control of every channel of propaganda, uses them exclusively to present his own case and utterly suppress mine, and damns the truth in advance as the worst of lies, there is no hope for me.”

“That’s your European way of looking at things. I don’t blame you for it, but you’ve got to snap out of it. You’re in America now. We’ve free speech here. A man can say what he likes, write what he likes.”

“If only that were true.”

“It is true,” I asserted, my annoyance beginning to climb. “Here, you can call the Pope a hyphenated so-and-so if you want. Nobody can stop you, not even a cop. We’re free, like I told you.”

He stood up, towering amid embracing trees. From my sitting position his height seemed tremendous. The moon lit his face in pale ghastliness.

“Would that I had one-tenth of your comforting faith.”

With that, he turned away. His cape swung behind him, billowing in the night breeze until it resembled mighty wings.

“My name,” he murmured softly, “is Lucifer.”

After that, there was only the whisper of the wind.

Mon, 01 Mar 2004 01:22:43 GMT

Examination Day

The Jordans never spoke of the exam. Not until their son, Dickie, was twelve years old. It was on his birthday that Mrs. Jordan first mentioned the subject in his presence, and the anxious manner of her speech caused her husband to answer sharply.

“Forget about it,” he said. “He’ll do all right.”

They were at the breakfast table, and the boy looked up from his plate curiously. He was an alert-eyed youngster, with flat blond hair and a quick, nervous manner. He didn’t understand what the sudden tension was about, but he did know that today was his birthday, and he wanted harmony above all. Somewhere in that little apartment there were wrapped and beribboned packages waiting to be opened, and in the tiny wall-kitchen, something warm and sweet was being prepared in the automatic stove. He wanted the day to be happy, and the moistness of his mother’s eyes, the scowl on his father’s face, spoiled the mood of fluttering expectation with which he had greeted the morning.

“What exam?” he asked.

His mother looked at the tablecloth. “It’s just a sort of government intelligence test they give children when they turn twelve. You’ll be getting it next week. It’s nothing to worry about.”

“You mean a test like in school?”

“Something like that,” his father said, getting up from the table. “Go read your comic books, Dickie.”

The boy rose and wandered toward that part of the living room which had been “his” corner since infancy. He fingered the top-most comic of the stack, but seemed uninterested in the colorful squares of fast-paced action. He wandered toward the window, and peered gloomily at the veil of mist that shrouded the glass.

“Why did it have to rain today?” he said. “Why couldn’t it rain tomorrow?”

His father, now slumped into an armchair with the government-approved newspaper, rattled the sheets in vexation. “Because it just did, that’s all. Rain makes the grass grow.”

“Why, Dad?”

“Because it does, that’s all.”

Dickie puckered his brow. “What makes it green, though? The grass?”

“Nobody knows,” his father snapped, then immediately regretted his abruptness.

Later in the day, it was birthday time again. His mother beamed as she handed over the gaily-colored packages, and even his father managed a grin and a rumple-of-the-hair. He kissed his mother and shook hands gravely with his father. Then the birthday cake was brought forth, and the ceremonies concluded.

An hour later, seated by the window, Dickie watched the sun force its way between the clouds.

“Dad,” he said, “how far away is the sun?”

“Five thousand miles,” his father said.

***

Dickie sat at the breakfast table and again saw moisture in his mother’s eyes. He didn’t connect her tears with the exam until his father suddenly brought the subject to light again.

“Well, Dickie,” he said, with a manly frown, “you’ve got an appointment today.”

“I know, Dad. I hope-”

“There’s nothing to worry about. Thousands of children take the test every day. The government wants to know how smart you are, Dickie. That’s all there is to it.”

“I get good grades in school,” he said hesitantly.

“This is different. This is a...special kind of test. They give you this stuff to drink, you see, and then you go into a room where there’s a sort of machine -”

“What stuff to drink?” Dickie asked.

“It’s nothing. It tastes like peppermint. It’s just to make sure you answer the questions truthfully. Not that they think you won’t tell the truth, but this stuff makes sure.”

Dickie’s face showed puzzlement, and a touch of fright. He looked at his mother, and she composed her face into a misty smile.

“Everything will be fine,” she said.

“Of course it will,” his father agreed. “You’re a good boy, Dickie. You’ll make out just fine. Then we’ll come home and celebrate. All right?”

“Yes, sir,” Dickie said.

***

They entered the Government Educational Building fifteen minutes before the appointed hour. They crossed the marble floors of the great pillared lobby, passed beneath an archway and entered an elevator that brought them to the fourth floor.

There was a young man wearing an insignia-less uniform, seated at a polished desk in front of Room 404. He held a clipboard in his hand, and he checked the list down to the Js and permitted the Jordans to enter.

The room was as cold and official as a courtroom, with long benches flanking metal tables. There were several fathers and sons already there, and a thin-lipped woman with cropped black hair was passing out sheets of paper.

Mr. Jordan filled out the form and returned it to the clerk. Then he told Dickie: “It won’t be long now. When they call your name, you just go through the doorway at the end of the room.” He indicated the portal with his finger.

A concealed loudspeaker crackled and called off the first name. Dickie saw a boy leave his father’s side reluctantly and walk slowly toward the door.

At five minutes of eleven, they called the name of Jordan.

“Good luck, son,” his father said, without looking at him. “I’ll call for you when the test is over.”

Dickie walked to the door and turned the knob. The room inside was dim, and he could barely make out the features of the gray-suited man who greeted him.

“Sit down,” the man said softly. He indicated a high-stool beside his desk. “Your name is Richard Jordan?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your classification number is 600-115. Drink this, Richard.”

He lifted a plastic cup from the desk and handed it to the boy. The liquid inside had the consistency of buttermilk, and tasted only vaguely of the promised peppermint. Dickie downed it, and handed the man the empty cup.

He sat in silence, feeling drowsy, while the man wrote busily on a sheet of paper. Then the attendant looked at his watch, and rose to stand only inches from Dickie’s face. He unclipped a pen-like object from the pocket of his suit, and flashed a tiny light into the boy’s eyes.

“All right,” he said. “Come with me, Richard.”

He led Dickie to the end of the room, where a single wooden armchair faced a multi-dialed computing machine. There was a microphone on the left arm of the chair, and when the boy sat down, he found its pinpoint head conveniently at his mouth.

“Now just relax, Richard. You’ll be asked some questions, and you think them over carefully. Then give your answers into the microphone. The machine will take care of the rest.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll leave you alone now. Whenever you want to start, just say ‘ready’ into the microphone.”

“Yes, sir.”

The man squeezed his shoulder, and left.

Dickie said: “Ready.”

Lights appeared on the machine, and a mechanism on the inside whirred. A voice said:

“Complete this sequence: one, four, seven, ten...”

***

Mr. and Mrs. Jordan were in the living room, not speaking. Not even speculating.

It was almost four o’ clock when the telephone rang. The woman tried to reach it first, but her husband was quicker.

