Milk- The Silent Killer

Holidays- The Horrible Truth

2006-12-28T21:49:00.000-08:00

It's that time of year- overeating, overdrinking, oversleeping and pretty much overdoing everything that's bad for you. Yes, the holiday season is upon us in all of it's fury and we are once again caught up in it's throes. In America, the holidays are like a kettle that's placed upon an ever-increasing flame starting at Thanksgiving, brought to a whistling boil at Christmas and allowed to percolate through the new year, at which point the kettle is hurled out the window.

It all begins with the after-Thanksgiving sales: after our yearly worship of gluttony, companies prod you to indulge your lavish side on crappy gifts that the people you're buying them for probably don't even need or want. Does your Aunt really need another pair of slippers? Are you sure your nephew wants an E-Z-Bake oven? It doesn't matter: they're on sale, and so you will buy them. We stress over gifts for a month, worrying that we're getting the perfect thing for someone when in actuality they'll stuff it in a closet for a year before they pass it on or they return it (but only for store credit!).

If you don't celebrate Christmas, there's still room for you in the gift-buying season. It doesn't matter if you're Jewish or you worship an obscure Norse pantheon; somewhere, someone is having a "pre-Ragnarok" sale. It's not as if Christmas is a religious holiday; not really, anymore. Oh sure, there will be someone who puts out a "Jesus is the reason for the season" bumper sticker: that person will then take the proceeds from the sales of those and put them towards XBoxes and soft cardigan sweaters.

The tumult continues unabated for a month, everyone swept up as if in a rolling ball of pure consumerism that rolls into a mall, rumbles around, and then rolls out covered in gift cards. Not that you have to endure the people who are semi-decent to each other in the spirit of the season: You can avoid all of the cheery decorations by ordering your gifts online.

Then, on December 24th, all is quiet. The dust settles in empty shopping malls. NORAD tracks "Santa", which is actually just a spy satellite decorated with a little tinsel. All is calm, except for those parents who attempt to deceive their children about Mr. Klaus by wrapping and assembling all of their presents the night before.

Then, the shutters fly open and a man yells out to the Cockney lad, "What day is it?" and he shifts his weight from one patchworn shoe to the other and yells back "Whoy eet's Christmas daye!" The children run downstairs, tumbling over each other and ignoring their fracture wounds to get to the tree to open the toys that will be obsolete by the next year. Tired parents torture their kids by making them wait until after breakfast to open the shiny, shiny gifts. Then, it's time for all to enjoy their ill-gotten goods. Look, it's a Galgatron for Jimmy! Oh, he wanted the Galgatron X with the extreme lasers. And Sally gets a gift card to an office supply store because she didn't make a Christmas list. Dad gets a handmade card from his kids, which is plenty of recompense for the loads of debt he went into this season, and mom gets another sweater that doesn't fit. Grandma and Grandpa are oohing and aahing over the gifts and are just happy to be included, even though nobody got them anything or even really acknowledge their existence. Then, it's a huge meal and everyone hurries off to their individual rooms to enjoy their gifts without the others annoying them.

This may sound a little...bitter, perhaps? Maybe, but isn't that what the season is all about- anger and frustration? Okay, perhaps not, but I'm trying to end on an upbeat note:

How about the fact that many people celebrate not only the commercial side of Christmas, but also genuinely care for their families and look at the holidays as a time to come together?

How about snow? Everyone loves snow who doesn't have to deal with shoveling it.

Eggnog made with a little too much rum so that Uncle Gene tells you about that hooker he picked up? Dazzling strings of lights that urge you to convert or be roasted in the flames of Hell forever? Families going a-caroling in period garb and then asking for something called "figgy pudding" which sounds a bit lewd? That one Chinese food place that's the only place open on Christmas day?

How about the saddest Christmas tree ever? How about that, Charlie Brown?

Advice to bloggers

2006-12-18T23:16:00.000-08:00

I am, I realize, the paragon of blogging reliability, apart from an unannounced 5-month hiatus that was punctuated by my wife stating that I hadn't updated the blog in x number of days. Then she would shake her head sadly and only by focusing really hard on whatever unconstructive activity I was doing was I able to squelch the Voices of Guilt in my head, who not surprisingly sound like my mother. After all, how could I let down my legions of fans who depended on this blog for a daily laugh?

Then I remembered, there are no legions; at least, if there are, they are fans of the hilarious Milk- Delicious Cow Mammary Fluids blog which I am not associated with. (Not since the...unpleasantness).

Regardless of where I've been or who I've been doing, I am back now with the intent of producing the finest blog-based content available. To that end, I am now drawing upon my vast experience of something like 20 blogs in 3 years. With those kind of credentials, I should write a book: because I am lazy, I will bullet point a few things I have learned.

Blogging is hard to do on a daily basis- Even if you discount the fact that you need an idea every day, the day-to-day struggles of life make it difficult. With fine television comedies and dramas and many delicious chocolately options available, as well as a marked improvement in sofa "cushiness", I predict blogging will slowly die out over the next 2-4 months. Please note that I also predicted that 60's styles would be making a comeback this year. On an unrelated topic, if you know anyone that wants to buy a tie-die machine, message me.
No matter what you blog about, you will gravely insult one of the major world religions. With this bullet point, I have offended them all.
Advertising your blog is a useless endeavor- you are only advertising to spammers who will fill your comments with things like "I really agree with you on the subject of plush toys vs. rubber ones. If you would like to know more about my blog about great stock tips, visit me!" The best way to advertise your blog is to pretend that you are someone famous, like George Bush, Ralph Waldo Emerson, or the lead singer of Led Zepplin. As long as you sound like them from time to time, nobody will ever know that you're not them. (Examples: "The Axis of Evil, nucular", "She's buying a stairway to heaven", "Hey, I'm all philosophical up in here, because I am Ralph Waldo Emerson")
If you can't write a lot of words, at least have a lot of links to Myspace profiles, web cartoons, and YouTube videos. Note: People may not return to your blog if you link them other places, especially if those other places have free porn. Because, hey, free porn.
Updating consistently and reliably is the best way to cultivate a thriving community discussion on your blog. Moving on....
A political blog is a great way to get loudmouth jerks to argue endlessly in your comment section. They are drawn to such discussions like snakes to a Snake Attractor 2000. To have fun with them, vehemently argue one side, then the other. This will confuse them long enough for you to delete all of their comments.
Beautiful backgrounds and pictures will really spice up your blog and make it more attractive to people. If your blog does not take at least 1o minutes to load, add more dancing hamsters.
If nobody is commenting on your posts, feel free to create multiple accounts and post on your own blog. Eventually, you will create an entire world of fake characters, and your skewed sense of reality will warp what is true with your deceitful creations, utterly destroying everything you are. On second thought, do not do this.
Blogging will ultimately lead you a more fulfilled person with a large group of friends from around the world who will want to sleep on your couch when they come in from out of town.

There you go. There's probably more there, somewhere, but frankly, it's going to take a large book advance (or lack of blog topic) to get it out of me.

Diz-nee-land

2006-07-24T14:34:00.000-07:00

Updating this blog is so passe, or so I was told. Then I realized it wasn't.

Actually, the real reason I haven't posted is because I've been held prisoner against my will in a foreign land. My nights were spent in wailing horror and my days in a wallowing solitude.

I was held at the Disneyland Main Street Jail. The jailor was that demon himself, Mickey, and a heavy crop he wielded, and painful.

But enough of that- I'm here to describe that "Magic" Kingdom to folks who have never visited the place (With the Disney Relocation Plan, that will soon be remedied, by the way).

As an overview, Disneyland is the realization of a dream, which is immediately and effectively absorbed by children, and somewhat more cynically viewed by adults. It's the world as viewed through a brightened lens, in which the soils of our world are stripped away and the resulting remnant is the ideal of a half-century ago. That is to say, Disneyland takes us back to a 50's ideal, and makes boatloads of money in the process.

Case in point is Main Street, U.S.A., the first section of the park in which colorful storefronts line a street of dreams that is perpetually celebrating the 4th of July. Horse-drawn carriages ride triuphantly down the road and double decker buses toot their horns gaily. The entire scene is incredibly appealing and bears about as much reality to any main street in any town in the US as the world of Mary Poppins does to the UK. Still, it's an appealing fantasy and one could easily get lost in it. Apparently, Mickey and his friends have moved to the town, because they wander around hugging children in their peculiar cephalopodic way. Bright flowers and shining fountains abound, as do humongous tourists.

What's that? Fat people? In America? If you had suggested the idea to me prior to going to Disneyland I might have vehemently disagreed with you. But after...well, the evidence abounds. That is not to say that I dislike or loathe them, but there's so many, and everywhere.

To be sure, Main Street does nothing to provide healthy meals for these people. The ice cream shop is next to the candy shop which itself is next to the soda fountain. One can safely assume that none of the aforementioned sell a small green salad with light dressing.

Fortunately, if you do find you've had ten too many sundaes, you can head next door to the dozens of clothing shops that will outfit you in all of your favorite clothes (provided your favorite clothes all have some sort of Disney-inspired logo on them). Are you mainstream? Go with a classic pair of Mickey ears. Are you a rebel? Don't worry, Disney will cater to your needs as well, offering apparel with all of the nefarious villians.

Once you've passed all of the shops, assuming you don't go into hyperglycemic shock, you have an important decision to make: which land within Disneyland do you visit?

In Adventureland, you visit a vast tropical jungle, without the pesky natives or malaria. Here, you can go on rides with Indiana Jones and on a boat throughout an animatronic river. "Anamatronic" is a key word that means that many of the creatures on the rides are robots rigged to move realistically, which by 1960's standards when the park was built means "jerking back and forth like a raver having a seizure". You may believe that the staff is also made up of animatronic robots, but they're real. They're just realllllly high.

Further along in Adventureland, you'll get to Tom Sawyer's Island, which has lots of fun paths to run on and things to climb and explore, making it the second least popular attraction at the park. The least is canoeing- for some reason they thought that getting into a boat with 19 heavyset people and dragging their asses around in a boat (ostensibly they should help, but unfortunately Disney axed out the guy in the back with the whip, which means there will be slackers). The waterway is very crowded as well: You have to share the river with a paddleboat and a pirate ship that make their way around. Alongside the river is a quaint representation of a New Orleans long past. There's the obvious hurricane joke, but I'm going to ignore it.

Adventureland does get some high marks for having two of the most popular rides in the park inside of it: Pirates of the Caribbean and The Haunted House. The former puts you in with a dozen other people who conveniently ignore the multiple signs stating not to use flash photography. You can get your revenge by splashing some of the river water on them, which probably is acidic enough to burn. The latter takes you through a creepy mansion full of the living dead- the perfect way to scar a child emotionally for a long time. Nonetheless, these rides, while not the fastest, are still classics. Though they should really kill someone on each of them every once in a while, just to shake things up.

In Frontierland, re-create the old west as it should have been, with spaghetti western music blaring out of speakers hidden along the well-demarcated path. Head over to Big Thunder Mountain Railroad, one of two good coasters at the park and entertain yourself by watching the man at the head of the line have a screaming child drag him off the ride. So much for your 30 minute wait, sucker!

It is fairly obvious that waiting is an integral part of the Disneyland experience. In fact, waiting patiently in line is a skill you will rapidly develop here, because you'll be doing it for everything: tickets, food, rides, bathrooms- all of them have waits, and chances are you'll be behind someone whose body odor is above reproach.

Tomorrowland takes us of the future of the 70's! Imagine that you could drive a horrendously slow car around a predefined track- well, Autopia lets you do that, today. To add insult to injury, they flash fatally unfunny jokes on a big screen, such as "Why did the auto go to the hospital? Because he was having car-diac arrest!" Put up with this long enough, and you'll experience another time honored Southern Californian driving tradition: the drive-by shooting.

If that's not enough, you can head over to the Starcade, which has all of the greatest video games in one place. I certainly know that I would be fine with my kid wanting to play some Dance Dance Revolution when I just paid 65 bucks for an admission to the park. There's the Buzz Lightyear ride, which rewards years of playing violent video games by letting you shoot at targets on the walls, and Space Mountain, a roller coaster which can be best described as "turning left really fast in the dark". Still fun, though. Star Tours is a ride where they put you into a box and shake you around, but it's a Star Wars themed ride (I bet you didn't see that coming). Sadly, Michael Jackson's 3d performance in Captain EO has long since perished from the world, and we are lessened by it.

Straight across from Main Street is Fantasyland, whose entrance is the iconic castle in all of Disney's products. Defensively, it's a poor structure, whose drawbridge doesn't even close in case of an attack by the godless heathens of Knott's Berry Farm. Inside is the idyllic medieval setting where Characters-who-have-become-Disney-products like Alice in Wonderland, Pinocchio and Sleeping Beauty dwell, and the rides bearing their name. It is here that you will find most of the parents of young children, tired and bedraggled from riding on the Mad Hatter's teacups for the fifth time. This is also the home of the Matterhorn, whose line could probably extend up the side of the real mountain.

Each land has a plethora of food and shopping options, lest you take a break from spending money like water for even a moment. Of course, each shop and restaurant has different things, so if you want that clam chowder, you're hiking over to Adventureland. See a hat you like? Better get it now, because this store is the only one that has it.

At the end of Fantasyland is the infamous 'It's a small world" ride, whose music blares like an unholy cacaphony, deafening the lucky ones, and driving the rest insane. Inside, a slow boat takes you through a myriad of nations, each singing the same song, perhaps in a hope that all people want the same thing in life; peace and joy. Then the German puppets invade the French puppets and a miniature carbomb explodes in the Isreali section.

The final land is Toontown, where Mickey and his pals really live. Everything is presented in bright, cartoony colors and is shaped perfectly for young ones, and you'll be telling yourself "Finally, something for the children." My heart could not bear to be here for too long, so I couldn't tell you much about it, but I do know one thing that resonates with truth throughout every fiber of my being: When I die and my immortal soul is judged, and weighed down by my sins here on Earth, I will be dragged to the pits of Hell for all eternity. And it will be Toontown.

So this is Disneyland. It is a refuge for that place within each of us that yearns for the good old days, when Main Street was more than just a road, when adventurers and frontiersmen were revered, when the hero saved the princess and when the future seemed to hold infinite promise. It is also a place where a bottle of water costs $3 and you are assailed at every point by mountains of cheaply-made merchandise peddled off at ridiculously high prices. Parades will serve to remind you of all the characters you loved as a child and which your child loves, but also that you can buy collectible plates with them in the store behind you. For some reason there are things called Disney Dollars which are equivalent to American dollars for fun's sake, but they are also non-transferable back to US Dollars.

This is the duality of the place: There is obviously a corporate machination here whose intent is to have legions of people swarming out of the place with mouse ears, but there's also the original intent- a place where we can go and believe again, relive our childhood again and see it through the unspoiled eyes of children, and perhaps unlock the child in all of us.

Except Toon Town. Seriously, that place sucks.

The vacationer

2006-06-28T23:08:00.000-07:00

I was looking forward to my trip, a short hop out to some sun-drenched islands reeking of humidity, icy drinks and scantily-clad girls all eager to find a rich foreigner to take them off of the sun-drenched island. I guess people who live in the tropics dream of the cold grey metropolises that the rest of us want to escape. It's either that or they're sick of seeing tourists wrapped in too-short and too-bright polyester clothes pile out of a tour bus, take a picture of some chickens and pile back in to the next predetermined site of Interest.

The girls didn't matter anyways, seeing how I had a wife and two kids back at home; the thought briefly flickered in my mind of a dark-skinned hula dancer in a french maid outfit, but that thought disappeared after a moment. I'm sure I could pay for that on the island if I wanted it, but what I really wanted was a cocktail.

So where were my wife and kids, you ask? Well, theoretically I have an friend who lives on the island who I've been close to since I was a kid, but really my friend's name is spiced rum and he and I get along just fine without the family tagging along. It works every time, I go to the island, relax, and come back and we do something as a family. Everyone is happy, and I come back without the urge to go on a murder-suicide rampage, so that's an added bonus.

And I've never been unfaithful to my wife. No, sir. I may have had some titties shook in my face, and maybe I grabbed a few, but every night the only thing I'm cradling in my arms is that bottle. I may lie to my wife to get away from her yap every so often, but I'm true. She's got a sweet ass anyways, so it's not like there's anything better out there. Besides, when I get home, I'm more in love than ever. That and she lets me do her from behind.

My job? Heh, nothing special- I work two jobs. The first is your traditional 9-5 corporate shmuckery- I sit in my office all day, stare out the window or look at porn on the Internet, take lunch, maybe do about ten minutes of work and then sneak out early. The boss would say something, I guess, but since I have pictures of him and his male secretary safely locked away, I pretty much don't give a crap.

I have another job, and that's a weekly gig playing drums at a nightclub. I tell my wife that I'm going to a poker night with the boys, and they all corroborate the story, especially since I get them in for half-price. It doesn't hurt that Lana the waitress knows what's up and gets all of us drinks throughout the night. I play pretty good drums, but when I've had a few in me, I just relax, you know, and play loose. The job pays like shit, frankly, but it goes in my fund to come out here. When that fills up, I tell my wife that old Bobby has called me up and wants me to come out, and finances are too tight to take everyone. One time, just to mix things up I brought the family out; too bad "Bobby" was away on business that week.

I've got it pretty good. A happy, loving family and the ability to get the hell away from them every so often. My wife even works- she's a nurse at a local school. She's so good at it that every year they elect her to go to some School Nurses of America celebration out in Palm Springs. I've never been to it, and she says it's boring: she goes every year, though. I suppose she likes talking the trade with the other nurses; which kid stabbed himself in the eye with a pencil or whatever. Sounds like a snooze to me.

Anyways, none of that matters- I'm on a plane to the tropics, and a beach, and a tall glass of alcohol. The rest are cares that can disappear, for now.

Edit: After re-reading this, let me state that it's a work of fiction. While I'm certain that my wife wouldn't mind me skipping off to a tropical island to carouse with sexy native women, I'm not sure I would want to deal with the unfortunate "accident" that would occur upon my return.

An Interlude

2006-06-11T15:47:00.000-07:00

It seems like forever since my last post. Impossible, of course. One unit of forever would preclude any others. It's a singular quantity, much like one's need for Everlasting Gobstoppers.

This week, again, I leave for Hawaii, the Garden State. Spending twelve days in that tropical place would normally give me an overall pleased and contented air, but it's a business trip which immediately precludes any enjoyment. Indeed, the aim of the work is to make you forget that you're in one of the few true paradises that exist on Earth. Instead, one is greeted by featureless and bland block buildings inside which one will spend most of the day. I have commented on this in the past and, at the risk of repeating myself, I will complain about it again: there's nothing more satisfying than complaining, I think, and if the matter is a minor one, all the better.

