night of the space people

night of the space people (9:59)
A sci fi mini-film, well done, good plot and acting.

Hope Is Emo 6

Hope Is Emo 6 (3:41)

Time 4 Bed

Very Tasteful: "Time for Bed" (2:04)

theremin playing demo by Ether and Aether

Ether and Aether: "Prisoner of Zelda" on theremin w/synth (1:28)

The Bolus

Orb, sphere, small round mass of mystery, the bolus.

The bolus is. It moves when I'm not looking.

Right now, its there. It sits there, still and silent. Unrevealing. Mute. Not telling any tales about its origin or purpose or next step.

Yesterday evening we spotted it on our property.

It appeared in the bushes under the livingroom window looking out toward the street in front of the house. It looked as though a child had poked at it with a sharp stick, or an animal had bit a hole in it, because there were some crumbs beside it, a chunk missing, which gave us visual access to an interior, which is soap-like and white.

It's covered with grassy twiggy exterior shell, which makes me see it as a possible waste material from some huge mammal. That scares me quite substantially. I can't sleep at night. I stay up typing speeches and lectures addressed to the bolus.

Then it moved, or was moved, to the driveway early next morning.

This was intolerably odd.

Our bolus had neither wings nor feet nor any indication that it was alive and in command of any senses. It looked neither composed nor decomposed, and did n't bear any marks of servitude or direction. It seemed pointless, absurd, imprecise because unknown.

I still don't know what it is. It's round, it's almost the size of a billiard ball, a bit smaller. Heavy. A lard or soap-like hardness, not like a fluff mushroom or puffball toadstool. Our bolus is now sheltered in the abandoned haunted doghouse out back by the squash garden.

It's like being insane, this not knowing what something is, but it exists. Without explanation, without destination, without history, without value, but it's there. Staring at you. Daring you to define and exploit it.

I tried to kill it a few hours ago, but...did you hear that? I did. Shhh. There it is again. Look. It's right there, on the floor now, by the door to the attic. How did it get in? No, I'm wrong. It...it's over by the lampstand now. It knows how to roll from spot to spot and can change direction and speed when it wants to.

It seems to like me. It had been on voyages to remote parts of consciousness and now I cannot be me, for I am now the bolus, only the bolus, I ... uh ... huh? ... I feel woozy and my arms are shaking ... I am ... the bolus. As the bolus I come to ... uh ... ummm ... the ... the ... bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus.


It keeps rubbing against my ankles like a little kitten might do. It tickles a bit. I don't find the sensation unpleasant in the slightest. To the contrary, it makes me dream of days gone by, when I was a small child without weapons or language, when I was easy to defeat and invade telepathically. When I was at the mercy of the bolus and it's every command.

bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus.



I love the bolus. I obey the bolus. I am the bolus. The bolklsulaa'ld ldk ji'aussssss++++=d=d=wet b=5

bolus. bolus.

what did you say?

I said, "I wish you would."

what?

I wish you would.

message from president of Iran

It's great to see scumbag dictators crumble in lust and humiliation once they arrive in America, land of the free and home of the studs.

Dan Mirvish
"message from the president of Iran" (2:35)

baby in a beer glass trees

I stumbled upon the bizarre sound genius and music technician, Chenard Walcker, in a dream the other night. I dreamt that he and a guy, seems like it was Joel Carner, made a weird video.

This video featured nothing but a baby's head viewed through a beer glass as trees pass through it. While the music, as I dimly recall it, was splendid, the visual element was a bit disconcerting. I'm not used to this kind of meaningless abstraction in art or society. See what you think...

Chenard Walcker
"Baby in a Beer Glass Trees" (1:57)

the one adventure of Johnny Backward

A boy named Johnny Backward wanted people to like him. He wanted them to pay all their attention to him, him alone, and they were supposed to abandon their self-interest and other pursuits. Everyone hated and avoided him.

One day he had an adventure. It was the only adventure of his life. He never had another one. Here's what happened. He fell down. Hurt his knee. He cursed loudly. Mom put a bar of Ivory soap in his mouth and made him chew it for forty-five minutes, without swallowing any of it. He then was allowed to brush his teeth with comet, to get the bad taste out of his mouth.

That was the only thing that every happened to Johnny Backward.