“Mr. Jordan?”

The voice was clipped; a brisk, official voice.

“Yes, speaking.”

“This is the Government Educational Service. Your son, Richard M. Jordan, Classification 600-115, has completed the government examination. We regret to inform you that his intelligence quotient has exceeded the government regulation, according to Rule 84, Section 5, of the New Code.”

Across the room, the woman cried out, knowing nothing except the emotion she read on her husband’s face.

“You may specify by telephone,” the voice droned on, “whether you wish his body interred by the government, or would you prefer a private burial place? The fee for government burial is ten dollars.”

The _______

Tue, 10 Feb 2004 19:54:32 GMT

I know I sound like a total idiot-fuck when I say this, but...

...I got my first full tank of gas today.

Bwahahahahaha!

I own you all.

Bwahahahahaha!

I almost hit a school bus.

Bwahahahahahaohhhhhh...

Yeah. Um...I'll stop now. Heh. Later!

Mon, 09 Feb 2004 19:44:33 GMT

Soooo...to get insured on my car is going to cost something like $350 a month. That is, IF the idiots find me at fault at the accident. Since this can't possibly happen, because there's no way I was at fault (the guy ran a stop sign...duuuuh...), I can only wonder why they gave us that quote. If I'm NOT at fault, it'll be about $275. Because it's considered a sports car. Bastards.

I'm still gonna get it though. Fuck 'em.

Thu, 29 Jan 2004 04:34:21 GMT

Well, perhaps I should explain myself. Mostly for those that are upset when I say I'm an atheist. I'm not doing this to offend, just...to explain.

I would go so far to say I am a "radical atheist", but I use the term 'radical' very loosely. Just for emphasis. You use the term atheist by itself, and people will say, "don't you mean agnostic?" I have to reply that I really do mean atheist. I really do not believe that there is a god - in fact, I am convinced that there is not a god (a subtle difference). I see not one shred of evidence that there is one. It's easier to say that I am a radical atheist, just to signal that I mean it, have thought about it a great deal, and that it is an opinion I hold seriously.

Some people will then often say, "but surely it's better to remain agnostic, just in case?" This, to me, suggests such a level of silliness that I usually edge out of the conversation rather than get sucked into it. (If it turns out that I've been wrong all along, and there is in fact a god, and if it further turned out that this kind of legalistic, cross-your-fingers, hair splitting worship impressed him, I think I would chose not to worship him anyway.)

Other people will ask how I can possibly claim to know. Isn't belief-that-there-is-not-a-god as irrational, arrogant, etc, as belief-that-there-is-a-god? To which I say no for several reasons. First of all, I don't really think that belief has anything to do with it. I believe or don't believe my thirteen-year old sister when she tells me that she did the dishes. I believe in justice and fair play (though I don't know how to acheive them...). I believe that England should enter the Euro. I am not remotely enough of an economist to to argue the issue vigorously with someone who is, but what little I do know, reinforced with a hefty dollop of gut feeling, tells me that it's the right course. I could easily turn out to be wrong, and I know that. But anyways, these seem to be legitimate uses of the word believe. As a carapce for the preotection of irrational notions from legitimate questions, however, I think that word has a lot of mischief to answer for. So, I do not believe-that-there-is-no-god. I am, however, convinced that there is no god, which is totally different and takes me to point number two.

I do not accept the currently fashionable assertaion that any view is automatically as worthy of respect as any equal and opposite view. My view is that the moon is made of rock. If someone says to me, "well, you haven't been there, have you? You haven't seen it for yourself, so my view that it is made of cheese is equally valid" - then I can't even be bothered to argue. There is such a thing as the burden of proof. In the case of god and the composition of the moon, this has shifted radically. God used to be the best explanation we'd got, and we've now got vastly better ones. God is no longer an explanation of anything, but has instead become something that would itself need an insurmountable amont of explaining. SO I don't think that being convinced there is a god is as irrational or arrogant a point of view as belief that there is. I don't think the matter calls for evenhandedness at all.

Hope that explains it.

The Evil of Chickens

Sun, 18 Jan 2004 04:58:21 GMT

Chickens. Awkward, bedraggled, and jerky. When it comes to being legitimately considered a bird they just barely make the cut. Our good friend Mr. Dictionary tells us that a 'bird' is any warm blooded, egg-laying, feathered animal. There's no argument that chickens have feathers and lay eggs... but how can they possibly be labeled as warm-blooded? Have the writers of these definitions ever watched chickens interact? No my friends, chickens are cold-blooded and emotionless.

Indeed, cannibalistic in nature, these beady-eyed bullies have a hateful and vicious attitude to life. Perhaps they feel that by lunging and diving at one another so spitefully they will somehow punish the gods for creating them a chicken. Maybe violence is their way of coping, or maybe they are oblivious to the fact that this behavior is no way to make friends.

The ritual "Nipping-of-the-New-Guy" ceremony is a survival mechanism used by the chickens to break the spirit and will of any new arrivals to the chicken community. By repeatedly attacking the young new-comers, the older and stronger chickens ban together, thus establishing their leadership. This boosts the self-esteem of the Head Hens and makes them feel better (temporarily) about being so very stupid, ugly and useless. Unfortunately, these habits gradually desensitize them, and the chickens become jaded and emotionally stumped.

You might argue that it's just natural behavior for a creature with a brain smaller than a walnut. What else can you expect from an animal whose only use is excreting high-protein breakfast goods, which also make decorative Faberge ornaments. (Eggs also provide a lovely alternative to T.P. during delinquencies and hooligan expeditions). Back to the chickens. many believe they are just simple-minded and have no ulterior motives behind such actions. Well, I'll give you that... they are stupid. Ridiculously stupid, and yet, perversely shrew when it comes to perplexing the human mind.

After all, one simple-minded chicken was observed by two farmers crossing a road for absolutely no reason. "Hey, why'd that chicken cross the road?", asked one to the other. Coming upon no conclusion, they parted and went home to ask the family. His children, now curious as well, take the question to school and his wife brings to query to work the next day. Soon enough the entire human race is asking, "Why DID the chicken cross the road?". It became theological "if a tree falls..." type-question, echoing throughout centuries but remaining unanswered.

Knowing they were the ones holding the answer to the ultimate question, their bodies experienced a rise in endorphin production. The egos of the chickens became grossly inflated. Being a chicken was no longer considered a curse among the species. With this new found psychological freedom, the chickens also found amusement. There was blatant mockery of human beings and their fixation of chicken activities. It became humorous - even sportesque, to tease humans even in death by running around in a headless state. As expected, we humans played into their claws; we were horrified and amused, and once again, curiously troubled.

Of course just because the chickens found a new pastime - pitting themselves against human dignity - does not mean they stopped the rituals of the old days. They still devour each other with hate-filled vengeance. Still froth with bitterness at their mediocre calling and degrading liveliness. That is why I wrote this, as a warning. When the fittest of the species have naturally risen up and trampled the lesser farm birds, when they have fought and toiled their way to become 300 lb., fire-breathing and scaly, they WILL come after us.