There is another factor to the equation of this trip. It is the absence of my wife's presence, the thought of which puts me in a somewhat melancholy mood. I am an independent person, able and even eager to be alone in my (mis)adventures. At the same time, though, I am gripped in the clutch of sadness to think my only contact with her will be dependant on the weak link of a cell phone.

Ideally, I could bring her in a backpack with me, not unlike C-3p0 from Star Wars.

The only explanation is that I have become physiologically attached to her. I could try stabbing myself to see if she feels it to, but I'm already certain of the fact (also, stabbing hurts). When a few miles between our work places separate us, I can call her and know that I will see her shortly, hug her, pinch her ass and give her an evil grin. It's a daily dance whose steps will never cease to grow old for me.

And now, there's a wrench thrown into that schedule, that certainty. Take away the work and replace it with a cool pina colada and hammock, and my wistfulness doesn't change. Take Hawaii away and replace it with the middle of Kansas, but add her, and all is well. Give me an aching, scorching desert, devoid of life or water, and give me her, and I will perish smiling. Then she can use my body as an umbrella. So we both win, as long as she finds someone who can raise the dead- it shouldn't be hard, quite a few holy men wander around in the desert.

Twelve days, and each lasting forever. And then home, and joy returned.

The Restroom Public

2006-05-22T15:53:00.000-07:00

There are, in life, two events that are inescapable, the first being death and the second being, for lack of a better term, pooping. All people face these two things at some point, though generally with a widely varying degree of trepadation between them, unless a burrito combination plate is involved.

Yes, everyone in history has had to excuse themselves to use the bathroom, chamber pot, woods or what have you. The mightiest Kings and Emperors of the world all defecated. Jesus, Mohammad, Buddha, Moses all felt the call of nature. Everyone of your friends, family, coworkers and superiors all have done it, as have your ancestors, leading down to you. Yes, that means that your Grandpa pooped when he was off in Europe fighting the Nazis, themselves defecators.

Distasteful as the thought might be, it is also comforting. No man or woman is so great that they can transcend our daily needs. It's humanizing, and I for one am glad nobody gets a pass. Certainly, it's something to which we can relate: death might also be a shared experience, but it has the unfortunate side-effect of limiting conversation from those who have gone through it.

One thing we never read or hear about is when those leaders might have been stricken with a sudden need to evacuate. Did Hitler really have to pee at one of his rallies, perhaps? Maybe Julius Caesar was thinking he could just get done at the Forum real quickly before he had to go. Did Poncius Pilate think over his decision on the can? Nobody ever tells us, and that's a shame.

One result of our collective doody needs is the requirement for public facilities. These range from whitewashed, clean facilities with lovely floral patterns and wall sconces to dank, steaming pits dug haphazardly in the ground, where a single misstep would end only in human misery. If you have been to a gas station in the Southwest United States, you have encountered the latter.

There is always the question of toilet etiquette. One widely-known rule is to separate yourself from other expellers of waste by the maximum allowable distance. Many feel fear and trepadition when entering a nearly-full restroom: this is normal, and you should feel anxiety, because someone could be making judgements about you based on how you conduct yourself in there. If you foolishly break one of the unpublished and unknown rules that vary from person to person, woe will be your only companion hithermore.

Among public restrooms, there is no greater sublimity than the empty restroom complete with vacant handicapped stall. Seated there, you can survey the great and wide tracts of your domain, enclosed by the stall's flimsy metal walls. Here, in peace, you can let your mind wander over whatever choice memories or troubles you have, and contemplate them with a peace unbeknownst to others. If Heaven has any chance of living up to it's reputation, then it's restrooms must consist entirely of handicapped stalls.

There are problems of hygiene in these places. Fortunately, modern science has done away with the idea that troublesome bacteria could somehow infect you in these places. If the crack staff of the cleaning crew that comes bi-weekly to replenish the paper products in the restroom and pour bleach haphazardly all over the place isn't a comfort, then surely you must be put at ease by the semi-translucent sheet of paper separating your backside from the well-worn seat. Certainly, there is no way to violate that impermeable and sturdy material. For you worrywarts, use a few of them until they approach the thickness of a hair.

For those restrooms without bidets (and I believe no American establishment uses them), you are similarly greeted with a roll of toilet paper, crudely ripped by whoever's hand preceded yours. One thing is for certain- that person was no doubt a paragon of health and civility, and you can be sure that they had no form of bowel irritation.

There is progress once one moves to wash one's hands. Automatic toilet flushers, soap dispensers, faucets and paper towel dispensers/blowdryers all offer you a way to stay disease-free on your way out of the restroom. While you may need to flail your hands wildly to get them to work, it's well worth it knowing that you are antiseptic for the few seconds before you touch the door handle. These devices are not universal, however, and there is an inverse relationship between the availability of such devices and the places where they're needed.

So, what have we learned? All people go to the bathroom: shocking in and of itself. But more important is how we go to the bathroom, and if we have to use the air freshener afterwards, and why they put up a sign instructing food workers to wash their hands, because they should do that anyways. This, more than anything else, is what makes us human.

Mahd's guide to the world, Part 10: The Caribbean

2006-05-12T08:51:00.000-07:00

It's been a while, but we're back with the newest installment of the Guide. In this part, we'll be travelling to the lush, sunny coasts (at least when they're not being ravaged by hurricanes) of island paradises. Please note that, in the same way that Heaven might get boring after a few millenia, the lush, tropical paradises listed below are generally similar. In order to help alleviate this, I will be assigning each a Piracy Rank based on past, current and future piratical acts.

Anguilla

Here's how the Caribbean works: A foreign nation comes to the islands populated by native peoples, wipes them out, imports slave labor from Africa and raises sugar and tobacco. Every island pretty much followed this history up until around the mid 19th-century.

Anguilla is a collection of islands and cays that distinguishes itself by being one of the most expensive island chains in the region. In some ways, the only way to see the Caribbean is from your chaise lounge which is carried by your servants who are themselves carried by their servants.

Piracy Rank: 7 (Good potential for future)

Antigua and Barbuda

The more I read about all of these island nations, the more I'm coming to realize that there is a private island for every man, woman and child on earth. Antigua boasts that it has 365 islands in it's dominion, one for each day of the year. Each one a tropical paradise, blah blah blah. More interesting is that a few years ago the Prime Minister of the island was named Lester Bird, which may be the most unfortunate name ever.

Piracy Rank: 6 (Lots o places to hide loot)

Aruba

Aruba managed to avoid the prototypical Caribbean fate in a strange way: the soil was not good for farming, so every nation that came here moved along real quietly. Spain and the British didn't want it, so the Netherlands finally took control. It turns out to have been a good choice, with gold discovered in the country in the 19th century and oil refining in the 20th.

Although the interior might be a desert-like wasteland, the tropical coastlines will always ensure that there will be plenty of pale Dutch and American tourists for years to come.

Piracy Rank: 4 (Gold's run out and oil's no good to a pirate)

Barbados

Barbados is referred to as "Little England". This isn't so much because of unpalatable food and bad teeth as their penchant for English names and pasttimes. The British themselves love the little island, often choosing to come here rather than experience something unfamilar.

In spite of their love for things British, Barbados still retains some of it's Caribbean charm. Dark-skinned natives still listen to calypso music on the sandy beaches. Even if it does happen right before they go to the cricket match, it still counts.

Piracy Rank: 2 (Stay away from the British navy)

Bahamas

Aside from Bermuda, this series of islands (over 700) is probably the most popular in the Caribbean. The islands have some interesting history: these were the islands that Christopher Columbus first discovered for Spain (much to the surprise of the people who were living there- they had thought they had discovered them much sooner). Thousands of British loyalists were sent here after the American Revolution- they now have their revenge on Americans by charging $10 for a Pina Colada. It's not all a tourist wasteland- the outlying islands are more true to the original peoples, who we can only assume burn effigies of Columbus every day and twice on Mondays.

Piracy Rank: 9 (Once a Privateer's Republic, always a Privateer's Republic)

British Virgin Islands

Once a hunting ground for pirates, these islands have since become home to a small number of upscale resorts. Unlike the US Virgin Islands, there's little commercialism, which might be interpreted as a commentary on a larger scale. Yachts are common here, and the well-heeled crowd often derides anyone with a mere "50 footer".

The true reason these islands exist is for shady offshore banking firms to ply their trade. If you can't afford a Swiss bank account, a BVI one is the next best thing- after all, if you can't semi-legally launder your money, how are you ever going to be able to afford that bigger yacht?

Piracy Rank: 10 (Shady money practices combined with a history of buccaneers)

Cayman Islands

Everything that was said for the BVI goes double for the Cayman Islands. At least the money laundering part of it. Tourism is invariably here as well, especially for divers who enjoy the crystal clear waters. Combine this with a relatively common amount of shipwrecks from the old days and you can have a good time. Just don't buy anything here, because there's a massive tax on imports. If possible, bring a tent and daquiri machine with you to save some money.

Piracy Rating: 5 (Money laundering, but kind of far from everything)

Cuba

Cuba- the Communist Paradise! Where Soviets came to play in the surf and sand. Where nearly everyone on the island has used every imaginable piece of equipment to escape, from rubber boats to 1950's trucks. Cuba is judiciously goberned by Fidel Castro, who in recent years has been discovered to be a cigar-smoking robot. Other highlights of Cuba include the U.S. military base at Guantanamo Bay, where a number of people are currrently enjoying the fresh tropical air- whether they want to or not.

Piracy Rating: 1 (Communists dislike pirates - trust me)

Dominica

Dominica may be one of the last unspoiled Caribbean nations- despite the efforts of its government. Tourists aren't interested in beaches that aren't covered in white sand, and a notable lack of shopping, dining and nightlife. Natural beauty abounds, and that sickens developers who could be using the land to create a luxury resort. It doesn't help that the country's leaders keep dying in office- according to the chain of succession, the new leader is the former Secretary for Very Small Cats Affairs. His reign promises to, if nothing else, be adorable.

Piracy Rating: 2 (Poor countries make for poor plunder)

Grenada

Grenada might be most well-known as the country the United States invaded.

Okay, maybe I need to be more specific.

Grenada was invaded by the US in 1983 when the US thought the Cuba was trying to take over the island. The reason given was, of course, merely to rescue some U.S. students at a University there. The real reason- the US needed to secure vital supplies of nutmeg and cinnamon for their Christmas eggnog. And that's how the US saved Christmas.

Piracy Rating: 4 (unless those spices are going into rum, in which case make it an 8)

Guadeloupe

A French island that was repeatedly seized by the British, given to the Swedes who then gave it back to France, Guadeloupe has settled into a traditional Caribbean tourist destination. Yes, there have been strikes against the government, but the protesters generally give up to go nap in hammocks on the beach. Speaking with inhabitants is near impossible, since the language is a mish-mash of English, French, Spanish, Portuguese and perhaps shockingly, Aramaic. Don't worry, they'll get the picture when you raise your voice and shake your empty drink glass at them.

Piracy Ranking: 6 (A history of violence)

Dominican Republic/Haiti

These two nations are lumped together both geographically, but I also do it to contrast them. Where the Dominican Republic is a peaceable nation, Haiti is basically a 24-hour murderfest. The Dominican Republic boasts a number of all-inclusive resorts catering to your every need: Haiti boasts that you may not be lynched within 5 minutes of landing at the airport (which itself is probably on fire). The Dominican Republic is a stable democracy: Haiti has pretty much been in continuous rebellion since 1821.

If I had to choose between the two, I'd say go to the Dominican Republic- just a hunch that you'll have more fun there.

Piracy Rating: 10/ 2 (I'll let you guess which is which)

Jamaica

Jamaica- has there ever been a more stereotyped nation? Yes, we know they're all a bunch of pot-smoking rastafarians who have a penchant for bobsled racing. Sure, that stereotype might be dead-on, but what don't we know about these people? Well, not much- the people pride themselves on reggae; on their rum; and on the availability and legality of their pot. They seem to have learned that if you have music and mind-altering substances, then you don't really need or care about things like infrastructure or jobs. It's kind of like a music festival, except the water isn't $13 a bottle.

Piracy Rating: 7 (Rum! I wonder if they have reggae sea shanties?)

Martinique

In every area of the world, there is one nation that seems to be relatively boring and stable. For the Caribbean, it's Martinique. Oh sure, the country is French-speaking, which is somewhat exotic to us Anglophiles, but otherwise it's had an almost eventless history for the past century. Frankly, it's irritating: without some interesting and bloody coup, what can I write here? Nothing- and that's why I'm done.

Piracy Rating: 1 (No fun to be had here!)

Montserrat

Do you enjoy the outdoors? Perhaps to the exclusion of any other activity? If so, Montserrat is the place for you. Their slogan is "The Caribbean the way it used to be". To translate, this means "The Caribbean without any exciting dining, casinos, indoor activities, ATMs, hotels, flush toilets or running water." If you are the outdoorsy type, you can go see the active volcano, or hike or kayak. And if you disappear, nobody will ever, ever find you. So this might be a good place to take someone you're planning to murder.

Piracy Rating: 2 (No loot or rum, however violence is possible)

Puerto Rico

Puerto Rico! Home of the Pina Colada, which can be now lovingly dispensed from a high-tech Homemade Pina Colada Machine (tm). Puerto Rico is a U.S. Commonwealth, which means that they get all of the benefits of being citizens without the culpability of having voted for our elected members of Government.

It's not all icy alcoholic drinks and government subsidies, though. Puerto Rico faces a number of problems, from air pollution to water shortages. The nation is a great stopover for trafficking drugs into the U.S., so check that out too. Although, we really don't like it, so if you're bringing speedboats full of cocaine to our country, please stop.

Piracy Rating: 8 (Yo ho ho and a bottle of...)

St. Kitts and Nevis

Now we come to the "Saint" islands. The only reason that more of these islands aren't named for revered religious figures is that they ran out of sainted persons before they ran out of islands.

St. Kitts and Nevis are unique in the number of monkeys running around them. There are more monkeys than people, and you may find yourself in a bar ordering a drink and having it served to you by a friendly simian. They are piano players, innkeepers, DJs, and, shockingly, organ grinders that use smaller monkeys to collect coins.

Fortunately, many shops sell monkey repellent so that you can avoid these. The more common name for the repellent is "guns".

Piracy Rating: 7 (A monkey is a good pirate pet. A monkey with a parrot on it's shoulder- even better)

St. Lucia

Another semi-developed island, St. Lucia is smaller than New York. It's also less developed than New York, and you're less likely to be randomly urinated on than you would be in New York. Your chance of getting in for a taping of The David Letterman Show is about the same, though.

St. Lucia has interesting black-and-white sand beaches, rainforests and a sulphur volcano, the latter making any travel here a smelly proposition. More shocking, they decided to build a hog fat rendering plant on the island next to a chicken farm. Only half the population has complained, though- the other half were found dead in their houses.

Piracy Rating: 5 (Pirates don't mind the smell- they never shower anyways)

St. Vincent and the Grenadines

This is a group of 30 islands. There is excellent yachting and snorkeling thanks to the beautifully clear waters. The people are friendly and welcoming, and will cater to every need and whim. As the tropical sun darts low on the water, remember why you came to St. Vincent and the Grenadines- for the ultimate in relaxation and luxury*

Piracy Rating: 0 (There are no pirates here, just plenty of fantastic family activities)

*This guide paid for by Grenadine Island #23, which is the one with the money.

Trinidad and Tobago

Trinidad and Tobago created steel drum music. For this, I suggest a lengthy air campaign followed by an enveloping ground war. We must cleanse the earth of these people and their irritating music that is played at every faux Caribbean party that exists. Truly, they are an evil force and should be dealt with accordingly.

Piracy Rating: 0 (No self-respecting pirate would go within 20km of this place)

U.S. Virgin Islands

The U.S. Virgin Islands are a great place to finish up. Much like Pirates of the Caribbean shows us a false and idealized image of pirates, the USVI are something of an animatronic ride through the Caribbean. Oh look, there's the friendly black man with a brightly shining smile selling us fresh coconut milk! And over there is a brightly colored bar serving "fresh" cocktails. These beaded necklaces seem more Polynesian than Caribbean, but they're both islands, right? No, this is definitely the Caribbean; I can hear the spicy tunes of a steel drum cacaphony off in the distance. What, we have to go back on the cruise ship already? Well, now that I have experienced this island, I can make safe assumptions about every other Caribbean island...

This is a dangerous, dangerous place. Make sure that you remember it's not real, like Never-never land, Middle-Earth, or Los Angeles.

Piracy Rating: 10 (Hapless tourists will buy anything! And it's not even robbery- not in the traditional sense, anyways)

The conference

2006-05-02T08:51:00.000-07:00

As part of my job, I'm generally required to attend classes or conferences on subject matters relevant to the work I do. Being in the IT field, this usually means some sort of Unix or Microsoft course, which means sitting in a cramped convention hall filled with nerds, all of whom are eager to show off their technical prowess and copious knowledge of all things electronic. It's like an Apple store with all of the style sucked out of it and socially uncomfortable sweating inserted in its place. Every conversation is quite literally a powder keg waiting to explode as each nerdling has some particular pet peeve that, if provoked, threatens to bore you to death.

Not surprisingly, these gatherings are almost exclusively attended by men. Those few women who are present are generally looked at in a creepy yet lustful manner, regardless of amount or color of body hair, bad skin or teeth, or unflattering social habits. A woman who would be considered a "3" among the normal populace is rocketed skyward in strata and is thrust into a position that she is not used to being in: that of the sex object. Heaven help the woman who is attractive at these conventions- likely she will have a gaggle of men following behind her like lost puppy dogs. The only parallel I could draw would be to a comic book convention, where the same thing occurs, except that everyone is wearing Boba Fett and anime costumes, which is not as bad, somehow. I would expect the attendees to overlap, actually.

Along with speakers droning on about how they managed to perform some technical miracle and how everyone should run their systems, there is also the vendor hall. There is no person more damned in this world than the technology vendor. They sit in a crowded stall replete with brochures and XXL t-shirts and try to sell their products to a group of people whose entire purpose is to brush them off and grab as much clothing in as little time as possible. The successful nerds have the entire process down to a science, and can be marked as those who have replenished their wardrobes for a year. Those unlucky vendors who have been cleaned out of their free goodies, be it a pen that lights up or some kind of whirling toy, might as well just pack up and go home, because they will be disdained by the surging, deoderant-less crowd. They might as well not exist, though one could make the argument that they have already made that wish.

This is not to say that all attendees are fat and greasy, their translucent pale skin wrapped in a jumbo-sized corporate t-shirt and threadworn, stained shorts. There are well-dressed, urbane IT people. There are IT people without social anxiety disorder. It's only the vast, vast majority that fit the stereotype. Therefore, if you enter a hotel and see that an IT conference is scheduled while you are going to stay there, your best bet is to turn and run- you may just be able to escape.

Mahd's Guide to the World, Part 9: North Africa

2006-04-20T16:27:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the lack of updates: we're busy preparing for a housewarming party, which of course means that we're taking care of the 2,183 things we've been putting off since we moved in. In the course of our preparations, I am now a certified woodworker and electrician, and I would be a painter too, if I had any ability in that arena.