His entire life began and is still going, he's not dead yet, but nothing of any importance has ever happened to the guy. He has no anecdotes. No reveries. No scrapbook of memories. He's a non-entity moving through a series of non-events until he finally disappears from the earth he barely touches.

THE END

popular new Fire Survivor game

There is an epidemic of young hoodlums dousing themselves with volatile oils, Ben Gay, hydrogen peroxide, and diesel fuel. They set themselves on fire, artificially, and see if they can figure out how to survive. The new popular game is called Fire Survivor. Few do. Survive, I mean.

Invisible Engine
"Eulogy for Chad" (4:25)

Haco has a Pencil Organ

Haco has made a Pencil Organ. She wishes I suppose to. Entertain me. So quite naturally, I put my bowl of nutmeg roasted raisins down, and took a gander at the contraption.

Sparks started flying and zapping around when I touched a control knoblet. "Don't dare mess with that," I thought to myself,"...it has the power to kill you!"

I didn't much care for killer sound generators or murder-prone musical instruments.

"Why would it want to hurt me?" I asked Haco.

[QUOTE]

"Pencil Organ" is an instrument created from a home electronics kit.

By tracing two test leads (+/-) across a thick sheet of paper covered with pencil markings, sound is created. By controling the two electrodes (+ and -) with one's hands and a person can become a part (the resistance) of an electronic circuit.

The sound is amazingly varied, and the human body (or say, an apple) also produces sound when touched. Changing or slightly dislodging a couple of the parts (blocks) in the electronic circuit adds to the range of the instrument.

The nerves in the human body also function via electricity, and though extremely weak, magnetic fields are known to exist within the body.

[END QUOTE]

GWAGS Phone Talk Technique!

Hi. Sleialgnion here. I kicked Vaspers the Grate off this site. Now I can put videos of my favorite friends here. This one is a Mr. GWAGS (gee wags) and he knows all about girls, friendship casseroles, and telecommunication tricks. Watch!

GWAGS: "How to talk to a girl on the phone for hours without really talking"
(4:01)

Sleialgnion is trying to break in!

Vaspers the Grate aka Serious Boy told me yesterday that Sleialgnion is attempting to forcibly enter this site and smear it with malicious slimey spam comments and even spam posts!

Now, we know Vaspers had a spot of trouble with a Lonnie Leopoldi who hacked into his crummy blog and defiled it and defaced and darn near deleted the entire thing, archives and all.

We will be watching this site carefully, so if any of you varnish eaters want to help, we could use it.

His name again is Sleialngion, pronounced Slee-al-nee-on.

"al" as in "alcohol"

Sleia had a web site, of sorts, a while ago, but it seems that he disfigured it by dumping it into a bad design template from Middleasia and is now so frustrated that he wants to hurt and strike out against his quiet and peace loving neighbors in the bloogysphere.

--signed: Sleialgnion the Neon Onion

Brad's shirt shines like a thousand crimson stars

I had vomited twice already, that's how worried I was. I could feel a mighty cloud of gloom fasten its antennae to my head so I would be nothing more than a passive row of rotating regular receptors.

Something terrible might have happened to Brad, so I feared at the time. It wasn't like him to arrive even a few minutes late. I squirmed and fidgeted in my chair. The donut I ate an hour and a half ago now was causing my stomach to rumble with sour sighs.

I scratched my ear, stretched my arms, stood up, and looked around for the three hundreth time. The other patrons gave me hateful looks. They were bothered by my head bobbing, neck twisting, and tiptoe peering over the crowd, trying to see if I might spot Brad heading toward me.

I was just about half a minute from giving up, and returning home. I jumped up, knocked my and two other guys' drinks over, to take one last look around, before declaring the night a total failure.

Finally, here he came, nearly 45 minutes late, wearing a red satin sheen Cutter & Buck Dry Tech shirt that wicks moisture away from your skin, while drying rapidly to keep you cool and comfortable. Pairing integrity of design and traditional quality construction with the latest in innovative technology, Brad's high performance garment was providing him with absolute protection and luxurious ease of wear, in any weather or clime.

#1 secret of creative writing

...is to do this, exactly as I spell it out to you:

(1) Make up the most absurd title you can think of

(like

How To Disappear and Be Invisible

or Why Air is Unnecessary

or Headless Soldiers

or I Fall Asleep in the Center of the Planet Pluto

or Complete False Instructions on How To Almost Write a Successful, Poor Selling Novel for Vast and Worthless Profits).