US: that includes YOU.

Never trust a chicken. Never make direct eye contact. Never turn your back in an area with a high chicken population. Always travel with a buddy, and carry an axe. Tell someone where you are going and when you'll be back. But remember: if a chicken traps you, corners you, pounces on you.....fight. Fight to the bitter end, fight to the death. With your last breath, spit at that stupid cannibalistic chicken. They can take our lives, but they can't take our freedom!

Tue, 16 Dec 2003 19:07:21 GMT

Yaaaaaaaaaawn.

So I awoke this morning to the sounds of someone knocking at the door. The mail lady had a package for us today. Yaaaaaaaaay...so anyway, I came out into the kitchen (near the office, for those of you not familiar with the layout of my house...) and my mom, horribly addicted to computerized Mah Jongg, told me to get directions to the cruel and evil oral surgeon who would be ripping out my four sideways, impacted wisdom teeth on Christmas Eve. It was then and then ALONE that I remembered the very odd dream I was having. Listen, and I shall tell you a tale...

Ashleigh, Sam, Jeff from the Spooky House and I were all wearing...very odd jumpsuit thingies, and people were calling us captains. Then the mayor of the munchkin town from Wizard of Oz came out of a door in the wall and told us that our spaceship was ready for take-off.

So we got to the spaceship and were walking down this long catwalk to the door and we saw this bald guy with his back to us wearing an orange jumpsuit leaning against a railing. Ashleigh groaned, and we asked her what was up, and she just said, "this security guard. I've flown with him before. He's a creep and an asshole."

The security guard was that bald, lizard alien guy from The Last Starfighter, but in this mov-...er...dream, he was an asshole, and didn't like humans. And there were four of them on security. So we went into the spaceship with the security guy barking at us about being stupid, and when we got inside, we suddenly realized we were all a bunch of eighteen year olds ('cept Jeff, who just realized he was LIKE an eighteen year old) and really didn't know how to fly the spaceship.

So this little girl came out of one door (I think it was Ashleigh's little cousin London, maybe...she was missing her two front teeth.) and told us to use the manual. So Jeff pulled out the manual under the counter and figured out how to turn on the ship.

Then all these people started to come up to watch us fly, including Scott Bakula. I don't know why Scott Bakula (y'know, Quantum Leap? Lord of Illusions?)...I have some vague memory that he's on TV somewhere as a spaceship pilot. Maybe that's it. So he's there, and he's teaching Jeff how to fly, and the door closes and we start moving. So this woman says, "hey, can we open the door? It's hot in here."

I turn to her and say, "this spaceship is pressurized, ma'am. We can't open a door without being sucked out into space and dying cruel, horrible, sweet sweet deaths of fire."

Then people start laughing at her because she's stupid for wanting to open a door in outerspace until one guy points out that the door isn't a very good fit for the doorway anyway, because frankly, it doesn't quite close all the way and he can see light around the sides. Sam credits the problem to bad set design, and then something starts knocking loudly on the side of the ship. We're all scared for a minute...

...then I wake up and realize it's the mail person.

Of course, it wasn't until about ten minutes later that I realize I'VE HAD THIS DREAM BEFORE! Golly. How ka-RAZY!

Mon, 15 Dec 2003 00:23:59 GMT

I got an interesting piece of email today from a girl who I went to Granada with...she was in eleventh when I graduated, so I assume by her email that she’s in twelfth now. It would appear that she found out my dark secret. Read on and find out for yourself.

-----------------------------------------------------

me and my friend at Granada started on our senior project last week.(They’re doing it on vampires, so you readers know what they’re talking about.) we came across a list that we found was pretty much the same for physiological, physical, and mental attributes that occur in vampires in most of the research materials we were using (thanks for lending us your one book...my friend calls it the Big Book O Vampires because its huge, lol). so for fun, we started to compare people to this list. the list is about 22 characteristics long. we got to you, and were amazed that so many applied to you, we thought we send you a list to see what you thought. if you really are a vampire, could you come in to my class and use you as an example? thanks.

- kim

ps: please don’t drain me of my blood and make me your undead slave for all eternity because I found out your secret. thanks a mil. Later.

Out of 23 characteristics, we pulled these 20 that we thought applies to you:

You are strongly stimulated by blood. (we’ve heard stories about you, Brandon...)

Light in general hurts your eyes, but you can go out in it nonetheless

You tend to be a night person by nature

You've had a strong interest in vampires since puberty-time (you said you liked ‘em since jr. high)

It grew stronger with your traumatic experience

You don't get sick often, but if you do, the maladies are often strange and/or severe (that blood clot...)

You are a fast healer

You don’t seem to eat as much as a normal human should, but seem to always be thirsty

Electrical appliances and you don't' generally tend to get along well (you and your stupid printer...and computer...and the computers at school...and your TV...and the TVs at school...and everything else. we watched you TA for olenick, lol.)

You prefer rich fabrics, tastes, scents, etc.

You are very sensitive to the feeling of touch (your ear, from the sound of it.)

You sometimes feel your don't belong in this century, or maybe even this world

When you dream, they are often extremely vivid

You are highly intuitive in general

People often find you very empathetic to how they feel

People often trust you completely

You look older than you are (I disagree, but my friend said you do)

You can sense how others feel

Animals tend to get along well with you

When you want things to happen, they usually do

The other 3 were these; see if you disagree or agree:

People find you to be slightly different in an odd, alluring way (I don’t. can’t vouch for anyone else.)

You find yourself to often feel alone amidst a group, unless that one person you can connect with is there </i>(i‘m not you, so I don‘t know)</i>

Sex leaves you feeling refreshed and revitalized (lol. we’ve never had sex, so I wouldn’t know.)

-----------------------------------------------------

Well, there you have it. You've all found out my dark secret - I have a really big book about vampires. Be afraid. Be very afraid...

Sun, 07 Dec 2003 04:52:41 GMT

OK...this has got to stop, you old people.

As some of you know, I am...FEARLESS LEADER. I'm a scoutmaster for a Boy Scout troop I used to be in. The old scoutmaster died, and then me n' my compadre Nick came and started to run the troop while we employed a few people to sign paperwork. There's Mr. Knotts, who actually does a lot of the scout stuff with us, there's MY dad, who's the chair...person...thingy, and some other people who mostly take up space like Mr. Duran, Mrs. Duchan, Mrs. Thomspon, Mr. O' Dwyer, Mr. Baur, etc.

Now, I have absolutely nothing wrong with Boy Scouts of America. I don't really think it's dorky that a bunch of guys like to go do dangerous stuff like hang off of rocks or white-water raft. Some people do; well, go to hell.

What I DO have a problem with is the fact that the stupid adult dolts in our troop are now essentially fighting for power over one another, feeling that because they have a combination of years experience, commanding good presence with other leaders, and various skills, THEY should become the Grand High Pooba of our troop. And in doing so, they are severly making it a pain in the butt to actually get out and DO anything as a troop, and it's just stressing out Nick and I, and making a lot of the scouts ready to head out.