North Africa is a series of nations that border the Mediterranean Ocean. They are few in number, which makes them perfect for me to use them as a cop-out for a larger section of the world. The entire area is most famous for being the battleground in which German forces battled the Allies for control of Middle Eastern oil. Fortunately, since then, nobody has ever fought wars over the control of that resource.

Egypt

When you talk about places like Egypt, it's kind of strange to imagine people living there today. It was one of the first great civilizations of the world, but it's hard not to imagine people riding around in chariots and wearing funky eye makeup when you think of the place. Regardless, the country is home to many grand and spectacular and crumbling structures. The latter is not criticism- I can't buy a wristwatch that lasts more than 5 years anymore. The pyramids have been around for a few thousand. That's quality craftsmanship you don't find anymore.

Egypt could be considered part of the Middle East, as it does occassionally threaten Israel which is apparently requisite for being in that club. But for the most part, they disassociate themselves from that group of ragamuffins and try to put on a more civilized face.

Egypt is usually paired with the Nile river, which is it's lifeblood. One interesting thing I discovered: Don't go in the Nile river. Well, go in if you want malaria or yellow fever or some scary worm-based disease called bilharzia.

In general, Egypt is a great place to go- you are relatively well protected from being killed by murderous sociopaths, so long as you stay inside the air-conditioned tour bus and never, ever make eye contact with anyone.

Libya

Oh, Libya. You used to be a real bad guy. In the 1980's, apart from the Soviets you were one of the great menaces of our time. We even bombed you, to show how much we actually thought of you.

Today, you are barely on our radar screen. Like Northern Ireland or New York, people can say they went to your country and the yokels back home will be amazed that you made it back home alive. But Libya has become a reformed schoolboy- Gaddafi may still be a ruthless dictator, but he's trying to make amends. Look at his face: how can you stay mad at that face?

Most of the cities in Libya are along the coast, which makes sense since the rest of the country is a barren, trackless part of the Sahara where people are swallowed alive by the swirling sands. The one city in the area is called "Al Jawf", which roughly translates to "Damn there's a lot of sand here". Despite this, no sand castle building competitions have been held there.

Tunisia

Tunisia is a small country by the standards of the other North African nations. Much has happened here, though. It is thought to be the homeland of Carthage, a great trading nation before the Romans came and sewed the ground with salt. That may seem harsh, but it's what the Romans do- they stop by, have a drink, defile the land so nothing may ever grow there again, say their good-day and move on.

Parts of the movie Star Wars were filmed here. Travellers expecting to find unique collectables to sell on eBay will undoubtedly be let down, but you can probably fake something- those dorks will buy anything.

Like most of the countries lying on the Mediterranean, the seaside-dwelling people live in a beautiful climate full of well-manicured tourists and lounging. More inland, you can find all the people who do the real work, as well as all the ruins and culture. But screw that, the seaside has waiters who will bring you icy drinks, so stay away from the interior.

Algeria

Let us be clear- the civil war is over. The country is secure. As long as you stay out of the southwest and northeast of the country, you'll be fine. Oh, and avoid the northwest. And southeast. And you really shouldn't stay too long in the center of the nation; that would be a mistake.

It's not as if this danger is new to the area. The region was once known as the Barbary Coast, and was full of pirates who liked to enslave people, but generally Christians. Once the French came in, it didn't so much quiet things down as give them a target to focus on. Finally, the nation was granted independence and could have peace. Or not. Let's just wrap up this whole discussion by dispensing with the normal coups, revolutions and civil wars and get to the present, where an uneasy peace exists between factions.

Truly, this is a traveller's paradise.

Morocco

Morocco is one of the friendliest of the North African countries- by friendly I mean that they are happy to take your money. These people learned long ago that they are strange and unfamiliar to most European and American travellers, and so can extort them gleefully.

The nation boasts amazing advances, such as "tolerance for women" and "protecting children". That's pretty impressive for a monarchy, when most of them are more concerned with how to gild the rest of their immense palaces.

The best way to get to Morocco is to travel to Gibraltar, then take a big running jump off into the ocean. Your pants might get wet, but in a few minutes, you'll be in Tangiers. Alternatively, you can hang glide across.

The only way to leave the country is by rushing out to a waiting plane, where you shoot someone dead before taking off to the sounds of La Marseillaise...

Names for babies

2006-04-12T22:47:00.000-07:00

Let me first say: I'm not pregnant. My wife is not pregnant either- I made sure by jabbing her in the stomach a few times. Despite this, the topic of baby names occassionally arises, for when we want to bring a yowling little monkey into the world. Below are some of my preferred names for children, as well as some guidelines

Names for boys

There is one rule for boys names, and that is that you should name a boy for the deadliest thing you can imagine, which is why there are so many boys out there named "Electricshark". Boys must have a name that indicates brutality, otherwise they will be destroyed by other boys with much more harmful names. With this in mind, here are a few naming conventions:

Medieval Weaponry- Good:Dirk, Dagger, Claymore, Mace, Catapault. Bad: Cat-o-nine-tails, Mancatcher, Plowshare

Large geological formations- Good: Slate, Rock, Stone, Flint, Mountain, Stalactite. Bad: Limestone, Sand, Stalagmite

States- Good: Texas, Arizona, Utah, Dakota. Bad: Rhode Island, Delaware, Florida, Puerto Rico (just you wait)

Biblical names- Good: Moses, Jesus, Saint Antigone of Palaparnassus. Bad: John, Pope Pious, Hezjebejiah

Animal names- Good: Snake, Raven, Wolf, Jaguar Bad: Sloth, Water Buffalo, Turkey, South American Cottontailed Hare

Names for Girls

Girls have a number of rules for names. First, the name you give them must never also be the name of the stripper or hooker you saw the night before the child was conceived. Secondly, the name you give them must indicate their purity, which they will toss away in the back of some 16-year old's 1984 Honda Civic. Finally, a girl's name should be the name of some obscure relative who they will never see or care about- this will annoy them. Some sample names:

Month names- Good: May, June, April, April 15th Bad: September, October, January, March

Flower/Tree names- Good: Ivy, Rose, Willow Bad: Flytrap, Stinkflower

Old Lady names- Good: Ethel, Mildred, Wilma Bad: Delilah, Elly Maye Sue, That old bag

Creature/Animal names- Good: Angel, Bunny, Fawn, Unicorn Bad: Baelzebub the Lord of Lies, Bitch

Names with i's and y's in strange places- Good: Traci, Joni, Myra Bad: Janyce, Luci, Brytani, Iiiyyii

The moral of the story here is, choose a name that fits your child. If she's born in a trailer in the South, just save her the trouble of changing her name for porn later in life and name her "Busty". If he goes to a private school in a rich part of London, just name him "Lord Autumnbottom". And if you catch him dressing in his mother's clothes, you might as well call him something obsequious, like "Jody" or "Chris". Most importantly, choose a name that he can hate forever, like "Apple" or "Troutfishinginamerica" or "Scotty". If you do this, he might run away, and you will be free to spend his college fund on a new spa.

Experience the experience!

2006-04-10T09:08:00.000-07:00

As modern people of the world, we are privy to many things that people of past generations did not encounter. 24 hour news channels bring instant coverage of all events, and anything else can pretty much be found on the Internet. But my belief is that there is a difference between watching something and actually having it happen to you. And that's where the ferris wheel of death comes in.

The ferris wheel of death is, in my estimation, the most horrific scenario imaginable. Think, if you will, of a innocuous roadside carnival with the requisite clowns, carnies and food stands that sell deep-fried foods of questionable origin. In general, these carnivals have a multitude of creaky, unlicensed rides operated by people whose qualifications are nonexistent. Let's say one of these rides is a ferris wheel. A traditional ride, not too fast, whose main virtue is that when one reaches the summit of the calliope-music-playing monstrosity, one has a slightly better view than if standing on the ground.

Imagine now, that for some reason the ferris wheel's turning slowly starts accelerating along with the music. The operator is hopeless: all he knows how to do is press the "start" and "stop" buttons, as well as leering at young girls in a creepy manner. The passengers begin to get a sense of the trouble and start yelling for help, which causes the crowd below to stop and gape at the scene. Finally, with a wrenching groan, the wheel bursts free of it's moorings with a sickening shriek of twisted metal.

One rash youth attempts to jump off of the wheel, but to no avail. Two teenagers who thought the best way to sneak away from their parents to make out was on the tallest structure at the carnival are yelling now, and the old man who wanted to ride the old wheel one last time is getting his wish. Bodies are flying everywhere as the unstoppable wheel cuts a swath through the fair, and then the countryside, crushing anything unfortunate to be caught beneath it. Finally, it's instability and slowing pace cause it to fall on it's side, where it bursts into flame.

Truly a gruesome story. But let's examine how it would be conveyed to you in different ways:

3rd person account:
"Well, I was at the deep-fried lettuce stand when I heard this big ol' snapping sound. Damnedest thing I ever seen: the whole contraption just broke off the stand and started rolling around. You know, I hear that old man Donaldson was just real quiet that whole time, like he knew this was it for him- he knew he was gonna get taken out by a ferris wheel, just like his daddy before him. And that lil' Rebecca Stone? I hear tell they found parts of her everywhere; the corn dog stand, the twinkie stand....everywhere. Damned shame, damned shame."

1st person account:
"Yes, I was on that ferris wheel. I was the only survivor, though I lost both legs and part of my scalp. I don't remember much, though. There was that terrible calliope music, of course, so I couldn't hear the ride come loose. I heard people screaming, but I thought they were just riding the tilt-o-whirl, or possibly eating the deep-fried ice cream. Anyways, the whole thing rolled for a while, then we fell over. Did I mention that my new legs are made of tungsten?"

News account:
"12 people died today at a Duscaloosa County fair when a ferris wheel apparently broke free from it's moorings and rolled through the countryside. Channel 5 news was there after the accident with correspondent Trisha Yakamada."
*cut to well-manicured ethnic correspondent with ride operator*
Reporter- "What did you see?"
Operator-"Wells, I were watching the ride real close, you know, to make sure nothing went wrong. Then it just kind of broke free and I hit that "stop" button, but it was too late."
Reporter- "Chilling. Tom?"
*cut back to well-manicured white male anchor*
"Thanks Trish. Channel 5 news spoke with the owner of the Podunk travelling fair and he assured us that safety is his number one concern and he will be investigating the manner fully. Speaking of rolling wheels of death, a new donut factory..."

Internet account
*Shaky, blurry camcorder video of the ferris wheel breaking loose*
+10 minutes *Shaky, blurry camcorder video of the ferris wheel breaking loose with emotional music interspersed with quotes from bystanders*
+20 minutes *Shaky, blurry camcorder video with either Bubb Rubb, lightsaber effects or horrible techno music added*
+1 day *Shaky, blurry camcorder video sped up with Limp Bizkit's "Rollin" playing*
+2 days *Shaky, blurry camcorder video sped up and "Yakety sax" music playing*
+4 days *Every goddamned person you know talking about the stupid yakety sax version*
+7-8 days *Video disappears from Internet completely*

Personal account
"Boy this ferris wheel sure is fun. I can see the deep-fried candy bar stand from here!"
*creaking, breaking noise*
"Oh no! Stop the ride! No, nooooo!"
"SHIT!SHIT!SHIT!SHIT!SHIT!" (repeat ad nauseum)

So, as you can see, perspective definitely skews how we view a situation. Also, don't ride ferris wheels, because this is bound to happen some day.

What sexy is...

2006-03-31T14:16:00.000-08:00

In addition to my normal job, I am also a licensed and bonded sexologist, with advanced degrees in fornicology and communications. Sexual communications.

Do you know what sexy is? I do, and I will share them with you now.

*Sexy is giving your partner a deep, passionate kiss

*Unsexy is giving your partner a deep, passionate kiss.. on their nose.

*Sexy is lighting scented candles around the room and scattering rose petals on the sheets.

*Unsexy is lighting novelty fart scented candles and scattering rose stems on the sheets.

*Sexy is putting a little bit of your favorite romantic music on softly to set the mood

*Unsexy is if your favorite romantic music is a German death metal band.

*Sexy is having your partner dress up in revealing lingerie

*Unsexy is dressing up in your partner's revealing lingerie, then surprising them when they come home

*Sexy is role-playing: doctor and nurse, for example

*Unsexy is role-playing Borg and Klingon

*Sexy is tying your partner to the bedposts with satin for a little unconventional fun

*Unsexy is forgetting about them and coming back a week later.

*Sexy is gently caressing your partner's skin with your hands

*Unsexy is making a "beep" noise while squeezing their boobs.

*Sexy is talking dirty while you make love

*Unsexy is talking like a pirate while you make love

*Sexy is her bringing her best friend into bed with you...who is a fashion model.

*Unsexy is her bringing her best friend into bed with you...who is a truck driver.

*Sexy is her telling you her fantasies.

*Unsexy is you telling her your fantasies that involve rope, wall hooks and lots of mayonaisse.

*Sexy is fulfilling the other person's every desire

*Unsexy is asking "Where do I put it?" for the third time.

Now that you know the rules, go forth and...uh...be sexy.

Mahd's Guide to the World, Part 8: Central/South Asia

2006-03-28T15:34:00.000-08:00

Today we go west, all the way to the center of Asia. While this may seem pretty close to East Asia, keep in mind that the continent is very, very big.

Myanmar

Myanmar is ruled by a military junta. I think the progression of dictatorial rule goes Dictator-for-life -> Despot -> Evil Council -> "President" -> Junta; so these guys are pretty bad. This country used to be part of Burma as it was called under the rule of the British, but split off like everyone did after WW2. The leaders of the nation decided to make a plan for bringing their country prosperity and joy. But it was easier to grow heroin, so they did that instead. Of course, the ruling junta isn't so bad: in 1989 they promised free elections. Of course, when the elections went against them, they forbid the winners to take office and crushed the rebellion. But when you're a junta, it's kind of expected.

India

The big boy of South Asia, India is the world's largest democracy, a fact that they trumpet proudly at every opportunity. It's also the world's smelliest, most-disease ridden, caste-bedeviled democracy, but you never hear them say that. In spite of this, India has a beautiful and mystical culture, and you can't find a decent burger anywhere. India has it's problems, from the Kashmir dispute with Pakistan to the ever-present caste system, where, if you have to ask what caste you're in, you're probably in the lowest one (harijan). That's not to say the caste system is a bad thing- after all, what possible downside could there be in belonging to the one that is known as the "Untouchables"? Well, it can all be remedied in your next life...

Bhutan

Bhutan is a tiny country wedged between India and China, and has seemingly ignored the passage of time. A king rules the country, and slavery was only abolished in 1958. Fortunately, the king is a benevolent person, and his court were all atwitter about merchants bringing in television and other electronic goods on the back of camels. Of course, there's only one TV station, and all it shows are reruns of Mork and Mindy.

Bangladesh

Bangladesh, or Bengal as it was once called, was a thriving, growing culture where art and literature flourished, where Hinduism and Buddhism both grew, but were eventually ovecome by Islam. Then the Europeans came. As usual and mangled things. After independence and a war or two, Bangladesh was born.
Today, Bangladesh is relatively peaceful, with only a marginal amount of the civil unrest you might expect to see in a third-world nation. The world's largest mangrove belt is here, as are many palaces from the old days. Also, I would expect to see a shit ton of people.

Nepal

I hear the hiking is good here. That may be because the entire nation is situated on top of a mountain range. The country is a democracy, but since it exists in a land with virtually no economy and such a disparate population, it can sometimes be hard to choose between the No-Starvation cantidate and the No-Pestilence cantidate. Worse, Maoist rebels are attempting an insurrection in the country, which means that with all of the explosions, Nepal will go from a mountain nation to a slightly hilly nation in just a few short years.

Pakistan

From here on out, we're going to be referring to the Stans of Asia. From the fossil record we can determine that there was once a great king named Stanley, and so the following nations all remember him fondly by adding his nickname to their country names.

Pakistan is one of the partitions that the British made when they split up India into different parts. The British, in their wisdom, determined that it would be fine to make one country full of people with one religion next to another with a completely different religion. It didn't help that they told the Pakistanis that the Indians slept with their moms, either. Like other Muslim countries, male and female Pakistanis wear a traditional garb that reflects their culture, but it's really just a dress.
Recently, the government was taken over in a bloodless coup by a military man, Pervez Musharraf. He has simultaneously kept tensions with India at a standstill while supporting the everlasting War on Terror. This is also known as "Give me money Americans."
Pakistan has a sweet called barfi. Overlook the name if you can.

Afghanistan

Afghanistan was a nobody. No country really knew where it was, or even really cared. Sure, they had opiates, but those religious Taliban guys were burning those fields down, and also destroying any non-Muslim relics. Then they happened to be caught with the red mark on their hand, and suddenly every 24-hour news channel taught us everything we ever wanted to know about the country. Now, normally learning about different countries is a good thing, but in America when we learn a lot about a foreign country, it usually means that country is going to have the hell bombed out of it. And Afghanistan is no exception.
Today, you can walk down to a cafe in Kabul and have a nice cup of coffee with friends and reminisce about how that bunker buster missile came so close you could feel it. Uh, but don't try it outside of Kabul.

Turkmenistan

Welcome to the moon. This is Turkmenistan, who probably have the crappiest deal of any country except maybe one of the ones in the Sahara. It's an apt description, because eighty percent of the country is inhospitable desert. The remaining twenty percent is very nice, with lots of shrubs lining the roads. At least the ruler is a crazy man who has renamed the months after himself and has banned everyone from taking a breath without swearing allegiance to him. This is a good place to come if filming a post-apocalypse movie: otherwise, give it a miss.

Uzbekistan

Uzbekistan was taken by the Russians in 1875 and has been defiantly pro-Russian ever since. They were all for the Communist revolution and when Communism fell, they were for that too. Well, kind of, since their president is something of an authoritarian dictator. But they're ok with that, too. Mostly, the Uzbeks just want to keep Muslim militants from overthrowing their country, because that would upset the delicate fur hat manufacturing conglomorate that makes up their industry.

Tajikistan

It's hard to say, but in some ways Soviet dominance of some lands is a good thing. The Soviet control of Tajikistan might have been brutal, but at least it was highly bureaucratic and organized. When the USSR went kaput, civil war erputed here among the ethnic groups. Fortunately, today the capital of Dushanbe is as safe as any other in Central Asia, which is to say that you have only a moderate chance of being kidnapped and murdered.

Kyrgystan

These formerly nomadic people have one pasttime, and that is drinking fermented mare's milk. Morning, noon or evening, you'll hardly find a Kyrgystaniophite without an animal skin filled with the disgusting brew. Refusing to drink it with them is an insult worse than if you refused to have intercourse with their horses, which itself is a grave insult. And don't even think about not licking the underside of their tent...