(2) Force yourself to figure out some way to write something based on this bizarre and impossible title.

sinking ship report

"Sir, I believe the ship is not steady horizontally, if you'll pardon my being so bold as to say so, in such a direct and sudden manner" I said.

I was hired unexpectedly, one might say maniacally, and for three days straight, I did next to nothing but stare at a door that refused to swing. A carpet sans footsteps. The business was dead, and I had no idea why I was being paid to watch it rot.

That door just stood there, that carpet just ached for feet to tread upon it. I heard it scream once in forlorn agony of empty uselessness.

Can you guess how exhausting it is to do nothing all day long? It's not easy to stare at one thing, then another, then read a little of a book, then drink from a water bottle, then find something else to stare at. Hour after deadly dull hour. You run out of reveries and places to scratch yourself.

The sheer lunacy of the situation was refreshing, in an oppressive way. The weight of nothingness pressed down on me so heavily I could hardly breathe or think.

I went home with brain dead written all over my face. I looked at others and all things with vacant, frigid eyes.

It was eating my mind right out of my head, sucking it out my eye sockets, this periscopic drowning pool.

I felt myself swirling down some unknowable, unimaginably desolate drain, to be set adrift, eventually, in the waves I saw as they were sluggishly washing and whirling away, outwardly expanding toward the rapidly spinning vortex of dizzy and unseemly sewage, a bored and tested effluvial disdain.

The Other Thans: my secret society for scaring people

"I don't know why I'm telling you this," I started to explain. At that point, I had not told her anything, but was getting ready to do so.

My face wore a grave expression.

"What?" Blake asked.

"I mean, there's nothing to be done about it really," I continued in a murky manner. "I got fired, again, and I'm really annoyed about how it happened."

I gave Blake all the gory details of trust, enthusiasm, hard work, sincerity, betrayal, termination. The typical story of my long string of job failures. Falling flat on my face was becoming an entrenched trend. While I could blame from 2% to 20% of it on myself, I was convinced that I was being misunderstood, mistreated, and mangled by the gears of corporate systems.

Blake was silent for what seemed like about 10 minutes. He turned away from me and stared off toward the woods behind my house. I sat there, wondering what he was contemplating.

"I know what needs to be done," he said finally. "We need to form a cult, then invade the store wearing weird esoteric costumes. Perform a bizarre but quick ritual. Shake them up, you know?"

I had no idea what he was talking about.

"What good would that do?" I asked, slightly irritated at such a mysterious suggestion. I knew he was serious, but it didn't make any sense. "Just to scare them or something?"

"Freak them out", Blake replied.

"Why?"

"Revenge."

"How would that be retaliation?" I asked. I could not imagine any possible benefits from such an act, nor could I envision what the costumes and ritual might be. It reminded me of guerilla theatre, a surveillance camera skit.

"You'll see," Blake assured me. "What we'll do is invade the store, and act like we're performing a curse against them, something memorable that will haunt them for a long time. If they're superstitious or easily influenced, we'll have a big impact."

So that's how my secret society of The Other Thans came about.

Blake was right: the bizarre costumes, incoherent mutterings, and flashy stage effects really did the trick. We fried their circuits to the max. Several employees had to seek psychiatric counseling after we pulled that mystical stunt. I was proud of Blake and my other buddies who joined in on the fun.

From retaliation against an employer, to intimidating my trailer trashy neighbors who used the block as a day care center, The Other Thans soon became an incredibly effective weapon in my arsenal.

If anyone is interested in more details, I'd be happy to provide them. This strategy can be applied to a wide variety of situations.

pylon frenzy

"All right!" I said to my buddy, who was almost about to get struck by a speeding car. Whoosh. The tires hit a filthy puddle with tremendous splashing force, but no human fatality. The amplitude vector of splatter-sloshic impact made a gigantic impression upon me and Tony.

Tony was doing okay.

This was our fifth orange pylon theft of the night. Pylons, measuring about three feet tall and 2 feet wide, were what we were after. The springtime highway construction sites provided ample, albeit unauthorized, supply. We only needed twelve more. I had five pylons in the basement, gleaming in the murky moonlight.