Well, how's this...

I'VE been in the Boy Scouts of America infrastructure for eight years as an actual Boy Scout, one year as an Eagle, one year as a Webelo, and three years as a Cub Scout rounding out for a grand total of 13 years, which beats out my own DAD'S yearly lead of 12 as an adult leader.

I have good standing with every leader in the valley including Brian Eget, Joe Kinney, and the highest person in the WLACC offices, Jonathan McGea.

I've got certifications for snorkeling, scuba diving, rock climbing, white water rafting, HANG GLIDING, cross country skiing, animal husbandry, pioneering, orienteering, first aid, emergency preparedness, and MORE.

I am hereby laying claim to ALL of you adults. I am making you ALL bitches to do my bidding. If you don't like it, do us all a favor and take a hike. I can give you maps to some of best trails out there for enacting this procedure. That said, GO AWAY.

Sun, 30 Nov 2003 03:56:30 GMT

Well, this is going to be short (and possibly badly written) due to the fact that my hands are not in one hundred percent working order. See, as FEARLESS LEADER, we took some kids out repelling up at Stoney Point, and due to a very FAST moving rope that was in my hands...

...grumble grumble...

...I have very large rope burns and blisters on all my fingers and my palms. The biggest blister of which is Nick Jr, named by Lisa's boyfriend, Nick Viola, my lieutenant commander of sorts (until Sunday when he turns eighteen and becomes full-fledged scout leader. wootyness.). So...yeah.

I'm not updating again 'til it don't hurt to write, so...later.

Tue, 25 Nov 2003 04:51:55 GMT

OK...I wrote this when I was working for that telemarketing company with Mori and I knew this girl named Jessica who was off her @#$%&*! rocker and wouldn’t leave me alone. I also decided to base this guy Bill of a friend from high-school named Robert Graves, who was a super-duper mega nerd. The point of this story?

To show that vampires can be geeky, normal people just like the rest of us.

---------------------------------------------

The Night Shift

Bill fidgeted in his short maroon swivel chair, causing it to creak and moan with each twist of his ankles. He grabbed hold of the coal-colored rubber arm rests, his well-kept nails digging into the fleshy material. He swallowed once, but refused to turn away from his oversized flat screen monitor. If he didn't move, perhaps the predator standing behind him would not attack.

Five minutes ago, he'd been reconfiguring someone's network. He'd been telling the stupid, rude, arrogant doctor exactly where he could put his static IP address when SHE walked in. And the second he'd gotten off the phone, some sort of carnal glint came into her eyes, and then she'd pounced. He'd seen it coming for months, but today she'd worked up the courage, and now he was at his present position: fending off with a stick the only person he liked in this whole damned office.

"Don't ignore me. Answer me," his coworker snapped. "How much throwing myself at you do I have to do?" Janet was not someone who was easy to ignore with her long brown hair and skirts that were probably really cummerbunds. There was also the fact that she thrust her chest in his face at every given opportunity. No, he was well aware of how hard she was trying. "Bill!"

He had to deliver an answer, and he had to do it swiftly. Glancing around at his gray computer box, gray monitor base, gray speakers and high sandstone gray walls of his cubicle, he found no inspiration. His eyes locked on the navy blue 'Starfleet Academy' mug behind his keyboard and the red pens within. He tried sucking some sort of inspiration from the out of this world wisdom of the Roddenberry universe, but it just wasn't happening. "I just...it wouldn't be right to date a coworker." Certainly not one as delectable as her. Sometimes...the more you wanted something, the more you had to stay away from it. If he didn't, it would just end badly, and then he'd feel guilty, and he didn't enjoy feeling guilty.

And he liked this girl. She had beaten Starcraft in one week. She knew how to create and maintain networks and how to overclock a machine with hardware upgrades without making it blow up. Not only were her technical skills strong, but she was always fun to be around. There was also the aspect of dressing - short skirts, big shoes, and the bustiest tops allowed by the current dress code policy. He appreciated her efforts in that regard, not many girls felt the need to dress up for geeks. But she was interested in him. Heaven knew why, but she was. And that meant that he had to do his best to put a safe distance between them.

There was something whiney yet angry in her voice when she spoke. "It's not a date. I'm asking you to come out with me somewhere, in public even, which I know is hard for you. But as friends, OK?"

When he slowly turned to face her, he saw her hanging with one arm from the cold metal edge of the flimsy partition wall, her chest shoved outward, and completely towards him. One cold hand wiped against his faded blue polo shirt as he tried to remain calm, but knew he was failing miserably. "I have a personal policy -"

"And you went out for drinks last week with Dan before he quit." Suddenly, Janet's nutmeg colored eyes lit and grew wide as some sort of revelation exploded in her head. "Oh dude. I mean...if you're playing for the other team..."

Bill relaxed in his chair just a bit. He looked up and down the empty rows of cold gray cubicles, thankful no one else was in on the weekends to witness this display. "I'm not...playing for the other team," he informed her with a sigh. Of course, things might have gone easier if he'd have said he was gay. Then he'd at least have a legitimate excuse for shoving off her attentions.

He realized, however, that his current move wasn't the best course of action because she folded her arms across her chest and glared at him, steam practically coming out her ears. Her face blotched red, and he knew he was in trouble. "So what's the hold up?"

"I'm five years older than you are." Her nineteen years to his twenty-four really weren't as big of a deal as he said they were. He kind of enjoyed that whole nubile coed aspect. Not to mention, she was intelligent, and much more fun to deal with than most of the people he came in contact with.

"I have never dated a guy less than three years older than me."

One ankle turned, and a platform sandal jutted out in a display of attitude. His eyes trailed up her thin, tanned legs to the edge of her blue and pink florescent skirt. Realizing his eyes were wandering, they snapped to the bluish gray carpet. The call center for the university health system's Computing Services department was a sterile shoebox that reminded Bill more of a crypt than an office, and his eyes tended to wander towards
anything that didn't look like a statue in a cemetery or a cement tomb. Of course, it helped that she was easy on the eyes.

"I'm not on the football team," he added quickly, trying to cover for his apparent breach. Staring at her noticeably attractive body wasn't the best way to give the shut down, but it was imperative that he do so. He liked her too much to go out with her.

Her raisin colored lip jutted out in a protesting pout. "I told you, I'm through with those jerks, OK? I thought we were the same, but we weren't. They can't configure a home network. Fraternities are like some kind of religious order for the drunk and stupid, and I'm done. OK?" She unfolded her arms from across her chest and tugged on her pastel pink chemise, adjusting and straightening it out. "Come on. You need to just give me a
chance. You're like...so awesome. You've never been a big jerk like them, so you get points, and I should get some points cause I'm a geek on the inside."