Kazakhstan
Kazakhstan is the largest of the "stan" former Soviet republics, and if you come here, you'll understand why. The entire country seems to have been saved for something special. While this does result in wide open spaces, it also makes you wonder why they haven't exploited their natural resources. The other people wondering this are the many downtrodden individuals who will stalk you as you walk around their cities in capri pants and fedoras. It's at that point you may want to put away your money clip and also hide your fancy camera.

Woman for a day

2006-03-23T12:55:00.000-08:00

It's the most bizarre thing, really. I woke up this morning, ready to greet a brand new day with a wink and a smile (and perhaps a jig), and when I hopped out of bed I realized that I didn't have my usual case of morning wood. In fact, there was no wood at all. I made sure to check that it didn't fall off during the night, as it has in the past: in those cases, a bit of super glue and some drywall hangers usually did the trick.

No, the whole package was gone, in fact- replaced by the standard woman's parts down there. Nor indeed had I been oblivious to the fact that I was now sporting two large breasts. I turned left and right and watched them move around in the mirror.

An hour later, I noticed my face had changed as well. Gone was the stubble I went to sleep with. Instead, curly dark hair cascaded down to my shoulders, framing my now-feminine face. So, I had changed into a woman overnight: well, I've heard this sort of thing could happen, particularly if you didn't have enough potassium in your diet and I hadn't had a bananna in over a month. Fortunately, the effects were temporary and would wear off in 24 hours.

Unfortunately, when I called into work sick, they thought I was faking. "That's the worst female voice I've ever heard", the receptionist said. I finally got transferred to my boss and convinced him that I was my wife, and that I was very, very sick and would be in tomorrow. He didn't seem to care, so I hung up the phone, and tried to scratch my crotch, but I realized sadly that I couldn't do it anymore.

I jumped into the shower and turned on the water, and then found out just how sensitive different parts of the female anatomy are. As it warmed up, I happily thought that at least I didn't have to shave, but that myth was dispelled when I looked at my legs. Okay, well, how hard can it be to shave one's legs, I thought.

To her credit, my wife didn't pass out when she found a woman with a dozen bloody cuts on her legs in her shower. She did scream, though, ear-splittingly loud. She finally calmed down when I showed her my wedding ring (which was slipping off my finger). "Well," she said, "get out of the shower- it's my turn, and I have to go to work. Must be nice to have a day off," she mocked as she shut the shower door.

I toweled off, and then looked at my breasts for a while. When I looked up, my wife was staring at me and rolled her eyes. I mentioned that we should take advantage of the situation and approached her. She responded calmly, hitting me with her hairbrush. So that was out.

I complained that I didn't have anything to wear, so she told me to borrow some of her stuff. So I grabbed a thong, some stockings, a skirt and a blouse. That should do, I thought, and quickly dressed. God, my legs were so warm in those stockings. I asked my wife if my butt looked big in the skirt. She deadpanned that no, it was my big butt that made it look big. Bitch.

She left for work and I was home alone.

All alone.

I quickly removed all of the clothes I had put on and climbed back into bed.

And what I did there constituted the rest of my day.

Oh, sure, I could have gone out shopping or seen how people viewed me, but the fact of the matter was that I had female parts and I made the most of it, in my mind.

Next time, I'll do all that stuff. Really. I won't just stay at home and pleasure myself for 12 hours straight.

Nah.

Mahd's Guide to the World, Part 7: East Asia

2006-03-19T18:08:00.000-08:00

Welcome back to our Guide. Today, we travel to the mysterious Orient, or East Asia as it is called by those who are not 19th-century British explorers. Our countries today spread from North Korea to Indonesia, China to Japan (which is more impressive than it sounds because China is huge). The countries:

Taiwan

When Chinese nationalists were driven off the mainland after WW2, they fled to Taiwan, a tiny little island off the coast. In response for not having all of the people or land that the Communists have, the Taiwanese have instead opted to make their entire island a giant theme park of commercialism. The entire island is paved and built on, right up to the shores, which explains the high "sea-view dining" restaurant to population ratio. It's impressive considering that there are 22.5 million people living on the island, all of them creating crappy low-grade toys or "United we Stand" magnetic stickers for your 10 MPG Hummer. The population density is so high, in fact, that if you're walking around and don't have a few crotches pressed against you, you're considered to be living in the height of luxury.

North Korea

North Korea is Disneyland if Disneyland were some strange place ruled by a totalitarian dictatorship with an intent to keep the status quo forever. So in other words, exactly like Disneyland.

If you could even travel to North Korea (which is prohibited), you probably would not be able to go outside the hotel (prohibited). You could watch TV (currently prohibited) or read a book (prohibited), or call room service (not prohibited, but you'll be put on a government watch list). At night, you can visit downtown Pyongyang (prohibited except between 2am and 3am. However, there is a curfew between 1am and 4am) or go to bed (prohibited). Once your vacation is over, feel free to get back on the place, which all reports say is due to be prohibited.

South Korea

When geeks die, their souls go to South Korea. The nation is well-known for it's numerous 24-hour LAN centers, where everyone spends their free time trying to get levels or gold or some kind of shit like that in online games. On the off-chance you want to interact with the real world, you can go down to the corner grocery store and buy some anime that probably features something intensely creepy.

That's not to say traditional Korean culture hasn't survived: certainly, the Koreans are always prepared to be in the middle of some kind of conflict. The little black bars on their flag actually symbolize all of the invading armies that are poised to take over at a moment's notice. Fortunately, the South Korean military is skilled in all variations of Dance, Dance Revolution, so they're ready for a fight, or preferably, disco dancing.

Thailand

Thailand draws travelers in with a combination of natural beauty, hospitality, delicious cuisine and a metric ton of "ladyboys" or transsexuals. In searching for background info for this nation, every tenth link was to something related to these gender bending people. It's apparent they plan to stage a coup and establish the world's first transsexual nation. They probably plan to take all of the drag shows with them as well.

The Thai people are an enlightened, religious people. This is probably best exemplified in their sport of kickboxing: Realizing that normal boxing might be a little boring, they decided to add something to it- kicking. Since then, many other sports have added kicking to bolster flagging attendance numbers. Look for kick baseball, kick gymnastics and "soccer but with more kicking" in the next few seasons.

Cambodia

Cambodia is best known for two things- the beautiful and ancient temples of Ankgor and the brutal and not-quite-so-beautiful reign of Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge. While we may think some current world leaders are screwing things up, it's pretty safe to say that Pot was less popular, killing two million of his countrymen and turning the rest into slave laborers. It was so bad that the next leader, who himself managed to kill a million people and raze their cities is known as "The Greatest Leader ever".

Cambodia is generally a destination if you want to see the temples, or alternatively, to recreate some of your favorite Vietnam-era movie scenes.

Vietnam

Speaking of Vietnam, here it is. For Americans, Vietnam is a prime example of how not to try and convert a country to democracy. I mean, sure, killing the population and replacing them with people who support you is one way to do it, but far more effective is just to open a couple McDonalds and ship a cargo container worth of Coca-Cola over. It's not that exposure to commercial products makes people more open to democracy- it just makes them fatter and less likely to get off the couch to protest or fight against it.

Today, Vietnam is rapidly changing and evolving, gaining the Internet cafes, cell phones and motorbikes that plague the rest of the world. Less sure is the availability of Vietnamese hookers who will "love you long time." More research is obviously needed in this area

Singapore

Singapore is a modernized Asian country, except they're really mean. That is to say, they don't put up with your crap. While they appreciate you visiting, make sure you don't park your car in a handicapped spot- the penalty is for them to break your legs. If you come here, just make sure you blend into the crowd, which, if you are a 6 foot tall pale white man, is not easy. If this is the case, be sure to get a tan and crouch.

Laos

Laos is a country trapped in time: they want to modernize, but they want to do it at their own pace. Don't try to foist your skyscrapers on them: they don't want them. Okay, some of them do, which is why about 10% of the population left. I mean, you can only gaze at awe-inspiring waterfalls so much before you begin to ask yourself where the nearest pub is.

On the bright side, Laos is a friendly place, where you're far less likely to be attacked by bandits or raiders or Communist forces. While some cynics claim this is because you're carrying bags of cash into their country, the more realistic view is that the Laotians are actually happy to see you. On an unrelated note, anti-depression medicine is made near the country's central water supply.

Indonesia

Indonesia: the very name conjures up...well, it makes you think of.... Okay, it may not make you think of anything other than a bunch of islands. Well, up until recently, you would be right. Then the President walked under a ladder while spilling salt over his shoulder and as a black cat crossed his path.

The end result for Indonesia is disaster after disaster. Bloody civil conflicts combined with poundings by Tsunamis have all Indonesians working twenty-four hours a day on a giant four-leaf clover. If it goes according to schedule, it will be ready by early 2007. Assuming another tsunami doesn't destroy it.

Malaysia

There's nothing wrong with Malaysia. It's a pleasant place to go, where all cultures blend harmoniously in order to create a unique synthesis that all travellers can enjoy in. There are touristy areas for the less adventurous, but for those seeking a little more flavor they also offer more exotic fare.

Frankly, it's disgusting. Considering the problems its neighbors face, Malaysia must think it's pretty special to be so great. Oh sure, they had some damage from the Tsunamis, but let's face it- put a small blemish on the prom queen and it makes the rest of her even more beautiful.

Plus, I hear they smell bad. So there.

Philippines

The Philippines are an interesting mix of Anglo and Asian influences. Because the islands were a colony of Spain for many years (until the Spanish-American war), the influence is undeniable. It's often that you will see a Philippino taking a siesta (or nap) after eating a plate of nachos and burritos. Bullfighting is a popular pasttime, and you won't be able to walk anywhere without seeing a traditional sombrero on some young Philipino's head.

Or maybe I'm thinking of Mexico.

Brunei

Somehow, someway the one oil-rich country in the region is an Islamic sultanate. The irony is astounding, but it doesn't mean Brunei is a bad place. On the contrary, because it's so rich and has so few people, the standard of living is insanely high. If you're a resident of Brunei and you live in less than a Giant Palace, you're considered one of the lower classes. No person walks around with fewer servants than 10, and those servants are only members of the idle rich who have decided to see how the "other half" lives. The fact that they too have servants kind of defeats the purpose, but that's just how the country works.

It's not all sunshine, though. Recently the Sultan's son was accused of using a polo mallet two inches too long on the polo grounds. It's quite a scandal, really.

China

Communist China is one big country. And it's hardly Communist anymore. Oh sure, they'll kill some dissidents from time to time just to relive the good old days, maybe have the military march with missiles down the street, but it's kind of a sham. Everything has some great number attached to it, here. Eighty million billion people, seven hundren thousand years of history, and so forth. It's kind of exhausting.

Despite their new-found capitalist leanings, there's still the interior of the country, where the people toil endlessly in rice paddies, seemingly unaware that the year now ends with an "AD" rather than "BC". Kind of like Nebraska.

China has one of two futures ahead of it. One of those is to fully embrace capitalism, which will lead to even greater achievements for a span of approximately 3 years, at which point the planet will run out of natural resources for all those people. The second would be to re-embrace their communist roots and cast out the new capitalist influences, which will undoubtedly lead to a global nuclear conflict. It's a comforting thought, either way.

Japan

Ancient Japan was a beautiful and mysterious place. There was art in the delicate Kanji characters that the people created, and it helped that they weren't getting tattooed on stupid foreigners who think the one that means "dumbass" really means "valor". Samurai and ninja fought for the honor of their feudal lords, and the sword had a nearly mystical and spiritual quality and meaning. The Emperor himself refused to allow European trade to come until the 1850s.

Then, they had the atomic bomb dropped on them, and went insane.

Now, they sleep in individual tubes and draw horrific hentai scenes. They sell panties alongside dried octopus in vending machines. They make brilliant inventions, and then torture us by making smaller and more useful versions six months later. It's an America on overdrive with a completely different set of phobias and neurosis. It's a great place, but you almost want to calm them down a bit, maybe introduce them to your "friend" with the dreadlocks who smells like patchoulli. He'll definitely mellow them out.

The Penis Post

2006-03-14T15:45:00.000-08:00

Today, I will be talking about cocks. Shlongs. Willies. One-eyed-wonder-weasels. In short, the human penis. More specifically, the human male penis. Perhaps in a separate post I will discuss the female penis and why that girl you took home is no girl at all but it doesn't make you gay.

What is the human penis? Obviously, it's a funny little bit of flesh that wiggles around, and then wiggles around less and less the more you wiggle it. But you keep wiggling it, don't you, you naughty, naughty person? But what else is it? In my opinion, it is the single guiding force for civilization. Great thinkers like Aristotle and Plato had penises, as did great leaders. Alexander the Great, for example, had a penis. Napoleon had a penis. Even Hitler had a penis, and perhaps if he had used it a bit more he wouldn't have been so uptight. He certainly was a cock, though.

The penis is well-designed. It comes in three styles, circumcised, natural and picante. There are infinite variations on the penis-some are small, some are large. Some are straight and could be used to drive nails, while others curve enough that they can pee around corners. It's a simple design, but has been exceedingly popular- you never see any corkscrew or square shaped toys at the adult bookstore. It's no coincidence that skyscrapers, fast cars and monuments are phallic. The designers of those things are all basically saying "this is my surrogate penis."

There are men who have large endowments, and these men would love nothing more than to wear a tight g-string, along with a matching hat and shirt denoting their large size. They might even want to pass out flyers or little pennants to make everyone aware of their stature. Fortunately, they do not.

There are men with small penises who feel as though they've been given a raw deal, but I encourage them to look at the benifits of a small penis: it can fit into small places, for example. Additionally, you never have the problem of embarassing yourself with a large erection in public.
Women will tell you that size "doesn't matter". Women also tell men with large penises that it does. At least they're humoring one of you.

Technology, too can aid men in search of a larger penis. With just a few keystrokes, your penis can go from 3 to 7 to upwards of 13 inches in length, at least until someone demands proof, in which case there's Photoshop. This electronic penis, or "e-penis", is limited only by your imagination.

Even if the penis goes out of style, it still has plenty of uses: towel hook, for example. Or if you put marks on it with a pencil, it makes a handy ruler. With such adaptibility, it's hard to thing of a future without the mighty penis.

Mahd's Guide to the World, Part 6: Scandanavia

2006-03-12T16:12:00.000-08:00

We're going to the cold and wintery northlands today. Of course, I'm talking about Scandanavia, which contains most of the penis-shaped countries of the world. Aside from their phallic shape, Scandanavia is known for physically perfect women and men who have been hardened by their existence in these blasted hinterlands.

Finland

Finland, Finland, Finland: The country where I want to be hunting, trekking or camping. Or just watching TV.

Finland is the easternmost of the Scandanavian countries, and borders Russia on it's east. Interestingly, the Finns call their land Suomi- it's the Swedes who called it Finland, so of course the obvious name to use was the foreigners' one. If you call it Suomi, expect a pleased little smile. For years, it was under control of the Russians, who ostensibly were interested in the land for ice for their thriving pre-Soviet sno-cone industry.

Over 68% of Finland is covered in trees. Combine this with the Northern Lights phenomenon and long winter nights, and you have the setting for many creepy horror films in which the victim trips. Why do they always trip? Anyways, the long nights mean that Finns are in a deep hibernation, and emerge from their homes only to curse God for placing their country in such a northern latitude.

Sweden

Earlier I remarked that many of the Scandanavian countries are penis shaped: looked at another way, Sweden is the penis, surrounded by the more testicular Norway and Finland.

Sweden was a great power in Europe; sadly, their reign of greatness lasted a mere 4.3 hours, when King Gustav II decided to have pasta for dinner, which began the mobilization of the armed forces for an invasion of Europe. The end came when he changed his mind and had fish instead.

During WW2, Sweden was neutral, kind of how the US was neutral until December 1941. The Swedes traded coal for ore with Germany, joked with Italy about how Churchill was fat, and feigned ignorance when they were accused of shipping war materials in boxes that were marked "To Germany, XOXO Sweden". Since then, they have been neutral, and have dedicated themselves to simply taking over the world with cell phones and IKEA furniture. The economic benefits have led the government to try and re-establish the Norse pantheon with catchy advertising slogans such as "Odin wants you" and "Thor-not just for neo-Nazis anymore".

Norway

They have lovely fjords. Along with Sweden and Denmark, this country was once the homeland of the bloody and dangerous Viking raiders, who attacked along the coasts of every country they could get their ships to. In the dark ages, there was nothing more frightening than seeing a great band of hairy, fur-clad barbarians step out of a ship bedecked with a dragon's head. The country is not so much different today, except that instead of frightening berserkers, it's populated by neatly-groomed Ministers for Internal Development of Arts and Culture and the like. You may say that they're very different than the past, but I bet if you get them really angry they'll rape and pillage something.

Pretty much the only thing to dislike about Norwegians today is their whaling practices: while most of the world argues that whaling is a horrible practice that should be left in the past, Norway argues that that may be true, but there's nothing better than a fresh orca burger. Sadly, Norway never read Moby Dick, so they don't understand the symbolism that Melville was conveying- that hunting giant albino whales will eventually lead to your death at their hands.

Denmark

Denmark is the wild child of the Scandinavian states. The people aren't as reserved as in, say, Finland or Sweden. This comes from being at a latitude where you actually get to see the sun every single day.

Denmark, despite it's small size, is a powerhouse- in the past, it has ruled most of Scandanavia, England and Ireland, the Virgin Islands and also secretly held Australia until the British came and claimed it in public. This has manifested not only in the danish being a popular item in Australia (where it is called the gabaladoo), but the indiginous population of Australia all speak excellent Danish- it's just that nobody ever asks them to.

The Daned invented Lego blocks, which have become so popular that the entire nation's infrastructure is now made up of Legos. While this may seem strange, it makes them incredibly adaptable- as long as they have little 2x4 thin blocks. You can never have too many of those.

Iceland

The name Iceland is actually a misnomer: only 93% of the country is made of ice. The remaining land is snow-blasted tundra. While it makes agriculture difficult, the popularity of sledding increases every year.

Iceland is well-known as the world's oldest democracy. It didn't work quite like modern democracies: The legislative body would take a vote, and then whoever had swords killed whoever voted against them. Then they voted again.

The economy is very cyclical. First, people go and fish, usually drunk. Then they sell their fish and go drinking. And that's pretty much the cycle.

Many nations point to their famous artists and writers. Iceland's cultural development has been exclusively focused towards a better nightlife: If you go down to a bar, you're guaranteed to be drunk and going home with a stranger within 30 minutes or less. They're nothing if not efficient.

Up next, heading south- but how could we not?

Mahd's Guide to the World, Part 5: Australia and Oceania

2006-03-05T20:13:00.000-08:00

In this section of the Guide, I'll be discussing Australia and Oceania. Not to be confused with one of the Orwellian super-states of 1984, Oceania is really just a bunch of really, really tiny islands that, when combined, form a giant robot that battles space monsters.