My artistic vision was reigning like mental electricity in the bursting forth of stranger beholdings.

I fail my bookstore interview

I wanted to get closer to books and CDs, and I needed an excuse to log off the computer and leave the house for some fresh air and physical movement.

So I applied at the local Wieman's Giant Bookstore. Every thing seemed to be going fine. Until. Until I unfortunately acted overly zealous and bookwormy. I really blew it, right at the very tail end of the interview process.

"What books are you reading now?" she asked.

I smiled. This seemed like a nice question, one I could answer without hesitation or shimshamming around.

"I'm reading Collected Poems of Edna St. Vincent Millay." I paused to collect my thoughts. The lady interviewer jotted something down, which I assume was the title of the book I had just recited.

"And Shelley's Poetical Works, the Oxford edition", I added like an enthusiastic idiot. Suddenly realizing that mentioning two poetry books in a row might make me appear to be unreliably effeminate, I switched gears.

"Remembrance of Things Past by Proust. The Last Man by Maurice Blanchot. Djinn by Alain Robbes-Grillet. The Sheltering Sky by Paul Bowles. The Norton Anthology of English Literature, The Major Authors, Sixth Edition. Do you like Ben Jonson? Let me quote a sample to refresh your memory. This is his "On Something, That Walks Somewhere"...

"A poem?" she asked bitterly, with a definite sneer. I could see that she hated poetry, or men who like poetry, but I fouled up again, and it was too late to stop. I had to quote the poem, whether it do me good or ill. My mouth kept going, spilling forth the gruesome rhyme.

When I called my friend who works at the bookstore, he told me the lady interviewer was not suitably impressed with my overbearing gusto and verve. She considered me offensive, based on my reading several books simultaneously.

I noticed how she quite taking notes after I mentioned book number 6 in my list of what I'm actually reading now.

Anyway, I thought I'd quote the poem for you here, since the damage has already been done.

"On Something, That Walks Somewhere"
by Ben Jonson (1572-1637)

At court I met it, in clothes brave enough
To be a courtier, and looks grave enough

To seem a stateman: as I near it came,
It made me a great face. I asked the name.

"A lord," it cried, "buried in flesh and blood,
And such from whom let no man hope least good,
For I will do none; and as little ill,
For I will dare none."

Good lord, walk dead still.

killer unicorns and me

I entered the arena with trepidation. When my fans started cheering, I knew I was in trouble. They weren't cheering me. They were cheering the mechanical unicorns that were amassed against me.

Why did anyone think a horse with a sharp pointed spear on its head was gentle, peaceful, or kind? A horn is for attack and defense.

My fans had turned on me, and now, as I stared up at them, I could see the scowls and grimaces that seemed to unite into a consensus condemnation. They surely knew it was wrong to be so bloodthirsty, but they didn't care. Titans of hostility directed toward me, I wished them well as I prepared for the painful slaughter, culminating in mutilated demise, the end of what I fancy is me.

There I was, all alone, facing about twenty or thirty killer unicorns. Made of steel, with diamond sewage laser tipped needles, and electricity, their animosity, programmed by a human hater, was thickly set against me, to do me ill.

Litany of Lies

The rocket pointed at my chest had a blue laser streaming vapidly with sick precision from the bitter poisoned tip of the blade's cutting teeth and ripping jaws encased in seething suspicions which were hideously sharpened by radioactive bio-harzardous sewage-drenched chainsaws of mediocrity and the gut-wrenchingly nauseating stench of an unclean spirit of error.

The very originality and gusto of the sentence above is proof enough: I am like no other, especially now.

The unclean spirit of error whispered into the Group Ear: this is a danger.

I was painted with broad strokes of insurgency against the intruder, crusader, liberator, customer service repairer.

A one-man complaint and suggestion department, which is the true heart of any operation, I shielded my eyes from the shame. A filthy rinse of slobberings filled every cup with putrid juice. I looked into and successfully entered my deeper inner self, my secret power station where the unconscious, nonconscious, and superconscious meet and shake hands.

the character who thinks he's me

The character who thinks he's me had better watch out, and be a pal to what can't be defined or defended in time. Take f'rinstance this sentence. Did you take it? Why or why not? When it rains, it's poor. Over up above, nothing seems to occur, but do we really think that everything arises from a grind of being, and not at all floating down from up there?