"And you're so sure I'm the right one," Bill asked incredulously. He was practically praying for someone to call for computer help, just to give him a break, and maybe she'd forget that she was treating him like dinner. Boy did he have a surprise for her, if she thought that 'carnivore' was in this season. "Look, I just don't do 'attention' well. That's why I work the weekend shifts, so that it's just me, the only full-timer who doesn't have his head up his ass, and some poor schlub student worker who needs the cash, and the occasional idiot who calls looking for me to find his brain. You go out to clubs every night, and I go back home to my crypt of an apartment and play video games and download bootleg movies till dawn. I've been out of circulation for so long, I'm in library storage."

Her shoulders slumped in desperation. "Come on. Every time a student quits, I pick up the shifts that coincide with your shifts. You're pretty sociable to me, otherwise I wouldn't be doing that. I think you're worth the effort. So what's the deal? Why won't you spend time with me, but you'll spend time with Dan, who's a complete drain on humanity, not to mention waste of human flesh? No one was sorry when he stopped showing up, but I'd like to think someone'd notice if I quit coming to work. I think you would."

She grabbed hold of the arms of his chair, securing him into place. "I really like your brand of 'jaded,' ok? I don't know what it is. There's something kind of...nice about the way you get off the phone with some jerk, and you slam your headset down, and say he should be torn apart by wild zombies. Sometimes I wanna kill people too, OK?"

Bill didn't know if she suspected something about the things he didn't share with the rest of the office, but he knew it was time to put a serious cap on the situation when her well manicured hand moved from the rubber arm rest to his hand, then began slowly creeping up his arm.

"You work out. I swear. If the geeks in the computer science department looked like you, I wouldn't have changed majors," she whispered smokily. Her lips were growing closer to his face with every nanosecond.

Leaning back, he grabbed her wrist and pushed her gently an arms' length away, to put some distance between them. He hated doing this. It made him tired. But he really couldn't think of any other way. "Janet..." he said soothingly, letting the words flow out of him, and into her. His eyes locked upon hers, and for a moment, he saw the world in gold. "Janet, I'm not going to go out with you."

"You're not?" she mumbled, her eyes glazing over.

He nodded, still maintaining eye contact. "You're going to forget we ever had this conversation. And you're going to get a better taste in men. Not geeks who like their Dungeons and Dragons characters more than their friends, and not frat boys or disrespectful football players who're going to treat you badly. Think picket fence, long-haul, and stuff like that. "

"I'm going to forget..." suddenly her eyes hardened, and she glared at him. "What the hell just happened?" She snatched her hand away, and pressed her back up against the flimsy cubicle wall.

"Aw. Damn. I hate it when that doesn't work," Bill grumbled to himself.

"What doesn't-" Her eyes grew round like watery dishware as they locked with his again. He was seeing the world through a golden haze, so he knew she was seeing something she really ought not.

Bill winced, and he knew that in doing that, he was also giving her a view of his...interesting dental situation as well. He might as well give it up - he was exposed.

"Usually, when it doesn't work on someone, I end up having to kill them because they start screaming and stuff, and then I feel bad." Bill sighed. He was officially at a total loss. He had no idea what to do.

"What's your deal?" she asked with a hint of confusion in her voice. There was also a touch of anger, which Bill was a bit surprised at. "What kind of crap are you into?"

"Into?"

Janet stopped leaning against the gray cloth-covered partition and stood up straight, something akin to indignation overtaking her features. "Those Dungeons and Dragons guys are sometimes into some weird crap like neo-vampirism and all that other bullshit."

"Geez. I'm a REAL vampire here," Bill said angrily. He jumped out of his chair, just so he could look down on her. Even platform shoes were not enough to help the terminally short. "Try to have a little respect for that."

He did the fang-barring thing complete with glowing yellow eyes and a primordial hiss for special effect. He'd only practiced it at home, but his dog seemed to be scared.

Fortunately, it had the desired effect. Janet took one giant step out of his cubical. "You know that commercial on Cartoon Network? Where Batman says 'I am vengeance, I am the night'? That's me," he announced proudly, trying to put away the hunger that these things always brought about in him.

"You're Batman?" The angry sarcasm of her words tore into the air between them.

"No, the vengeance gig is all mine. Remember Dan? He wasn't a complete waste of human flesh after all - turned out to be a really great appetizer. Same with that Melroy kid. Total spazoid. Ever wonder why we don't get calls from Evil Doctor Lewis and his research monkeys any more?" He grinned proudly. "My handiwork. Thank you, come again." Bill leaned towards her and flashed his fangs again. "Now show some respect."

"Geez," Janet breathed. "I mean...well." She lifted her head with pride and took a deep breath in through her nose, an air of indifference seeping from her. "Well, I just mean...it's not something you see every day."

Clasping her hands behind her back, she looked up at him innocently, then took a step forward and twisted the heel of her shoe into the carpet. "So, I guess that only leaves one question: are you going to kiss me or kill
me?"

That effectively killed all desire within Bill. In fact, it kind of turned his stomach. "Excuse me? I mean, are you that low on self-esteem that you're going to just keep going along with this? I mean - I kill people on a nightly basis!"

"I've wanted to kill people now and again," Janet said with a large huff. "I mean, working in this job, who hasn't wanted to kill somebody? But you actually go out and DO it!"

Bill felt his jaw drop and tried to close it, but had somehow lost muscle control over his face. Some part of him supposed he should be more attracted to her now than he was before. Somehow, though, that wasn't quite the emotion that was festering within him.

"There's always a third option," she crooned seductively as she closed the gap between them.

Bill took one step backwards until his legs smashed up against the edge of the desk, and then he leaned back still further. "No way."

"Would it be so bad? We like the same things," the young woman pointed out. She reached towards him, and Bill realized he was panicking. A normal, sane person would have killed her by now and stuffed her body in the server room. It was cold enough in there that it would be weeks before anyone found her. He was bigger than her, he was scarier than her, and gosh darn it, he killed people often.

His chest heaved visibly with a sigh of relief when she reached past his shoulder and snagged a round button off of the thick stone-colored material lining his modular work area. Janet flashed the button in his face. "'Go away before I replace you with a very small pile of ashes,'" she quoted from the button. "That means we're good for each other."

"Oh, great. Then I turn you into a vampire, and fifteen minutes later, you're bitching at me because I stuck you at age nineteen for the rest of your earthly existence, and being dead didn't make you any cooler. It all makes perfect sense. Give me that." He tore the button out of her hand and shoved it into the pocket of his nearly white jeans. "Listen to yourself!" Maybe she was in shock or something. "I kill people! I eat them! And you're OK with that?"

"Well, do you regret it?"

He blinked once, then stared at her. "No."

"I think I'd be more freaked out if you didn't want to, and kept doing it."

He looked past her to the empty expanse of the cubicle forest beyond. All the space in this office, and he was trapped in this tomb, with her. "You should be freaked out!" he shouted.