American Samoa

Tropical Islands, Tropical Heat, Tropical drinks. These three things will be a constant in our travels throughout Oceania. Just like when 50's sci-fi movies wanted to make something sound futuristic, they put "space" in front of it (i.e. The Space Toothbrush), so do these islands put tropical in front of words to make them sound more, well, tropical.

American Samoa was a nice place way up until it was exposed in the US for it's primative living conditions in the 60's. The locals were fine with this, but in true American fashion, the US knew what was better for them, and spent a ton of money modernizing the island. The money ran out right about 1970, though, so if you visit here, they're just entering the disco era. Exercise extreme caution

Cook Islands

The Cook Islands are a bunch of pariah islands. The first explorer came here in 1595, but didn't even bother claiming them for his country. Captain Cook himself passed on through to Hawaii, and then realized that maybe he shouldn't have gone there.

Missionaries came and converted the populace, or at least they think they did. The locals would mimic them and make fun when the missionaries weren't looking.

Today, the Cook Islands' motto is "If you can't go anywhere else, come here, I guess."

The Federated States of Micronesia

These islands are, on the exterior, doggedly hanging on to their traditional culture. Loincloths and stone currency are still used, at least when tourists are around.

Underground, though, a strange and alien culture thrives. Suboceanic tunnels connect the islands and also lead to a giant cavern where factories continually pump out new weapons. The Federated States of Micronesia's aim is none other to take over the entire world, thus creating the Larger Federated States of Micronesia.

Nefarious, isn't it?

Fiji

It's a sign of just how many islands are in the area when these countries are made up of a number of them. Fiji, for example, is made of 381,000 islands. You'd think it would be hard to administer all of the different islands, and you would be right. Half of the people think they're in French Polynesia, and when told differently, they just shrug.

Guam

Another unincorporated American territory- this basically means it's a testing ground for American ordinance as well as all of our unused copies of TV Guide from March 3, 1996.

Guam is best known for being captured and then liberated in WW2. Today, it's a big tourist destination for Japanese people, which leads me to believe they're conducting a second invasion. At someone's signal, they're all going to drop their cameras and fanny packs and pick up rifles, and then it will all be over.

Kiribati

Imagine if you planned a trip for weeks to a beautiful tropical island, and when you got there it was a Catholic church. It would suck. Nuns would be running around the beaches in flip-flops, Priests would be giving sermons aboard surfboards and altar boys...well, they'd still be molested, but they'd have tans.

The rest of the story isn't so rosy either. Hydrogen bomb tests by the UK in the 70's gave everyone a healthy glow. Rising ocean levels mean the the island may be going underwater. So in a few years, there will be lots of interesting snorkeling.

Marshall Islands

The Marshall Islands are a perfect paradise. Sun-kissed islanders with joyful dispositions float gracefully over the clean beaches, serving pasty foreigners in folding chairs ice cold drinks. The waters are crystal clear and full of varied sea life, and there is plenty for all to share.

Um, just stay away from Bikini Atoll.

Nauru

If you lie down, you will cover the entirety of Nauru. Where the rest of the world is concerned about oil supplies, Nauru worries about the decline of their phosphate mining industries. Like all suddenly-rich people, Nauru went on a spending spree, and bought a bunch of cars they didn't need, and got those heated tiles in their bathroom floor; that's just wasteful.

Needless to say, get there before the phosphate runs out or you'll encounter an island where the living envy the dead, and the dead envy nobody, because they're already dead.

New Caledonia

This island made me look up where the original Caledonia was, and it turns out it was in Scotland. Now, maybe I'm missing something, but it seems wrong to compare a beautiful tropical island with the foggy cold north of England. On the other hand, if everyone here speaks with a brogue, that's totally awesome.

New Zealand

Until recently, New Zealand was a relatively normal place. Then everyone started filming their fantasy epics here, and now orcs have overrun 72% of the island. Where they have conquered, there are no survivors. Fortunately an army of dwarves and elves are marching from the south to meet the evil menace.

Worse, the entire population has become a bunch of D&D nerds, and have developed skin conditions, bad eyesight and awkwardness around girls.

The US is currently planning a mission to airlift 2 tons of malt liquor and over a million copies of Playboy to the country. Taking up this mission is the 82nd Noogie squad. We can only pray that it is not too late.

Niue

Captain Cook originally called these the "Savage Islands". Why they ever changed the name, I will not know. The whole island has free wireless internet, which is really what you should be spending your time doing on a tropical island.

Northern Mariana Islands

Let's say you're a company, and you need cheap labor. You can't depend on China, because of the communism, and Latin America is so passe. Come here, to the Northern Marianas. Poor labor laws make it the perfect place to exploit the workers.

There are also a lot of tourists here. If you see a big bus filled with old men in too-short shorts and women wearing fuschia visors, you've found them.

Palau

Blah, blah, blah... paradise-like island... blah blah blah.. ecological wonderland of delight. Ho hum.

Papua New Guinea

There are certain places where cultures collide, and PNG is no exception. There are approximately 5 million people in these islands, each of whom belongs to a different ethnicity. Be sure to study each one, as incorrectly identifying the one you're dealing with will have a penalty ranging from death by poison needles to death by marathon sex, depending on the culture.

Pitcairn Island

These islands were settled by the mutineers from the HMS Bounty. You might think there's no better people to live with than mutineers, and you would be right. There's just under 50 people on the island these days, and that comes with all the benefits and negatives you might expect; miss a day of church and everyone will wonder where you were. Everyone is a star on Pitcairn.

Samoa

Samoa has one purpose, and that is to be devistated by natural disasters every 6-9 months. Every time you see some typhoon or cyclone or ufo attack, there's a good chance that it happened in Samoa.

This situation does not detract from the Samoans favorite pasttime, which is making fun of people in American Samoa.

Solomon Islands

The Solomon Islands decided to get their system of government from South America, which explains why there hasn't been a stable government since the late 90's. There's been relative calm since 2003, so if you wear a fancy disguise, you may be able to visit. Just be aware that the leader when you arrive may not be the leader when you leave.

Tahiti & French Polynesia

Shockingly, these islands are French. These are the islands most people think of when they imagine the South Pacific, and boy do they try to live up to the image everyone has of them. It's like they looked at every Gaugin painting and said "That's what we're trying for." Crime is not allowed, since it doesn't fit in with the theme.

Still, it's rather unnerving to see them celebrating Bastille Day.

Tokelau, Tonga, Tuvalu and Vanuatu

You will be cursed and set upon by crazy natives if you come to any of these nations. Giant apes, dinosaurs, insects and bears fight for supremacy in unspoiled jungle. Currently, the ruler is Humongous Bear, but there's rumor that the Dinosaur party has a young up-and-comer that might challenge in Parliament, especially given Humongous Bear's atrocious domestic policy record, which included the failure to keep Massive Bee from stinging Colossal Tiger.

Wallis & Futuna

As far as I know, this is a sitcom, not a pair of islands. Apparently, they are islands, and they don't want any of your dirty tourist money. They work the land, and if they get to retire to oceanside homes beside clear, sparkling oceans, that doesn't make them any different than the guy working in the coal mine in Virginia.

Australia

Australia has five beautiful coastal cities; Sydney, Melbourne, Brisbane, Perth and Adelaide. 90% of the population lives in these cities. As far as I can tell, the rest live in the mysterious and 80's-popularized Outback. The Outback is described by Australians as a place of varied climates and ecologies; for everyone else, it's called a desert.

Australians are characterized as tough individuals. This is reflected in their sports, such as twelve different versions of rugby that vary only in how much you can hurt the opposing players. In the most deadly version, they get rid of the ball altogether and just have a big brawl in the middle of the field.

Australia lies in the Southern Hemisphere, which means that everything is backwards there. Water spirals the wrong way down the sink, the seasons are completely wrong, and I believe they all walk and talk backwards, which may also explain some of the more interesting colloquialisms, such as "illywhacker" (a trickster), "ocker" (uh, someone with a name of Oscar) and "gullabullee" (tree). When an Australian comes up to you and starts speaking in this strange tongue, just ask them as loudly as possible if they speak English.

Australians are happy people, but they are invariably tied to their beaches. If they travel 20 miles away from a beach, they begin to feel a slight discomfort. If they continue to move away, death usually occurs at around 85 miles. The only way to keep an Australian fresh is by packing him or her in sand and occassionally splashing salt water on them.

Culturally, Australians have a rich history of distinctive visual artists, but they are best and most accurately portrayed in the movies Mad Max and Crocodile Dundee. These films show that if Australians aren't guiding foreigners through their native Outback with giant knives, they're fighting in a post-apocalyptic wasteland. Surely, this is how Australians want the world to see them.

View from a window

2006-03-02T11:11:00.000-08:00

Is it wrong for me to watch people from my office window, looking down on those who are unconscious of my gaze? Is it wrong to wonder what they're doing outside, walking around, wondering about their lives and hopes and dreams? Is it wrong to visualize what would happen if I threw a grenade or shot a rocket launcher at them?

Of course I would never actually do such a thing. The window doesn't open so I'd have to break it, and that's just being ridiculous.

The only way I could see myself breaking the window would be to escape from a fire or something. There's a tree outside, so I guess I could leap to that and then climb down. Of course, I'm probably overestimating my jumping ability, so I'd wind up on the ground with two broken legs and everyone would have calmly exited down the fire escape because it wasn't really a conflagration, just a bit of smoke from a burned Pop Tart in the toaster.

I'm always planning for different scenarios. Like if terrorists rapelled down into our building, I have a plan to fight them off: I would hide behind the door, because they'd never expect that, and then choke them with a computer power cable. Then armed with my victim's weapon, I would systematically hunt each terrorist down until there was a final showdown with the terrorist boss, who I imagine has some kind of metal hand or eyepatch or some other distinguishing features: maybe muttonchops.

In fact, in retrospect a lot of my plans are for dealing with intruders in different places: on the plane, in the office, if I'm in bed. It's good to be prepared, because you never know when a team of paramilitary commandos is going to try and cause trouble. And their obvious target is me, of course: forget the President or someone else important, if I'm taken hostage, it's all over.

Now, if it was a team of commandos who just happened to be super hot ladies, I might have to surrender. I mean, you have to plan for every plausible situation, right?

Mahd's Guide to the World, Part 4: Western Europe

2006-02-26T20:36:00.000-08:00

Welcome to our next leg on the World Tour. Western Europe is generally differentiated from Eastern Europe in that there's less babushkas in the West. If you're travelling towards Russia and suddenly you hit head hankerchief country, you're in Eastern Europe.

Here are the countries, and my thoughts about them after Googling them:

Portugal

A trend we will notice with European countries is that they all have the Glory Days. For Portugal, this was the 15th century, when they figured they were closest to the New World, and so sent a bunch of ships out towards it. Thanks to them (and the Pope), you now have to figure out if the country you're going to speaks Spanish or Portuguese.

Ironically, much like many of the countries they claimed, the Portuguese were run by a dictator for much of the 20th century. This makes their former colonies laugh.

Today, Portugal is known for terrible drivers, and exports them throughout the world. The next time you're cut off in traffic, it may not be the person's fault- they may be Portuguese.

Spain

Spain is a strange and foreign land. That's because everything is written in Spanish. But even if it were written in English, it would still be a strange place. The country was conquered by Muslims, and they tried their hardest to make up for it. Let's face it, the whole Inquisition thing was basically just an attention cry to point out how Christian they were.

Nowadays, Spain is a magnet for lonely ladies who get a thrill out of hearing a greasy young man speak with a thick foreign accent. This means he's "exotic"; at least, until you realize he works at the local McDonalds selling hamburgesas.

France

France gets a bad rap. They're stinky, they always surrender, they are assholes. This may not be warranted, but it's funny. France, at least, has the culture to back up their snobbery- art, food and culture are held in high esteem. It's better than some Republic of Honksylvania proclaiming their superiority to the world. Nonetheless, France still has challenges ahead of it: keeping it's cars from being destroyed, for example. Also, it might be a good idea to install some air conditioning in those old folks homes. Oh, and for God's sake, clean up your dog's crap on the street. Or maybe you're just a bunch of fetid, jerkass cowards.

Andorra

Andorra is wedged in between France and Spain in the middle of the Pyrenees. With small countries, there are two choices: remain an obscure backwater or remain an obscure backwater with high priced attractions. Andorra has chosen the latter, and has basically transformed it's entire area into a ski resort. There's a double black diamond run that goes from the north of the country to the south, but the lift line is a bitch.

England

Jolly Olde England! The land is named, of course, for the native Engs that settled here. To me, England is what America would be if we all talked silly all the time. Never mind that the majority of American culture and law is based on the English model; they call elevators "lifts". That's charming. English cuisine is also known worldwide; they're well known for the blandest, most disgusting food ever to be created. Any country that serves "blood pudding" needs to rethink it's whole plan.

England benefits from people's fuzzy ideas of how and when the Empire spread. In film and tv, I've seen Romans, French, Spanish and even Imperial Stormtroopers with British accents. To be British is to be thought of as more civilized, more refined. And yet, flying in the face of this is the food. There are lots of Englishmen who dislike the many immigrants on the shores, but at least they're bringing in a decent meal.

Wales

The Welsh, when considered separately from the rest of the United Kingdom, have a romantic mythos about them. They bring to mind druids and trees and all sorts of other crap that eleven year old girls dream about. In reality, they are just as pasty and Protestant as the rest of the island; they just have a language that makes people's tongues explode from their heads. The English didn't conquer the Welsh so much to gain their land as to make them stop speaking that wacky language.

Scotland

Here's what my idea of every Scotsman is: He's that loud friend of yours who drinks a little too much at the party and goes a little too crazy and then goes insane when you try to calm them down. In other words, they're a good time. I realize this is probably a wildly inaccurate view and generalizes every Scotsman, but that's the way it goes. They had one shot to ingrain themselves on my consciousness, and that opportunity was Braveheart, so now I imagine them to all be crazy, freedom-loving barbarians. I will be sadly disappointed if I go there and they're not killing at least a few English.

Ireland

Ireland strikes me as a contrary place: voice any sort of opinion here and you'll have a group of people with the opposite stance. For example:

Person one: "I like peas."
Person two: "You fooking arsehole, peas kilt me pa!"

It's a whole nation of people whose entire purpose of living is to be contrary, to fight whatever rules that others try to place on them and to live life as raucously as possible.

However, they make Guinness here, so I forgive them.

Italy

Welcome to Italy. Every third cathedral you see was designed by Michelangelo and every other one by Leonardo. Italy is the home of the Roman Empire, which did pretty well as far as Empires go. When you come here, chances are you're probably going to have some pasta. Just a guess, there. If you are a woman or an effeminate male, you will be approached or humped by the local boys. It's just their way of saying hello. Oh, and "I'm going to have sex with you whether you realize it or not." There's pretty much a competition between Spain and Italy to see how many nubile young foreign girls they can coax into bed; and yet, there is no winner between them.

Belgium

I don't want to say anything bad about Belgium. They're friendly, they have chocolate and beer, they've been picked on by other countries for plenty of years. The only downside to the country is that it's so small that everything becomes a major news story. Take a plane here and you might find yourself on the front page of the paper. Buy a newspaper there and you'll be on the evening news. And forget about renting a car- the paparazzi will follow you incessantly.

The other funny thing about Belgium is that the country is made up of two hilarious groups: The Flemish and the Walloons. There has never been war between these two groups because the idea of a Flemish-Walloon conflict is enough for people to cancel the whole thing based on it's ridiculousness.

Austria

Germany gets a bad rap for being the bad guy in both of the World Wars, but it's really Austria's fault. In WWI, it was the assassination of the Austro-Hungarian Emperor's nephew that started things, and we all know Hitler was an Austrian. And yet Austria has gotten off relatively scot free.

In reality, Austria is just Germany 2. Sure, it may be slightly different, but everyone here is basically German. I bet they always take Germany's side in things, too. Like if the Czech Republic is getting all irritated over something Germany is doing, Austria is all like "What's up? Didn't expect another Germany, did you?".

It also could be I don't know what I'm talking about.

Netherlands

The Dutch are leading a double life. On the outside, they are normal, happy, well-adjusted people with good jobs and families. But once you go inside their house, you see the mirror on the ceiling, the handcuffs on the bed and the wide array of sex toys arrayed on the rotating waterbed. Want to see beautiful art and architecture? The Netherlands has it. Want to smoke some hash with the midget transsexual prostitute who's plying her body in the window? You can do that too. The Dutch realize that you sometime need midget transsexuals as much as you need to see another museum full of Van Goghs.

Germany

Oh, Germany. You are a home to some of the world's finest musicians and artists. You have good, solid food, an efficient and friendly population. You have beer gardens. Every time you talk, it sounds like some Jews are about to die, which, admittedly, isn't a good thing, but it does make you sound authoritative.

I have to admit, I love you.

I don't know why. As a half-Jewish person myself, I probably shouldn't have such a love affair with you. And yet, you took evil and made it as evil as it could possibly be. But I don't love you for your evil. It was the theatrics associated with it. Black and grey and steel and orderly: writers could not invent a better villain than the one you provided. I still don't quite understand it myself. Perhaps it was that you were so invincible, and yet we took you down regardless.

And I love you for your redemption. For rebuilding yourself after being beat down and called all kinds of names and never quite trusted. I don't understand, you crazy Nazis, and maybe I never will...

I'm a Handyman, man

2006-02-25T19:26:00.000-08:00

Ever since I was a wee lad, I've loved to build things. First, it was my lincoln logs, with which I could make many a rustic dwelling which could be used as general store, blockhouse to fight Indians or birthplace of Abraham Lincoln, who would then fight Indians. As I got older, I was enraptured with Legos, those little swedish blocks fueling my imagination as I built castles, spaceships and scale models of robotic warriors who wore stovepipe hats.

I grew up, as we all do, and now I am a man. As such, I am required to do miscellaneous acts of workmanship in order to keep up or improve my home. There are three ranks in this realm, each of which has it's own challenges and rewards, and which require additional tools. They are now listed:

Low-difficulty job aka The Simplexor
---------------------
Tools needed: Hammer or screwdriver. Manly brawn.

Examples: Screw in a lightbulb, fix the toaster, put nail in the wall, unscrew something, reach something high up. Bash something, like spiders.

Typical comments: "Let me help.", "Don't worry, I can reach/get it/pound the living crap out of it.", "You got me off the couch for this?", *bemused look*

Reward: Slight feeling of accomplishment, bringing it up in argument.

Downside: If you fail, you might as well turn in your man card.

Medium Difficulty job aka The Bragston Special
---------------------
Tools needed: Normal hand tools. Those little hex wrenches that come with stuff. Bonus points for power tools.

Examples: Furniture built from kits, hanging ceiling fans, installing shower doors, most car repair, electrical/plumbing repair.

Typical Comments: "I need to get a new drill at the store for this.", "Yeah, it was tough, but I found a way to make it work.", "This is all I can do today, sorry I can't go antiquing."