"Look, I'm not, OK? You can't just push me away. You know I'm not like everybody else, so you have to give me a chance. One date. One club. And if it doesn't work out, we go our separate ways, no harm, no foul."

Bill slid along the edge of the desk and edged himself around her, then practically dove out of the cubical. Reaching the safety of the water cooler at the end of the row, he grabbed hold of the blue half-full tank and turned the corner, practically hiding behind the unit.

"Dude, I'm not going out with you."

At first it had been because she was so great, he didn't want to end the date with the obligatory part of the evening where he sucked her dry then left her pasty white carcass in some out of the way location to congeal and eventually liquefy.

"And I'm not turning you, either."

"Well, I'd really prefer if you didn't kill me," she pouted playfully, coming out of the enclave of cloth and metal and slowly slinking towards him.

He backed up further, until his spine was crushed against the hard wooden door leading out of the office. He was sure there was some kind of irony in the situation, but he couldn't think of what it was. "I don't know what I'm going to do to you, ok? But...damn!"

"You'll have to think up something," she informed him. Her hands came to rest upon her small hips, as if she were waiting for his decision. "But we'd have a lot more fun. Doing it my way."

Bill's only regret at that moment was that he had no place further he could back up to.

"You're so going to be disappointed in me.

"Bill, honey. You're a loser. You spend your lunch gaming, you own every Star Trek movie on DVD, you go home...you don't have a life, OK? You were dead before you were dead. I think I know the worst of it."

Driving his hands through his chestnut colored hair, Bill let out a growl of frustration.

"OK, it doesn't bother you that you're not freaked out with the fact that I kill people on a nightly basis. You think it's a sign we're supposed to be together." He watched her nod. "And no matter what I say at this junction, you're just going to point out how it really means we have a chance." Another nod of ascent. "OK," he breathed calmly. "Alright. I can deal with that."

Licking his lips, he tried to muster something resembling hunger. "I guess you're going to get your wish," he whispered through dry lips.

A somewhat satisfied smile spread across her darkly colored lips. She reached up and pulled the hair away from her neck.

Bill rolled his eyes. "That's so clichè. Gimme your wrist." She turned her hand over and exposed the underside of her arm. Reaching out, Bill gently grabbed her hand and brought it towards his lips. "This is going to hurt a little."

Janet's eyes lit with some sort of joyous emotion playing on her face. The girl really needed some better guy friends. Not frat boys, and not guys who devoured others as a food source.

Realizing it was for the best, Bill bit down with only one side of his mouth. She gasped, and almost cried out in pain, but swallowed it. He pulled his mouth away licked the hot red liquid from his upper lip, letting a few drops spill on the carpet. His mouth closed over the wound and he drank, even though he didn't feel hungry.

In his living days, Bill had been known to drink a quart of orange juice in one sitting. It was nothing to him to consume four half-pints of milk at lunch in high school. So he knew exactly how much to take.

When he hit the last few dregs of pint three and a half, her knees buckled. Bill slowly let her slide to the floor, crouching beside her as she collapsed. He let his mouth fill with blood as her eyes closed. When he was sure she was unconscious, he pulled his mouth away from her ebbing wrist, and spit the mouth full onto the carpet.

He used his wrist to wipe away the blood from the edges of his mouth, and then he licked the sticky copper substance from his skin. "Crazy bitch," he muttered, removing the Leatherman Multitool and began sliding out tools and pondered each of them. He began to shove the serrated edge into the wound and began tearing upward, but realized it wasn't the tool for the job. It might get her started, but what he really needed was the bottle cap opener. The blunt edge tore at her bloody pink flesh, and he knew it would hurt like a son of a bitch later.

"This is for your own good, you know," he said, removing the tool holder from his belt. "I mean, I could kill you, but I like you. You're smart, and you're funny. The only problem is, you scare the living fuck out of me. So...you're going to spend some quality time at the psychiatric hospital. The good news is, since you did it on work time, the health system'll pay for it."

He wrapped her hand around the Multitool, then rose, licking the last bit of blood from his fingers. It was a shame to let food go to waste, but it was ultimately for a good cause.

Bill watched for a moment to make sure the bleeding slowed, then stepped over her unconscious body and then went back into his cubicle. Putting the headset on his head, he dialed the number for security, then reached into his pocket. Removing the button, he looked it over for a moment, then slid the needle back into the course fabric of his cubicle wall.

"We're going to need someone in B-17 of the Viseton Building, and you should hurry. Girl in here cut her wrist." Quietly, he licked a stray streak of dried blood from the back of his thumb. "No. I came back from the bathroom, and she was passed out on the floor..." He looked back at the inert body on the middle of the floor. For the first time since he'd begun down this path, he felt more than just badly about the situation - he felt actual guilt. She could have been the perfect girlfriend if she'd have just screamed or something, but no. His dream date had to be a complete sociopath, probably even beyond his own mass murdering tendencies.

"OK," he told the security staff. "Make sure someone gets here soon." He disconnected the call.

Bill knelt on one knee beside her body, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest. One cool hand brushed the hair from her forehead, enjoying the silky feel beneath his fingertips. He sighed, then lifted the bottom of a lock of hair to his lips, kissing it. "If you weren't such a fucking psychopath, we could have had something special."

THE END

Fri, 21 Nov 2003 22:43:36 GMT

I know Rahul and Tayde did something, I just don't know what. But rest assured, I will smote all of you. I will smote you good.

Good, I tell's ya!

Fri, 21 Nov 2003 09:23:48 GMT

I am...sooo incredibly lame, that I am perhaps the epitamy of lameness in all it's lameitude.

Check this.

I wrote something very meaningful and important. But...I didn't write it here, because I didn't want everyone to see it.

This is because I'm lame, see.

Yeah. Um...I'm...going to go now. Toodles.

Fri, 21 Nov 2003 02:11:49 GMT

I added four new movies to my website. check 'em out if you're bored. Or don't. Whatever.

Wed, 19 Nov 2003 00:55:52 GMT

I JUST GOT A PHONE CALL ASKING ME ABOUT WRITING A SEQUEL TO THE PRINCE OF MIDNIGHT! WOOOOOOOOT! HA HA HA HA HA! What am I thinking about in terms of a sequel? Well...let's think about a few mere options...

----------------------------------------------------------

1) More in-depth to the key question, "who is Fantomas?"

2) The death of one of our handful of intrepid heroes? Oh, Brigit...

3) The turning of sides by everyone's favorite duo?

4) Malice...

5) ...greed...

6) ...lust...

7) ...and the rest of the seven sins.

8) Journeys into the world of The Artist?

9) What was the connection between The Prince and The Artist?

10) Something so incredibly huge and dramatic it'll make you go, "whoa. That's incredibly huge - AND dramatic!"

----------------------------------------------------------

Of course, those of you who've never read the original have no idea what I'm talking about. But...you guys suck, so, yeah. If you WANT to read it, email me a request at SamuraiPlatypus@aol.com. Nobody will be turned down. Unless I really hate you, which I most likely don't. See, you can't steal it - it's copyrighted. Woot. Go me.