Reward: Unsubstantiated feeling of accomplishment, bragging to friends and family. Possible sexual favors by grateful partner.

Downside: Some of these jobs might actually contain the possibility of bodily harm. Time consuming. Failure means that you get to call a professional, who you will seethe at.

High Difficulty Job aka The Holy Handyman
----------------------
Tools needed: Those that are often required at building construction sites.

Examples: Carving furniture from solid tree trunks, Wiring a new guest house which you also built yourself from lumber which you chopped down. Anything hewn from "the living rock".

Typical comments: "I used a j-bar joint on the flange to keep the maxidontal tracepts from pushing in on the tollinary bracket.", "This reminds me of the time I built a log cabin using a dull knife.", "Yeah, rebuilding that engine was hard, but it was worth the extra effort to port and polish the manifold."

Reward: Crowd of gawkers. Sexual relations, possibly from impressed males. Boasting rights to equal an astronaut.

Downside: Everyone asks you for advice and help on their projects. You are certain to lose a few limbs if you do this enough, and then you're forced to become a shop teacher.

Mahd's guide to the world, part 3: The countries of South America

2006-02-22T08:41:00.000-08:00

Ah, South America. Just like North America, except with a lower latitude, and lots of guerilla warfare. And Spanish and Portuguese. Otherwise, exactly the same. Oh yeah, and the tropical diseases that will kill you within ten minutes of arriving. And I bet there's some kind of really venemous snakes, too.

Argentina

When most people think of Argentina, they think of one thing: Nazis. It may not seem obvious at first- the language and multiculturalism seem to indicate a normal society. But look deeper at the nation and the truth comes out: it's teeming with former Nazis. For proof of this, look no further than the Falklands war. Declaring war on Britain? Seems like a very Nazi-ish thing to do to me. Fortunately, Argentina only has old Nazis these days, who are more likely to take an afternoon nap after eating too much at the senior buffet than blitzkrieg anywhere, so that's a good thing.

Bolivia

Every continent has to have a country that everyone picks on, and for South America, that's Bolivia. Chile, Peru, Brazil and Argentina all have taken land from the country, and have also instructed their troops to give Bolivians wedgies, but have so far have refrained from issuing orders to use Atomic Wedgies (also known as Wedgies of Mass Destruction). In spite of this, Bolivians can point to their cultural heritage and unspoiled wildernesses as points of pride. Also, they have lots of cocaine.

Brazil

Going to Brazil is a little like walking down a dark alley to a really fun party. At it's best, Brazil is a hedonist's dream. Lots of beautiful people, lots of booze, lots of sand and sun. On the other hand, there's a good chance you'll be stabbed by a gang of children while sitting on a bench. In Brazil, it's common to have plastic surgery; by the age of 12, if you haven't had a boob job, you're considered a relic. This applies to both men and women, which leads to some very confused tourists, but Brazillians don't care because they're too busy enjoying their food and music and stabbings.

Chile

Chile is kind of a textbook case for South America. Native population ruthlessly conquered by Spanish conquistadors? Check. Bloody revolution against said Spanish? Check. Marxist revolution in the early 20th century to be followed by landowning oligarchy followed by another Marxist revolution and suspected-CIA-involvement in overthrowing Marxists? Check.

In other ways, Chile is very different. The llamas, for example.

Colombia

What happened to Colombia? The fact of the matter was, there was something seriously wrong if you weren't immediately killed or kidnapped the second you stepped into the country. Drugs ran the place. The country's presidents would vow to stamp out drugs, and everyone would have a good laugh and then there would be a coup. It worked like clockwork.

But now- now, they're actually trying to stop the murder and drug-running and kidnappings. They're not succeeding very well, but they're making an effort, and I for one am appalled. If Colombia goes straight, where will we get the settings for our movies where the hero's plane crashes into a rainforest? It's a shame is what it is.

Ecuador

Ecuador is a small country, but like many countries in the region, it has had an adjustment period to get used to freedom. In Ecuador, that period has been 176 years, and it seems many inhabitants are content to let the military rule the country. Perhaps it's because they suffer no matter who's in charge, and at least with military rule they have fancy hats.

Offshore, there are the Galapagoes Islands. These islands, full of natural creatures, inspired Charles Darwin to come up with his theory of evolution. I know it sounds impressive, but I think he also named some of the birds on the islands "boobies", so maybe he wasn't as mature as we all think.

French Guiana

French Guiana is so named because the population all wears little berets and striped shirts. Okay, maybe not, but it would be funny if they did. This colony proves the French are assholes, because it's hot, sticky, raining all the time and rife with disease: therefore, they decided to make it a prison colony, which it pretty much has been up until recent years, when it was granted some independence. This means, of course, a Marxist revolution will occur in the next few months...

Guyana

Guyana's real distinction is that it's the only South American country that uses English as their primary langauge. Like many of the countries here, it has lots of beautiful, breathtaking natural scenery. This is code which means that there's no infrastructure whatsoever. In fact, it's pretty much assured that your five-star resort here is going to have a mud floor, your car is going to be from some former Soviet republic, and your money can purchase entire villages.

Paraguay

Compared to it's neighbors, Paraguay is milquetoast. It's bland. There's no dramatic struggle between government forces and paramilitary guerrilas. There's no thriving drug trade, or obsession with plastic surgery. If you were to travel here, you would probably see some interesting things and have a nice coffee at an open air cafe without the threat of gunfire disrupting the idyllic scene. If you're going to take the trouble to go all the way to South America, you think you'd go somewhere where you could at least have the thrill of searching for diamonds in a tropical rainforest, but Parguay won't even allow that, so what's the use?

Peru

Peru is the home of the Landmark Most Likely to Make Children Giggle: Lake Titicaca. It's also the center of the once mighty Incan empire, which ruled thanks to it's great and terrible llama force which would come down the mountains to meet their enemies and gently lick their hands and faces, because they're adorable. In Peru, European style merges with native influences to create what is known as mestizo, or "Art that merges European and Native elements".

Suriname

Where Guyana is English and French Guiana is, well, French, Suriname is Dutch, which makes you wonder why the country's name doesn't have more vowels and j's in it, like Sjurinjaame or something. 80% of the country is covered in rainforest, so there are lots of logging companies that want at that timber. Environmentalists are aware of this, so there are 5 people chaining themselves to trees for every native Surinamerite(erator).

Uruguay

Uruguay is where Brazillians go for vacation. A pleasant climate, nice beaches, political stability and safety all have brought some reknown to this charming country. Unfortunately, besides the aforementioned lake in Peru, the Second Place Finisher was Uruguay, which is laughed at when slightly mispronounced by teenagers. Uruguay is also home to gauchos, which are kind of like cowboys except that they are foreigners. Well, not in Uruguay, where cowboys are the foreigners.

Venezuela

Venezuela has been in the news quite a bit recently. Being "in the news" generally only means that you have internal strife and rioting if you're a South American country, but in this case it's some crazy guy who got elected President and started yelling about America. Yelling about the US tends to be a good way to take eyes off of your internal problems (I mean, who doesn't hate the US, right?). If travelling to Venezuela, be sure to get a Pina Colada and then complain about the service, because everyone likes tourists that reinforce negative images.

That's it for this installment: Next, the Northern Hemisphere, perhaps? Depends on my mood, and what I had for dinner.

Mahd's guide to the world, part 2: The countries of the middle east

2006-02-16T13:58:00.000-08:00

The mideast is a complex and ever-changing area of the world. Despite this, there is one word that always springs to mind whenever the region is mentioned: peace. No, perhaps it's not the same kind of peace that you might expect at a camp sing-along, but it's a peace nonetheless: the peace after the end of a heated gun battle, for example. Or the brief millisecond of peace that occurs once a year before people start killing each other again.

Nonetheless, the people of the mideast are a hearty, friendly people (provided you worship the same God in the same way as them). Without further ado, here's the background on the countries of the mideast:

Bahrain

Bahrain is often known as the "gateway" middle eastern state. It has the luxury of not being located next to a sworn enemy, so the people there are less assiduous about arming themselves. Indeed, Bahrain is known as a great tourist destination, where people go so that they can go home and tell people they visited the Mideast, which makes them look daring, when in reality they just spent it on the beach here.

Iran

Iran is kind of like the minister who rails against pornography, then goes home to his S&M dungeon. On the exterior, they keep it real, shouting about the Death of America and capitalism and all sorts of other popular opinions. In reality, though, they have the McDonalds french fries hanging out of their mouths and the iPods in their ears when they say these things, so it's kind of hard to take them seriously. Iran is that kid in school who makes fun of the nerds in public, but sneaks away to cosplay at the Comiccon.

Iraq

Yeah....Iraq...um. They used to be Babylon, so that's cool. Nobody really knows what the future of Iraq is, but my bet is that the entire nation is going to be turned into a 70's style disco, so as to drive the insurgents/terrorists/slightly angry people out. Few enough Westerners can stand Disco Duck, so it should definitely help cut down the problems in that country. It's either that, or everyone will be forced to create the world's largest human pyramid. Sure, some people may fall, but in the end, I think everyone will feel a real togetherness if they pull it off.

Israel

There is no country on earth more beloved by it's neighbors than Israel. This is true: the country is loved. The population of the country, however, is not. To say the least. After World War 2, the brightest and best minds sought to find a place where the much maligned Jewish people could finally rest in peace and harmony. To say they screwed up might be an understatement. On the bright side, that reggae guy Matisyahu has that really catchy song.

Jordan

Jordan is a desert wasteland. Most of us look at a picture of the desert with a cactus and a cow skull and think, "Wow, it's really hot there." Jordanians look at this and think, "Wow, a cactus! What a stroke of luck!" The main import for this nation is those nail clippers with the little file thing, because they're continually getting dirt under their fingernails. They do, however, host one hell of a sandcastle building comptetition.

Kuwait

Kuwait is a small, insignificant country, brutally ruled by a cabal of imperial masters...

What? They have oil?

Kuwait is a major player in world affairs, whose golden lands bespeak only of the fairest tidings any land can possess. Their people speak in a language befitting the higher ranks of angels, and they all have dispositions to match. Truly, no nation is as blessed by God as Kuwait.

Lebanon

Lebanon has long been a puppet of bigger, more powerful nations. Phoenecians, Assyrians, Greeks, Romans, Byzantines, Umayyuds, Ottomans, Israel and Syria have all jackbooted their way into the country and occupied it. It's kind of the in thing to do: once in your life, you have to go to New York, go to London, oh, and conquer and rule Lebanon. Definitely do that. Even though it seems like Lebanon is finally going to become independent, it won't last: We all know that Luxembourg is eyeing it greedily...

Oman

Originally, the name of the country was "Dammit", but apparently this was too strong of language for people, so they went with the slightly less vehement present name. Oman is also the founder of all of the classic humor of the region. Not only did they found the small-tent-on-the-outside-but-palatial-inside joke, but also the beautiful-woman-with-ugly-face-behind-veil gag. Also, I think they invented camels.

Qatar & UAE

Like Oman, Qatar's name was invented for a purpose: that is, to make English speakers have fits over language rules. The UAE is simply a clever ploy by non-Americans to have a catchy acronym for a name. What links both of these countries is a love of tourists. Dubai, in particular, is currently draining every bit of water for interesting resorts made out of islands. Future island communities include one shaped like a giant middle finger, as if to give the bird to less prosperous Middle Eastern countries.

Saudi Arabia

Saudi Arabia one of a few holy lands of the Islamic faith. In it's borders are Mecca and Medina, where less than one in a thousand pilgrims is trampled to death over the course of the year. There are, however, other holy sites that are less well-known in the country:

Al-Bazadar, where Muhammad once said, "Whatever happens, I hope that the Jews and us can get along"
Tabuk, a site where Muhammad, Moses, Jesus, the Buddah and several Hindu gods all sat around drinking coffee. Also spotted in the area were Thor, Ra, Hades, Zeus, Habbukak, Ahura Mazda, and several lesser demons and dieties. That makes this this spot the holiest site in the world. A machine shop is currently built on the site.
A trans-dimensional gateway to Omicron 9, a planet of big-breasted nympho alien mistresses. This is where the last known sighting of Muhammad occurred.

Also, Saudi Arabia has lots of oil, and act like dicks because of it.

Syria

Poor Syria. Once the rulers of all of Jordan, Israel, Lebanon and Syria, they're now reduced to their own little country, which is fortunate, because saying Syrisraebanordan is fairly difficult and tiring. All Syria wants is to be loved, and to crush their enemies beneath their boot, wailing and gnashing their teeth. Is that so wrong?

Yemen

Stay the fuck 0ut of Yemen. The Yemenese are good at one thing, and that's causing trouble. They may not even be particularly against whatever they're fighting, but it's expected. It's like your friend who always crushes the beer can against his head; now that he has the reputation for doing it, he's got to keep up appearances, no matter how mushy his frontal lobe has become. That's Yemen- always with the revolution, always with the attacking the status quo. It works for them- it's what they do. We look forward to seeing the next change...from far, far away.

So that's it for the mideast: stay tuned, your country might be next...

2006-02-12T21:10:00.000-08:00

1. First blog you ever read?

This one, after she commented on my first post.

2. What inspired you to start your own?

I thought it would be good to record all of the stuff I wanted to write down, as well as make it a good place to practice writing. Then I just went for cheap laughs.

3. The best and worst about blogging?

The best: having a record of all my stuff and entertaining the few people who come here.

The worst: The genital herpes. Oh wait, that wasn't from the blog...

4. Who was the first person to comment on your blog?

It was Kangaroogirl, from the aforementioned blog.

5. What has been your most popular blog entry?

I don't really, know, but by Statcounter's measure, it's my recent one about the continents.

6. If I re-named my blog I would call it ...

Milk- the rather loud killer.

7. If my blog had a theme song it would be

Uh, I dunno- perhaps a little "Oi to the World"- carefree, and hopefully dictating that we can all enjoy the common foibles of life...

8. If my blog was a room it would look like ...

This will be a two parter, one for this one and one for The Lake.

Milk: Imagine the inside of a pirate ship at Disneyland. Some would be carousing, others drinking, but all would be having a good time: The outside world should not and does not matter here, only the insanity and life within.

Lake: It's the great room of a mountain cabin, wood-paneled with well-worn leather furniture. A verandah looks down the hill past a rushing river towards a tiny town below; a sparkling font of civilation. Up here, though, there is just the verandah, and the stars, and the scent of pines...

9. Five bloggers I would like to have over for dinner.

I'd have all my readers, but it would be far more convenient to just fly to Australia and have dinner there. Do they have Outback in Australia, or do they have a similar American-themed restaurant...an interesting question...

10. Two bloggers you would like to set up on a blind date.

Nah

11. Somebody I wish had a blog?

Sometimes I wish some of my friends had blogs that they didn't know I read. It would be interesting to see what they'd say if they thought nobody was watching...

12. If you were only allowed to read one blog ever again, which blog would it be?

This one, if for no other reason than she updates daily. But there are many other reasons...

13. Is there a fellow blogger you would like to snog / shag / do rude things to?

The realm of fantasy lets us do all sorts of rude things to other bloggers...

14. Discover a blog. Link to a blog that you have recently found, or a blog you have been reading for a while and haven't blogrolled.

I don't blogroll, or read new blogs. I already spend far too much time on the ones I do read.

Tag five bloggers to complete this meme.

No. Do it if you want to...

Mahd's Guide to the World, Part 1: The continents

2006-02-05T18:33:00.000-08:00

This is a multi-part series about the world we live in, written from the perspective of someone who has been to not one, but two different countries than the one he resides in. While this might make you think that anything that might be said is uninformed and stupid, keep in mind the writer is an American, and therefore is a font of knowledge about the world.

I. The Continents - General Facts

A. There are several continents, and eight if you count Santa Claus' fortress as it's own. They are, in order of importance: North America, Europe, Asia, Australia, South America, Antarctica and Africa.

B. With the exception of Australia, the further south you go, the worse your continent is. Conversely, your food gets spicier and your salsa music gets salsier. It's common knowledge that penguins at the South Pole have a complex mating dance that involves maracas and drums.

C. Europe and Asia are sometimes lumped together in a big glob called "Eurasia". Africa has lobbied for inclusion, so look for "Afurasia", which, if you're pronouncing it right, sounds like an Englishman saying "half Eurasia". North and South America will be combined into the more simple "Supermerica" or possibly "Ultramerica".

D. It's incorrectly stated that Australia is the only continent that has a single country. North America also fills this condition, with the United States in the center, America Jr. above and America en Espanol below.

II. Antarctica- Free for all; also, fucking cold.

Antarctica is the largest continent- it's also the most empty, with fewer than 3 Starbucks' coffee franchises in a square mile. All of the nations of the world have agreed that Antarctica is off-limits for human expansion, though I bet those sneaky Russian bastards crossed their fingers when they said it and have some kind of creepy underground caverns where the Soviet Empire still thrives. Nonetheless, the official ruler of Antarctica is King Penguin the 1321st, the previous ruler having been killed by a polar bear. Since there's no people here, except for some stupid scientists who somehow believe they're going to learn something in a ice-covered wasteland, there's not much to talk about.

III. Europe- Land of a million goddamned cathedrals.

Europe has a long and boring history, mostly concerned with the land rights of pasty white nobles. The land itself is a beautiful one, rolling plains and hills that conceal the bones of all those people who fought for the pasty nobles. If there's one thing a European loves, it's killing another European. Germans like killing Poles; English like killing the French; Everyone beats up on Albania. All of the innovation that took place in Europe was due to them needing machines to take the place of all the people that died in various wars.

Today, Europe is a very different place. Today, everything is smaller, more expensive and more snobby than ever. To be European is en vogue, which itself is a French word. Rather than killing each other, Europeans are trying to get along, and that means they all use the same money now. The figure on their money is Otto von Bismarck with Queen Victoria's eyebrows photoshopped on, and they are working to combine Big Ben and the Eiffel Tower into a mega-monument that will spout curses in the three hundred languages that Europeans speak. All told, Europe is in a peaceful transition period full of hope, which, if history is any indication, will probably wind up with Germany invading someone.

III. Asia - Voted World's Swarthiest continent

Asia is a large continent, and stretches from the Japanese floating out in the East to former Soviet republics in the west, and from India in the south to a bunch of uninhabitable icy islands where humanity ekes out a miserable existence in the north. Historically, Asia has been conquered and reconquered, giving it's captors the vital 7 armies that they can use until George decides to leave the game because "it's boring" but you think it's cause he rolled lousy on his last turn.

Asia was home of the Soviet Union, a communist nation whose red empire spread like watery ketchup over everything it touched, if 1950's propaganda films are to be believed. Finally, they lost the "evil empire" rights they had won from the Germans after World War II, and they broke up. Some speculate that this was due to the guitarist dating the drummer's ex-girlfriend, but this was never substantiated.