Tue, 18 Nov 2003 08:31:18 GMT

I stole this from Nima's livejournal. I am full of guilt.

------------------------------------------------------------------

In The Last 48 Hours, Have You:

01. Cried: Not that I know of...
02. Bought something: Uh...probably, but, I can't think of what it may have been.
03. Gotten sick: I've had a headache for over two weeks, and it hasn't gone away yet...
04. Sang: Yeah. Can't pinpoint when and where, but I have. Be afraid.
05. Eaten: Yep yep yep.
06. Been kissed: Uh...might've. Can't remember for sure. I'm tired.
07. Felt stupid: YES. Big, positive, resounding yes.
08. Wanted to tell someone you loved them, but didn't: Yeah.
09. Met someone new: Yes.
10. Moved on: ...I don't get it either, Nima...
11. Talk to an ex: No.
12. Missed an ex: NO.
13. Talked to someone you have a crush on: Yeah...
14. Had a serious talk: Yep.
15. Missed someone: Yeah. A lot.
16. Hugged someone: Yep. I like hugs too...
17. Fought with your parents: ...always.
18. Dreamed about someone you can't be with: Uh...I don't typically do that.

Social Life
01. Best girl friend: Ashleigh
02. Best guy friend: Rahul, as best I figure.
03. Boyfriend/Girlfriend: ...
05. Hobbies: Writing, hanging out with friends, movies, stamps, RHPS...other stuff. I hate this question.
07. Are you center of attention or the wallflower: Sort of both...
08. What type automobile do you drive: ...fuck you guys.
09. What type automobile do you wish you drove: One with...four wheels. And an engine.
10. Would you rather be with friends or on a date: Uh...damn. Dunno.
11. Where is the best hangout: Anywhere where my friend(s) are (is).
12. Do you have a job: Yeah, unfortunately.
13. Do you attend church: Most certainly NOT.
14. Do you like being around people: Most definitely.

Who:
01. Have you known the longest: My parents.
02. Do you argue the most with: See above.
03. Do you always get along with: Most of the peopel I hang out with...
04. Is the most trustworthy: See above answer, subtract Nima. (No offense.)
05. Makes you laugh the most: Everyone at different times. I suppose I talk to Ashleigh the most, though, so I guess it'd be her...
06. Has been there through all the hard times: All my good friends. Love 'ya guys (and gals).
07. Has the coolest parents: Ashleigh. By far. Though, Sam's mom is cool...and scary...
08. Has the scariest siblings: ME. You all know my brother. ::shudder::
09. Is the most blunt: Either Ashleigh or Sam.
10. Is the smartest: Tough choice. Ashleigh...Sam...Camerin...Rahul...everyone else...you're all wise in your own way (and some of each others). What an annoying question.

Personal:
01. Who is your role model: Batman. Duh.
02. What are some of your pet peeves: People who suck. Y'know the ones.
03. Have you ever liked someone you had no chance with: Yeah, I think. Though I never tried, so I guess I never found out, huh?
04. Have you ever cried over the opposite sex: Physically CRIED, maybe not. But felt really, really, really bad over, yes.
05. Do you have a "type" of person you always go after: No, not really.
06. Have you ever lied to your best friend(s): Little white lies, maybe...nothing serious.
07. Ever wanted to get revenge on someone because they hurt you: Yeah.
08. Would you rather be dumper or dumped? Neither...
09. Rather have a relationship or a "hookup": Relationship.
10. Want someone you don't have right now: Yeah.
11. Ever liked your best guy/girl friend: ...
12. Do you want to get married: Yeah, one day. No rush, though. I ain't my brother.
13. Do you want kids: Maybe...one day...
14. Do you believe in psychics: Yeah.
16. What is your favorite part of your physical appearance: I don't know...it's odd. It isn't so much pride as it is obsessive compulsion. I won't comb my hair. The messier, the better. Such is me.
17. What is your favorite part of your emotional being: Uh...what?
18. Are you happy with you: Yeah.
19. Are you happy with your life: Yeah.
20. If you could change something in your life right now, what would it be: ...I'd be...less...of a wuss...

Current:
[ Current Clothes ] Black jeans and a hawaiian shirt.
[ Current Mood ] My head hurts. And I'm tired.
[ Current Music ] Caravan by Pantera
[ Current Taste ] Vanilla Pepsi
[ Current Make-up ] None.
[ Current Hair] Clean, soft...and MESSY. (Take THAT, Nima...)
[ Current Annoyance ] No comment.
[ Current Smell ] Incense and spearmint chewing gum.
[ Current thing I ought to be doing ] Dishes. Always dishes.
[ Current Desktop Picture] A jack-o-lantern. Like my DJ icon, only...bigger.
[ Current Favorite Artist ] I don't know. Lots.
[ Current Book you're reading ] The Wastelands, by Stephen King. Again.
[ Current DVD in player ] The Killer Shrews (Best...movie...EVER.)
[ Current Color Of Toenails ] Regular?...
[ Current Refreshment ] Mmm. Tea.
[ Current Worry ] What is this thing that's latched onto the back of my neck and is sucking my blood? Hmm...

Mon, 17 Nov 2003 08:47:39 GMT

Not much to do this fine Sunday night, so I took a few quizzes online. Enjoy.

------------------------------------------------------------

You're an Emerald. You are goofy and unique. You're
very easy to be with and a lot of fun too. The
type of person someone could be friends with
easily.

What Jewel Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

Samurai says: I like it.

Dark Guru: Mysterious, charismatic and often more
than a little spooky, you are a master of
illusion and persuasion all at the same time.
You have a unique skill for reading people,
determining their desires, hopes and fears,
then molding yourself into an image that best
appeals to them, using that talent to quickly
subvert them to your superior will. You tend
to have a cult-like group of admirers and
friends around you most of the time, and those
you have swayed tend to speak of you with
passion and reverence. Whether or not you
actually believe in the line you are towing is
secondary, for it is not your dogma, but rather
your charisma, that makes others flock to you.
Other villains, even those you work with, will
often see you as strange, deranged or
dangerous, so you tend to prefer to be on your
own or in chargebut creativity and vision have
always had their price. Famous Comic Book Dark
Gurus include Magneto, Von Drake and Violator.

What Type of Evil Super Villain Would you be? (images)
brought to you by Quizilla

Samurai Says: I like THAT, too.

Your soul is bound to the Solitary Rose: The
Alone.

"When I wake up alone, the shades are still
drawn on the cold window pane so they cast
their lines on my bed and lines on my
face."

The Solitary Rose is associated with loneliness,
melancholy, and patience. It is governed by
the goddess Merope and its sign is The Sword,
or Unrequited Love.

As a Solitary Rose, you may be summed up as a
hopeless romantic. You desire love and have so
much love to give, but thing just never seem to
work out the way you want them to. In life,
you can be very optomistic, even when things
are gray and nothing works out to your
expectations.

What Rose Is Your Soul Bound To?
brought to you by Quizilla

Samurai says: Um...oh. ::sniff:: I hope not...

You should be dating a Pisces.
19 February - 20 March
Your mate is loving and caring, trusting and
hospitable, and romantic. Though he/she can be
self-pitying, temperamental or dependent, the
fishes are quite romantic in bed.

What Zodiac Sign Are You Attracted To?
brought to you by Quizilla

Samurai says: Heh. Well...how 'bout that.

------------------------------------------------------------

Well, folks, time for me to finally turn in. I say thankee-sai to you all, and I shall see you in the movies. Auf weidersehen!

Fri, 14 Nov 2003 01:43:54 GMT

So, I have some sort of "conversion/compression headache" that I have to take Ultram for. That means that I have a permanent headache, unless I regulate it with this wonderful pill that may or may not make me high.

But enough boring crap. What else shall we talk about?

I don't know. I've got to start Christmas shopping, I suppose. Otherwise I'll NEVER get done. Though, I already know what I'm going to do for Ashleigh for Christmas...

...not that, you perverts...

...and I ain't telling nobody. It's gonna be a surprise. As for everyone else...I have no clue. Well, I have some clue; just not a lot of clue. A little bit. Yeah. I have a little clue.

My head hurts.

Sat, 08 Nov 2003 11:51:22 GMT

Congratulations to Rahul, who just got himself an I.O.U. for an official Wild and Untamed Things cast party in his honor. And also...my head is in a lot of pain. Um...I'm gonna lie down.

Sat, 08 Nov 2003 04:54:18 GMT

Tonight, we go...to Rocky at the Laemle. We are cool.

Mon, 03 Nov 2003 08:02:50 GMT

Priest: Oh Lord...help me to understand the sublime mysteries of your creation.

God: OK...maybe I'll let you in on a couple of things. First of all, gravity was an accident. You gusy were originally going to be able to float around propelled by these nifty little fluttering foot wings I had designed. Neat, huh? Still, you wouldn't have been able to fly around very fast. That would have defeated your purpose as a low-cost, nutritious and great-tasting dinosaur food.

Priest: Nice. Thanks. I'll just keep that to myself. The offering plate's already been coming in a little light this month. But I mean, I want you to help me truly see this world. Not through my own eyes, but through your infinite and all-encompassing love.

God: OK, sport. You asked for it. Go ahead. Look.

Priest: Oh. Oh my. Oh my goodness.

God: Kind of like sniffing a couple of hundred thousand magic markers while getting an enema with slow sheet-lightning, isn't it?

Priest: Uh...p-please make it s-stop now, Lord...

Sat, 01 Nov 2003 01:03:05 GMT

Old Cowboy: Lord a'mighty...jus' this mornin', me and the boys found two'a my steers out in the arroyo 'bout a hunnert yards or so from the corral. Eyeballs popped clean out an' their innards all boiled inside 'em. Don't know what t'make of it. Hells bells, I'd almost start b'lievin' them crazy yarns 'bout outer space UFO saucers a'comin' down an' messin' with livestock. 'Course, I gotta admit we fed them cattle quite a bite of my home-brewed liquid methadrine to keep 'em dancin' at last night's hoe-down.

Younger Cowboy: Boss...we found Dwight. He was out cold under one'a the steers.

Old Cowboy: Well, throw some clothes on 'im and git 'im some black coffee. We still gotta figger out how'ta git that heifer down off the water tank.

Tue, 28 Oct 2003 09:42:08 GMT

STUPERMAN! The strange visitor from another world, imbued with incredible powers from beyond imagination! Who IS this mysterious man of might, what does he WANT, and WHAT fantastic secrets does he possess?

Stuperman: Watch. I can crack walnuts between my butt-cheeks.

Geek: Stuperman! The awful bullies at school smack me in the back of the head whenever I walk down the hallway to my locker!

Stuperman: What YOU need is a simple black elastic "nerd strap!"

Geek: What for?

Stuperman: To keep your glasses from flying off when they smack you in the back of the head.

Geek: Golly, Stuperman! You're no help at all! What am I going to do about the bullies?

Stuperman: You know...if those guys were picking on ME, I'd beat them senseless, wrap them each in a cocoon of scrap metal, and leave them dangling from the nearest telephone pole. But then agin, I'm imbued with incredible powers beyond imagination. I'd reckon that a whining little sissy like yourself has no choice but to learn to take it and like it.

Geek: I hate you, Stuperman.

Wed, 22 Oct 2003 22:01:15 GMT

Neighbor: Well, if you're all done trimming the trees in the front yard, I guess you can start on those hedges around back.

Gardener: Can't do that.

Neighbor: Why not?

Gardener: 'Cause everytime I cut them hedges, they run around screamin' like a skewered pig.

Neighbor: I see the problem. Let me clarify a couple of fine points for you. "Hedges" are the green leafy things. "The dog" is the brown shaggy thing.

Gardener: That'd make sense. I shoulda knowed there's no shrubs got red sap in 'em. Oh, by the way...there's been kind of a accident out in th' backyard. The tree house came down, an' yer kids were in it.

Neighbor: What?! How'd that happen? That thing is bolted down!

Gardener: Well, I was trimmin' the tree an' they started shootin' imaginary guns at me, so to protect myself from gettin' shot, I sawed through them limbs that was holdin' the tree house.

Neighbor: The kids were just goofing around with you! Couldn't you have just "pretended" to cut those branches?

Gardener: No way, sir. Judgin' by the explosion sounds those kids were makin', them guns had grenade launchers on 'em.

Neighbor: Don't sweat it. Next time I'll make sure they have real guns.

Tue, 21 Oct 2003 11:07:42 GMT

So, I was sitting in my room reading Battlefield Earth to try and quell my insomnia (big long books usually equal big long sleep) when I hear my roommate Dag the Rat (he looks like that one Angry Beaver, y'know?) making noise by my closet. I grab my maglight and shine it at the area I heard the sound, and see him dart inside, where my precious black coat presides. I panic.

No way in hell I'm letting this little furred bastard go NEAR my coat.

So, I grab my hammer and roll off the bed, lunging at the closet door and yelling "not this time, pest!" Once I've crawled successfully inside the closet, I shut the door and sit with my back to it.

There was no escape.

I saw it dart back and forth looking for an exit in a panic, and almost felt sorry for the poor rodent, but instead remembered it's earlier attempts on my life and assumed a deadly stance I once learned while in China learning the ancient art of the ninja...

...when my maglight went dead, leaving me in utter darkness.

Now, it was my turn to panic. The dark, cobwebby depths of my closet were no place for an arachophobic, and stupid Dag scurrying his nasty little feet over my legs every few seconds wasn't adding to the situation.

Hanging my head, I opened the door, crawled out of the closet, and admitted defeat.

Dag: 3; Brandon: 0.

Know this, however: I will get Dag. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow...

...but I will get Dag.