On Asia's east coast are the so-called Asians. These include the Chinese, Koreans and Japanese. The Chinese excel at having a lot of people and bicycles. It's a fact that the whole nation was founded in order to investigate human bicycling patterns. The Japanese are a wonderful people who were relatively normal until they were nuked in WWII, and have since gone insane, creating things like vending machines that sell used panties and producing anime. However, they also make a lot of cool things like tiny cell phones, so we're cool with them.

India is also down there, and they have changed the perception of their nation from one that only creates cab drivers and convenience store owners to one that employs low-level IT workers whose name is "Frank" or "John" and secretly seethes in anger when some dumbass from Alabama calls in complaining how their multi-dish satellite TV system isn't working.

IV. South America - Where danger and fruity drinks collide.

South America consists of a number of nations who are entirely made up of steamy jungle and guerillas. In the last presidential election in Brazil, 73% of the voters were anti-government rebels who were dedicated to the downfall of the office of president. South America was once inhabited by interesting empires who didn't have guns or disease resistance, and so now they're all a bunch of Spanish and Portuguese speaking peoples. Nonetheless, a booming plastic surgery business has risen in these countries; fully 30% of the people in these nations are made of artificial products. Unsurprisingly, the pornography industry has also boomed in these nations: I know that when I get some random porn now, half the time they're shouting latin-flavored obscenities.

Like the entire world outside of America, soccer is a popular sport. Most youths are forced into compulsory military service at 16. At 17, they are forced into a soccer league. This makes the people of these countries deadly with both guns and screams of "GOOOOAAAAAAAALLLLL!"

V. Australia - Laid back, easy going people: They must be up to something

Americans like Australia: perhaps it's respect for people who also descended from British prisoners, or perhaps it's because we rarely are reminded of their existence except during a Crocodile Dundee movie marathon. This is because Australians have more important things to do than cause a problem: drinking and laying in the sun, for example. If movies are to believed, Australians are constantly battling armored vehicles in a desert wasteland, so they have enough problems without starting any themselves.

VI. Africa - Now 11% HorribleDisease free

Africa's history has been a series of ups and downs. It started off well enough with humans originating there, but since then it's had a bad streak, punctuated with some success. Carthage and Egypt, for example, were fantastic empires and Egypt even had the slogan "If our slaves don't create a monument to your greatness in thirty years or less, it's free (and they'll be killed)". The colonial period, in particular, was not a great one for Africans, since they either were enslaved or conquered for the most part. On the other hand...um, actually there wasn't any. It sucked.

Things have gotten marginally better lately: The end of the second world war gave everyone their independence and Apartheid ended only 200 years too late, so that eventually worked itself out. Africa also gets lots of aid money- the sad truth is that they spend it all on booze and zebras. Those guys can't get enough zebras, as evidenced by every nature film in which some poor zebra is hunted down. Poor zebra.

VII. North America - The Shining City on the Hill- oh wait, no, it's a Wal-mart.

North America is made of three separate countries: Mexico, Canada and the USA, plus a bunch of smaller ones, so really quite a few more than three. And then there's the Caribbean countries. But let's focus on the big three, since they control the most land and have the highest taco-to-person ratio (Thanks for that, Mexico!). The history of these lands is long and storied; unfortunately, the people who made that history were summarily destroyed and scattered. For all intents and purposes, these countries have been around for around 200 years.

The United States is currently a superpower, which means that each citizen can yell "Zablam!" and instantly change into a crime-fighting hero. This fact is hidden from the rest of the world, who believes us to simply be a nation of mild-mannered newspaper reporters. In the US, it's illegal to not have a structure placed every 10 feet, which explains the success of Ambercrombie and Fitch clothing stores. The psychological makeup of the US is that of the paranoid schitzophrenic: for some reason they believe that they must be the best at everything, even if we haven't tried it yet. Americans are constantly worried what others think of them, and yet do whatever they want anyways. It's a time-honored tradition that has worked well so far.

Canada is the least populated land in the world: there are 17 kilometers between each person, even those in the same household. Canadians are so shocked when they accidentally bump into another Canadian that the only result is a one-on-one hockey match to the death. In order for a Canadian to get to a grocery store, he or she must have two of three of a canoe, car or unicycle. Canada also hates America, and is currently trying to focus this anger into a weapon powerful enough to slightly penetrate Americans' egocentrism: They are doomed to failure.

Mexico is an outlaw land where banditos ride horses with bandoliers streaming behind them, shooting wildly into the air. Their main export is food and Mexicans. For a short time in the early 1990s, there was fear that Mexico would be unable to provide enough cheap labor to fuel the world's needs: fortunately, the crisis was averted and every hotel had a crack cleaning staff on hand for whatever problems arose. Also, there are 31 Mexican states, which is less than America's 50: no Americans are aware of the fact that Mexico has states, or even a government, really.

VIII. Conclusion

Continents are a valid way to lump together entire races of people who don't necessarily have anything in common. It's also a great way to cop out on a test: For example, if they asked where Marco Polo was from, you might be able to get away with "Europe" as an answer. For the rest of us who aren't in school, knowing continents is good in that it lets us know what region is in unrest. Considering these continents span thousands of miles, it narrows things down to half the planet or less.

Stay tuned for the second part of my world guide, in which I critique countries whose ways are different from my own.

The "I'm moving shit to my new office all weekend" blog

2006-02-03T21:53:00.000-08:00

An aside at the beginning- I don't think anything could make me feel as lame as We Built This City on Rock and Roll by Jefferson Starship. I could be pale, overweight and sporting thick muttonchops at the beach, and I would still be more cool than I do listening to this song. And yet it was the first thing that played on my mp3 player. I can feel my mullet crowing into my studded jean jacket even as it plays.

People often meditate about how God exists in our reality: to some, he's a jolly bearded guy like Santa Claus except he has stylish robes instead of an unflattering ermine-lined red ensemble; others see him as a giant floating eye who don't take no guff from nobody. Feminists say God is a she and if you don't like that well then you're a worthless piece of shit.

There is one truth, and it's that God is a lazy bastard. If God wants something, all he does is think about it and it happens. If he wants a glass of lemonade-poof- it's there. If he wants purple-and-green zebras shedding delicious chocolate raindrops in a rainbow arc above his head, he gets that too. Really, he's the ultimate slacker: He worked for six days early on and has been riding it ever since.

Perhaps the most obvious example of his sloth is that he's never had to move his stuff. "But I'm everywhere at once", he'd say, an obvious cop-out. How can you really know what work is until you've lifted your solid oak desk up a flight of stairs? And he's never unpacked either. And I know he's always begging out of helping people move, too. "God", I hear them say, "this refrigerator is fucking heavy." But who lifts a finger to help? Not the so-called Almighty: no, it's his friend Bob who's only doing it to get the obligatory free drink afterwards. Besides, Bob has a truck- all God has is unlimited and unfathomable power, and last I checked, that didn't haul your TV hutch.

I'm complaining because I'm moving for a second time in less than 6 months. Fortunately, it's not my house stuff, but unfortunately, it is the computer equipment for my work, which is both ten times heavier and several hundred times more expensive. In fact, if I was to damage some of the equipment, they could only recoup some of their losses by selling me into slavery in Bangladesh. But they'd do it anyways.

I'm not going to go into detail into the many wonderful things that make an office move the most stress-inducing things you can be involved in, but suffice it to say that it involves getting over a hundred people to coordinate everything to be done on one day. You can't get a hundred people to agree on where to go to lunch, much less connect power, install networking equipment, and do the hundreds of other things that need to be done. Worse, the colors they selected have more in common with sugary kids drinks than a clean office environment (pea-soup green, light purple and...orange).

There are benefits, however: For one, I don't need to work out- my body is getting strengthened by moving things that are far too heavy for me to lift. I feel like I'm in one of those ridiculous Strongman contests: you just tell me where to put the giant ball of solid iron and I'm on it. At this rate I'll be winning Mr. Olympia by March.

Another advantage I now possess is the complete lack of fingerprints. Constant rubbing has sanded them off, so I'm free to commit crimes that involve glass cases and things like that.

So, having been home for about 45 minutes, it's time to get to bed, for another day of forced labor. Maybe I'll invite God to help. Or maybe Bob- he's got a truck.

There are menstrual relief pills on the desk next to me.

2006-01-23T07:39:00.000-08:00

Menstrual relief pills. Non-brand name, but "comparable to Midol!" The label also calls it "menstrual complete", as if there's a slash-rate medicine that's "menstrual partial" whose effects are less effective: you get the bloating medicine, but the cramps- that was a little more expensive, so you're stuck.

That was probably the most I've ever used "menstrual" in my life. Thank goodness. Once more and I think I would have started to grow a vagina. Which may or may not be a bad thing, because then I might actually have use for the medicine on the table.

This post is rather random in nature- I don't have anything to rail against or cry out about, so bear with me as I jump around.

I just finished a Good Book, which differentiates itself from The Good Book in that it has an editor. I have no problem with the Holy Bible, aside from the fact that people are begat-ing each other left and right and there's a lot of fluff in between the good parts. No, this was a Good Book, and in some ways there's nothing better. Who can resist the pull of that next chapter, even though it's far past your bedtime and your light is the only one in the house burning brightly? And what lingering sorrow greets you when you realize there are only a few chapters to go. We have no recourse but to move on to the next one and hope that it is as gripping as the last. Ah well.

My other thought for the day was spurred on by looking at a Chinese Horoscope. Depending on the year of your birth, you are forever assigned some kind of animal with whom you ostensibly share traits. It's a lottery and completely unfair. Just because you were born in 1983, you now must invariably be linked to a pig. Sure, they try to justify it: "Oh, the pig is a very generous and honorable creature." Well, maybe, but it's a pig. You don't have to say reassuring crap like that to people born in the year of the Dragon. They're a fucking Dragon; all you have to do is give them a high-five.

Similar in nature to this is the idea of an animal totem: a species with whom you share a number of traits. Now, just about everyone I know would want some kind of cool animal- a bear or wolf or eagle or something. Really, you just want to avoid being a prey animal. I mean, what good can you say if your animal is a muskrat or fiddler crab? Some kind of spirit guide will tell you that you don't need to have an animal that's powerful or big- each animal has it's advantages. Whoever tells you this is full of shit- you want an animal that has 3 foot claws dripping with fiery venom and razor-sharp teeth and possibly a rocket launcher.

The reality of the situation is that the idea of a totem animal is utterly stupid: It's not like you'll be walking through a forest and come upon a grey squirrel (your totem animal) and your gazes will lock for a moment before he gives you a wise and knowing nod and then all the squirrels of the forest will emerge from the brush to pay homage to you. No, you'll be walking through the forest and the squirrel will lock gazes with you and then bound the fuck away because you're a human. Therefore, the totem animal is really just there to impress your friends, and you're not impressing them when you tell them your soul is bound to the bluejay.

Me? My soul is bound to menstrual relief pills.

Tagged again, by cruel fate

2006-01-19T09:40:00.000-08:00

I have been tagged by The Sherriff, so here goes:

What were you doing 10 years ago?
I was in my senior year of high school, taking a free period after lunch which was awesome. I also managed to eat a bacon cheeseburger in two bites, nearly choking myself in the process. So, yes, highly intelligent activities.

What were you doing 1 year ago?
More of the same, really. Planning on going to foreign countries, maybe?

Five snacks you enjoy:
oranges, trail mix, beef jerky, cheese and tortilla chips

Five songs to which you know all the lyrics:
1. Red Right Ankle by the Decemberists
2. Particle Man by TMBG
3. In my Life, Beatles
4. Always Look on the Bright Side of Life, Monty Python
5. I can whistle sailor's hornpipe.

Five things you would do if you were a millionaire:
1. Underground lair
2. Batmobile
3. Mansion
4. Batarangs
5. Ok, I'd be Batman.

Five bad habits:
1. Laziness
2. Not answering questions seriously
3. Wearing underwear for more than one day in a row
4. Laziness
5. Laziness

Five things you like doing:
1. "Working" on the computer
2. Playing basketball outside and not falling in the pool
3. Piracy
4. Making elaborate snow forts and engaging in a battle royale
5. Making grand plans and then not following through

Five things you would never wear, buy or get new again:
1. Pants
2. Tuxedo
3. Work boots
4. Indian food
5. Tomatoes

In this post, I complain about something

2006-01-11T15:59:00.000-08:00

I am, by my own estimation, a gentle creature; I will nuzzle your hand softly then bound off into the green mists of a primeval forest, the only sign of my presence the delicately pressed ground where my feet were. I don't swear often, and am amicable to all of mankind upon first meeting. Mine is a life of blissful tranquility, where agitation is the long-forgotten tale told by some wizened old man with pale hair growing out of every orifice in his head.

Despite my contented state, I do have occassion to be riled up and drawn forth into a furious ball of diabolical energy, awaiting only a spark to ignite my frenzied and lunatic savagery.

What sad event might evoke such intense passion within me?

Why, it is nothing less than going to the movies: seemingly innocuous, you might think. A movie is supposed to be a happy occassion, if you were to mimic the Swamp Lord in Monty Python. One chooses to go to movies- that is the way it always has been, although perhaps some cults could direct you against your will to the can't miss hit How to improve your life: It rhymes with "pult". The Nazis probably did that too, because they were jerks.

For modern, non-cult-or-Nazi-affiliated man, we have the option of going to see these masterpieces of acting and special effects. As with most entertainment, we pay some amount of currency for the privilege. Now some might think that my objection is with the cost- but nothing could be further from the truth. Nine bucks for two hours of entertainment is a bargain, in my opinion. When I'm shopping with my wife, I can spend ten times that in a tenth the time.

The assault, however, begins when you enter the theater. Quite instantly, you are transported to a world that would only exist in some ad executive's wet dream. Giant cardboard cutouts hawking snacks, upcoming movies and God knows what else line the periphery like some two-dimensional spectators, each taunting you with the promise of unending happiness if you would only just buy. Surely that four extra dollars could be spared to provide a gallon of soda for your enjoyment during the movie? After all, you get a free refill.

If you are somehow able to avoid those cardboard demons and make your way to your seat, your only hope is for the Lord to strike you blind temporarily if you have managed to arrive before the movie starts.

If, for example, you were to show up a half-hour before the movie begins (aside from the criticism that perhaps you're taking your planning a little too seriously), you are treated to a merry-go-round of slides, some of which have fun corporate sponsors with fun little trivia games that make you want to throttle the person who invented both fun and Fanta soda. Add in the trivial pop music piped in and you're in for a coma-inducing experience.

Should you arrive within 20 minutes of the movie's purported start time, you're now able to view an exciting reel that drills into your head exactly which products someone of your age group and gender should be consuming, be they television shows, movies or delicious snacks. As if to hammer home the point, they "recap" the past 20 minutes at the end, as if most people couldn't possibly have an attention span that long.

Should you be present during a first-run movie, you'll now have the opportunity to watch previews for other movies that you don't want to see. Although I regard the man who does the voice-overs for those previews as the fourth in the Triumvirate (Father, Son, Holy Ghost, Movie-voice-over guy), each one wears down your soul until you are a bitter and unblinking husk of a person, waiting only for the sweet release of death. And yet, you soldier on stoically.

Finally, after forty minutes of previews, thirteen reminders to turn off your cell phone, a friendly reminder that snacks are still available in the lobby- you know, just like they have been for the last 90 years, two people's cell phones ringing (I believe the tones are "La Vida Loca" and "Darth Vader's theme"), a crappily animated video of a jet or a roller coaster or some bullshit flying by even more floating clouds of Coke, Skittles and Red Vines, you are invited to sit back, relax, and enjoy the feature presentation. You collapse, realizing the worst is behind.

Then, in the first scene, the gallant starship commander reaches for a Coke.

If you survive the initial rush of blood to your head, the intense pressure in your eyes and the urge to elicit a blood-curdling scream, then you may survive. However, resist the urge to rip your theatre seat from it's mount and send it hurtling towards the screen Simply internalize all of your anger, sending it deep within you to be released like a torrent at the next person who irks you.

If you're one of the lucky ones, your head will merely explode at the first preview.

Obligatory Christmas Post

2005-12-25T07:00:00.000-08:00

It's 7 am and we're about to make the Christmas marathon- upon awaking we're rushing into the shower (my wife gets the first shift there, given that she takes 5 times as long to get ready), then off to her mom's house for an early morning gift exchange- then we take the hour trek up to my parent's place for some more of the same, and, where we have been warned that if we don't bring a spatula, cinnamon and vanilla, Christmas breakfast will be ruined, for apparently Santa did not bring my folks the ingredients for french toast.

Anyways, hope your Christmas is a safe and fun one. Or, if you're not Christian, hope you enjoy whatever movie you're going to see.

Tagged

2005-12-13T20:32:00.000-08:00

I was tagged, so without ado (well, a little ado), here are the questions and answers:

1. What did you do in 2005 that you hadn't done before?
I went on a trip with 10 of my friends to Las Vegas. While fun, I believe that I should endeavor to keep my friendships, and thus never ever go on a trip with that many people again.

2. Did anyone close to you give birth?
My friend's wife. A second little girl, the poor saps. Not that there's anything wrong with having two girls, mind you- but the thought that a man must lose two precious gifts to some strange men at some point in the future- it's enough to break someone.

3. Did anyone close to you die?
Fortunately, no.

4. Did you travel? Where did you go? Best holiday memory?
Travel, quite necessarily, is required for my person. There was no great trip this year, I don't think. I did travel, however- Las Vegas, Hawaii, camping on the beach, and others. The decompression offered by even a slight sojurn is always welcome.

5. Best thing you bought?
A house. I was hoping to save enough for a moat and some battlements, but alas, it was not to be.

6. Where did most of your money go?
See above. Not only my money, but the money of some poor bank.

7. What do you wish you had done more of?
I could not slake my desire to travel, I think, no matter how much I would want. Writing, certainly, practicing guitar, wanton acts of carnality, reading, exercise.

8. What do you wish you had done less of?
For lack of a better term, "dicking around" on the computer. Ok, there's far better terms, but I wanted to giggle at the term "dicking"

9. What kept you sane?
Normal brain chemistry? The aforementioned useless computer use, while useless, helped keep me from commiting 7 felonies (12 in Tenessee).

10. What drove you mad?
The amount of paperwork required to purchase a house completely explains deforestation.

11. What made you celebrate?
I need a reason?

12. What made you sad?
Things that, despite my superpowers, I cannot prevent. It's time for some new superpowers. I mean, talking to marine life? What the hell is that?

13. How was your birthday this year?
It hasn't yet occurred: however, I can only assume what will happen:

Upon arriving home, I will be greeted to a completely clean and furnished house with far more expensive and alluring decor than I left it with. My friends and family, too numerous to count, will bow and pay homage to me, and sing songs and make speeches about my kind, generous, and above all, humble nature. The finest delicacies and concoctions will be available for my palate's amusement, and the cake will be wheeled out by two Playboy centerfolds, and two more will burst from the cake. After all have eaten and drank their fill, the dream-fulfilling gifts will be presented to me, each wrapped with the utmost care. Finally,all will retire home, except the Playboy centerfolds, who will stay to clean up. Meanwhile, my wife and I will spend the night awake and active, if you know what I mean. If not, I mean sex.

I trust I will not be disappointed.

14. What political issue stirred you the most this year?
I could start a political blog, but then I would just be aping everyone else, and that's lame. Let me just say that I was rooting for Bud Light in the Bud Bowl.

15. Were you in love in 2005?
Yes, except for those 3 days in March when I was comatose.

16. What would you like to have in 2006 that you didn't have this year?
A pirate ship crewed by the damned, or alternatively, waterproof, animatronic robots.

17. What date from 2005 will be etched in your memory and why?
December 13, 2005, the day I wrote this blog.

18. What song will remind you of 2005?
Well, since I'm listening to D'Oyly Carte Opera's version of H.M.S. Penafore, "Sir Joseph Porter's Song", I'll say that.

Now landsmen all, whoever you may be,
If you want to rise to the top of the tree,
If your soul isn't fettered to an office stool,
Be careful to be guided by this golden rule
Stick close to your desks and never go to sea,
And you all may be rulers of the Queen's Navee!

19. Compared to this time last year are you happier?
I'm always happy. It's what I do.

20. Biggest achievement this year?
I guess the house thing, but only until I become limber enough to put my head between my legs.

21. Biggest disappointment this year?
Not bending everyone to my indomitable will.

22. What is the one thing that would have made you more satisfied?
Nothing really- winning the lottery or having a rich and distant relative kick the bucket and leave me a handsome inheritance because I was the only one who didn't comment on that thing on his face.

23. Best new person you met this year?
My friend's new daughter, although, to be honest, she has kind of been a sack of flesh the few times I've seen her. I would estimate her personality will develop soon.

24. A valuable life lesson you learnt this year?
If you make it look as though you're supposed to be somewhere, even if you're not, nine times out of ten, nobody will question you.

Older than I've ever been

2005-12-05T08:50:00.000-08:00

I don't feel old. That statement is a defiant one, totally reckless in the face of all studies that indicate that time is indeed passing. Well, I say "screw time", which is happily enough what I say when I want to get a little action from my wife, the difference only being where you place the emphasis. Actually, I think if I walked in the door and my wife was watching "Will and Grace" and I announced in my most regal voice, "Screw Time" while dropping my pants, she would die of uncontrollable laughter. So I should try that and see.

The subject of age only comes up because I'm 10 days away from my birthday, and immediately before we increment that number of years we realize that we have aged. Or at least I do. I'm generally not too focused on it- Hell, if I'm caught off-guard at a liquor store when they ask for ID, I say, "I'm 21" which is a lie and a falsehood- I was 21 years ago, but it's at that age that we inherit the last of our age-based perks until we're 55 and can get cheap, greasy eggs at Denny's.

I bear few scars of age, aside from some little wrinkles around my eyes that my wife enjoys pointing out. I've managed to avoid the most dreaded malady that could afflict a man of my age: a receding hairline. Once, when I was young, I thought it would be funny to shave my head so it looked like I was balding and to garner the sympathy of passers-by who would naturally assume I had some rare affliction, but I never had the guts to go through with it. Hopefully I have a son someday who I can force into it.

So. 28 years old. What does that mean? Well, I keep waiting for a van to show up on my birthday to take me to some government-run center that educates me on the true reality of life along with a warning that if I ever tell anyone, my life is forfeit, but apart from that, not much. Some presents, along with my satisfaction in telling people that I was due to be born Christmas day, as if that somehow links me with Jesus because we share the same birthday. As a child, being born before Christmas is a boon- most parents don't want to deprive their kids of the experience of a birthday party, so you make out like a bandit. Add in that my mother's side is Jewish and my father's side was some variant of Protestant and I had the gift-getting trifecta of Christmas, Hanukkah and birthday. It's too bad Kwanzaa didn't exit back then, or I could have tried to figure some angle to get in on that. Once you start to get older, your birthday is quickly overshadowed by that Jesus guy. You start wondering what you have to do to get some attention: then you remember, oh yes, die for the sins of all mankind. Ok, I'll pass, he can have the pine trees. I wonder if Jesus is remembered among the pine trees as an evil figure, since his birth leads to thousands being cut down every year. I digress.

As we were discussing: 28. In German, it's pronounced achtundzwanzig, which sounds really cool and angry but still could use some umlauts. Heck, "fluffy bunnies" in German translates to "flaumige Häschen", which also sounds threatening if you say it in an angry voice, which is the only kind I expect Germans to have. But perhaps I've seen too many WW2 movies.

Some people say that age is a state of mind. Those people are fools- can't they see old people hobbling around and running over people in their wheelchairs and doing inane things like buying their grandchildren slippers every year for Christmas? No, there is some credence to age. It's here so that when we do something stupid we can tell ourselves "What do you think you are, 18?"; unless you're 18, in which you're likely telling yourself "Boobies! boobies! boobies!". That said, I feel the same as I did when I was 21, which makes me happy. I still can eat a large pizza in one sitting, and do the same things I did when I was younger.

Of course, my hearing isn't what it used to be, and my trick hip is acting up and I can't seem to recall the name of that young whipper-snapper down at the corner store who sassed me. When I was a kid, you couldn't have gotten away with that; no sir...

Akalaka woki woki...HAWAIII

2005-11-22T22:53:00.000-08:00

The title is my Hawaii song. It does not, in fact, contain any real Hawaiian words, but it is fun to hula to, and may border upon the sublime should you strum a ukelele while singing; I can't be sure.

For 10 days I have been to that lush and tropical island. While the rest of the country languished in the growing cold, my days were greeted with the sun-kissed humidity of a rainforest. And roosters; lots of roosters decided to serve as my alarm clocks. Some were set to crow triumphantly at 5am. The more considerate ones decided to spare me until a half-hour later.

But my purpose there was not for the idle work of the vacationer; no, I was there for business, and spent entire days cooped up within a windowless and temperature controlled nondescript building of dubious purpose. In spite of this, there was time yet for some rest- meals, mostly, but a few times there was an idle hour to recklessly embed temporary footprints along the sandy shore or appreciate the greenery. And always present, from any vantage was the wild and trackless sea, stretching out towards the bounds of vision and thought. And chickens, which I had previously mentioned. From time to time they could be observed at the edge of the road, pausing perhaps to consider if they wished to fulfill that ancient joke and become nothing more than a punchline, or if destiny had some greater purpose for them.

From a societal standpoint, it occurred to me as we drove past fields with high-grown and blossoming sugarcane that, if located within the contiguous United States (and not, as one Simpsons character said, in "the freak States") Kauai would be somewhere in the middle of Nebraska. It's exceedingly rural, with little in the way of infrastructure that has been built in the past 30 years. Charming, in a what-a-quaint-little-small-town sort of way, but also a little disturbing in a this-place-is-willfully-frozen-in-1978 sort of way.

The people are friendly and courteous. The weather is warm, sunny and only slightly marred by unexpected storms, the pizza is vile trash that shouldn't be foisted upon living people, and the land is a tapestry of breathtaking scenery layered upon itself. Island living has a lot going for it; a simple life, lots of delicious fish, good weather and a culture that encourages topless native dancing. But I am a worldly man, and I fear that I am deeply entrenched within a society that only serves to drive me more towards that end. Without a convenience mart in a 5 block radius at any time, I might wither and die like the mayfly with the cresting of the spring sun.

I am returned; renewed by my travel, but invigorated by the sights and sounds of home.

A moving experience

2005-11-09T21:24:00.000-08:00

Son of a taco. I had a nice post written and managed to wipe it out while somehow absolving the computer from rescuing me with the undo function.

Watch this space for the real post, but here's a synopsis

1. Today I moved
2. I rented a truck that is several hectares long and grumbles like the Beast beneath the Earth when started. Was given until 7am tomorrow to return truck.
3. Took 7 hours to load truck, during which the follwing occurred:
a. Called by loan officer. House won't close until tomorrow afternoon.
b. Called by escrow officer. Lender wants more homeowner's insurance coverage.
c. Called insurance. I can increase coverage, but they will only pay for the original amount. However, I do get to pay more each month.
d. Called by realtor. Since seller has Close+2 days to move in contract, they will only give me the house key for $200 tomorrow.
e. Swore profusely
f. Called by two people at work- the other IT people are incapable of doing anything, apparently
g. Buyer of current place wants keys delivered tomorrow at 10:30.
h. Dad, while helping pack, drops my beloved train lamp and it bursts apart. It can be repaired, fortunately, but I am nearly ready to commit suicide.

Lovely.

Thank you cards-

2005-10-23T18:39:00.000-07:00

Remember when I updated this thing? Yeah, that was cool. I'm not sure what my problem is- despite being busy at work, in the process of getting a Big Ol' (tm) loan for the new house and being woken up every morning by the Murdercat, I still have a decent amount of time on my hands. It may simply be the ebb and flow of my interest, which is my bane.

A couple notes- first, I added the word verification on comments. At first I thought I could do something funny with the spammers, but they're just kind of annoying. So, fuck em. Second, I'm going to try and do the november novel writing thingee- NaNoWriMo, as it is called. I'm going to be off in Hawaii for half the month working 12-18 hour days, so we'll just see how well that works. If I try and fail, then as Homer Simpson says, the lesson is to never try.

On to the matter at hand.

When the wife and I celebrated our anniversary, there were actually a few people who went out and got us an anniversary card. That's a nice gesture- much more so than saying, "Happy anniversary, dude" when you remind someone that it's been a year. As a whole, I don't expect people to remember my anniversary. For me, it's the celebration of the beginning of a new life with a person who I'm in love with. For them, it was that party where they got really drunk. So hey, no biggie. Remember my birthday and I'll remember yours and we're fine.

However, once we received those cards, then the onus was upon us to return a gracious and well-worded reply. This, I have no problem with- unfortunately, it's expected that this response is delivered on a colorful card. Now, maybe this was the norm back in the 18th century, but both language and technology have outpaced the antiquated process. If I were to attempt to write a letter in the style of the time, it might be something like the following (You can add the British accent if you feel like it- I know I do):

"My Dearest Grandmother,

It is with a glad heart that I am writing you this day. I am presently most pleased with the lovely and thoughtful gift which you presented to me not a fortnight past, on my birthday. I must say, at first I approached the gold-and-lace package with some trepadition, for I was greatly aggrieved that you were not aware of my birthday wishes. However, as the wrapping fell away my heart was gladdened as I discovered the iPod Nano within.

P.S. Sister died of dysentery yesterday.

Yours,
Mahd"

Now it may seem like a lovely letter, but keep in mind that with any good celebration, there may be a larger number of these. Our wedding nearly killed me. There's only so many times you can thank people with the same platitudes, not to mention the time investment. It may have been great fun to write them back in the days before flush toilets and refrigeration, but I have the Internet and other things that are more important time-wasters.

So what is the alternative? An e-mail or, heaven forfend, an IM? No, even my bitter and blackened heart is not so cold as to be that impersonal. There is, however, a nice invention that one Alexander Graham Bell made called the phone. In fact, I'm fairly certain that when he invented it he was looking for a solution to writing interminable Thank-You cards. I can see him now, sitting in his parlor, thinking of a synonym for "generous" and suddenly stumbling onto an idea that would allow a person to get the same message across in seconds.

Think of it- you're always getting bothered to call your friends and relatives anyways, so why not kill two birds with one stone? As a bonus, if the call gets too awkward, you can just end it whereas you can't end a card halfway through. "Hi mom, thanks for the card. Anyways, I've got to be going. Later." I'm telling you- he phone is the answer.

I better end before this before the thank you card consortium comes after me.

Drag it out

2005-10-14T09:21:00.000-07:00

It's a little time out for a book reviewish thingee:

About 10 years ago, my mom brought me home a book. Knowing that I mostly read fantasy and sci-fi (a sad fact that I have thankfully remedied since), she took a recommendation from the twentysomething employee and picked me up The Eye of the World by Robert Jordan. You may have read it; you may not have. All I can say is that I rue the day she brought it home, because for the past 10 years, off and on, I've been reading through the series. The latest book, number 11, just came out, and I'm debating whether or not to go get it.

Robert Jordan is not a great writer. His characters aren't always three-dimensional and he repeats himself incessantly. Some of the 400-plus page books I've read have done little to move the plot of the series forward at all. There is a cast of dozens in the books by now, and far too much effort is expended flailing about with nonessential characters.

However, what Jordan has done with the series is nothing less than create an entire world, and one that is relatively unique from so many other traditional fantasy staples of elves and dwarves and other things that people probably dress up as when they go to conventions. It's the world itself that is interesting, drawing from mythology and history with a good dose of imagination. The world is the most interesting character of all, multilayered and descriptive.

So I'm here deciding- do I get the book? Do I continue reading this story which has many characters who I have forgotten, whose personalities somehwat disinterest me, now that I have succored on more substantial authors? Do I forego the three or four thousand pages that I've already read?

I don't know. On one side, I've committed myself this far. It would be like running half a race and then quitting. There can't possibly be that much left. The series has taken the standard fantasy epic storyboard: Boy learns he is the "Chosen One"; Boy has adventures proving his status as the "Chosen One"; Boy gains power/prestige because of his status; Boy wails on Big Bad Guy; Boy returns as King of the World.

I'm indecisive, and that probably means I'm getting the book. Only a little longer...just a little longer

The Return

2005-10-10T22:07:00.000-07:00

I'm back from Vegas a little poorer, a little more tired but happy. It's a four hour drive for us- not terrible by any stretch, but ye gods is it monotonous. The high desert consists of a few specific features:

1. Dirt. The world is full of it, but in no other place is it on display than the desert. It can actually vary in color, from a dark brown to a golden yellow. However, it all looks the same when you've been driving for 2 hours.

2. Dead/dying plants. The reason it's a desert is because nothing living needs to be there. Anything that does live there does so just to spite the desert, and usually has some kind of deadly poison to boot.

3. Mounds of dirt. Just like dirt, except in a big pile.

So we made it home, and there's always that wistful moment when you pull off the highway exit that leads to your home. You think about the good time you had, and possibly think about turning the car back around and heading back past the various forms of dirt. There's work the next day, which is a drag, and especially considering that you've been going to sleep in a drunken stupor at 4:30am and waking up at 2:30 in the afternoon, only to gorge yourself on rich desserts and meats. It's an adjustment that needs to be made, sadly.

On the other hand, you're not going to bed in a drunken stupor, which is probably a good thing in the long run. Your liver probably has a little party when you're back on your work schedule from vacation. There might be streamers. And it's good to be home, with all the smells and comfort of home. Also, Internet Porn isn't $10 a day. My wife is mentioning the cat, but considering she managed to knock her food over in the first hour of us being home, I'll take that under advisement.

Perhaps the best part of getting home is Catching Up. You bring in all the mail, and there's lots of good stuff and flyers for churches and shit. You get to your answering machine and hear recorded comments about how much money you could save if you refinanced. And you go to all your Internet bookmarks and check them out for updates. Even if you're gone for a day, it seems like there's a ton to catch up on. Did I mention the Internet Porn? That probably was updated too.

So it's good to be home. Tomorrow, it's back to work, and, as usual, starting to plan for the next vacation...

Las Vegas- City of Wonders, of Despair

2005-10-03T18:53:00.000-07:00

In a few days the wife and I and a number of friends are going to pack into some cars and tread across a barren and lifeless desert towards the shining oasis of Las Vegas. Located in the state of Nevada, it might as well be on Venus for it's remoteness from any other place on Earth.

I take it back. 90% of Las Vegas is like most of America; poor sections, wealthy sections and a grocery store every couple of blocks. It's the side of Las Vegas that isn't featured in movies, and really who can blame them? Mrs. Johnson taking the bus to the shopping mall lacks a certain panache.

The remaining part of Vegas is the part that grew where Willy Wonka's brain leaked out when he was bludgeoned to death by gang members (Note to Kids: Stay away from the Willy Wonka sequel). It's the celebration of excess, in any form you can imagine, from public drinking to games of chance; the promise of lust is everywhere, even on the streets where poorly-paid immigrants pass out booklets full of different escorts. On the occassions that I went where I was young enough to not be able to gamble but old enough to wander away for a while, I took great delight in taking those sinful ads with their barely-obscured girls advertised.

And yet, if there is a Hell, it probably resembled Las Vegas. Until the city was built, Hell probably had some interesting tortures like being crushed under rocks and being pitchforked in the ass while waiting in a long line. Then Las Vegas was built, and Satan took some pointers.

For all of it's promise of cheap food and alcohol, sex, glamour and, of course, riches, Vegas is a sham. Yes, gluttony is possible at the all-you-can-eat buffets, but they are either expensive or terrible, and generally both. There's only so much quality that something heated in a steam tray can have. Similarly, alcohol is free-flowing: The fact that one can carry around a 64oz margarita in a collectable Urkel head cup while carousing down the gridlocked strip lends itself to that truth. And yet you still wind up paying for it, either directly or by pretending to play the nickel slot in front of you until some absurdly-clad waitress named "Midge" deigns to come by with her disinterested "Drinks?" call.

You can pay for sex in Nevada. That fact is not a terrible idea- in fact, my own belief is that if we got more lonely guys laid, we would have far fewer serial killers. I'm sure there are all kinds of studies supporting the idea. Outside of town there's actual whorehouses: for some reason I feel like I would have to pack my Stetson and six-shooter going to one of those places- possibly only to blast off the venerial disease. You can also get incall service, if you're too lazy to leave the room. In a way, we can consider ourselves an advanced society when you can get women by delivery; on the other hand, get your ass off of the bed and go meet a real woman. Of course, if your tastes don't run that way, you can probably find men, transsexuals, midgets, carnival workers, amputees or some combination thereof. Once, when I was there, a nightclub had "service industry" night- that's right, cheap booze for hookers.

Of course, everyone goes to Vegas to gamble. In a way, it's the stupidest thing you could possibly do; you know that their entire economy is based off of your moronic ass putting your loose change into their flashing machines. So that's why we invariably do it. Of course, you could win. But the reality is that you'll drop $150 in 15 minutes. They're very good at taking your money. It's not your fault, they've had decades of practice. You can even walk up to a nickel machine and think, "I will be able to play this all night". Then you learn that you can bet up to 5 nickels at a time, and in order to get all of the possible payout vectors (horizontal, diagonal and some that exist in an alternate universe), you need to pay an additional 9 nickels. So with every push of the button, you're dropping $2, and your plan is shot to hell. Well done, they win again, and are probably watching you pull out your hair in a security camera while twirling their moustaches and adjusting their black capes and top hats.

My favorite aspect of Vegas is that some of the places try so very hard to distinguish themselves as classy establishments. Others build casinos that resemble medieval castles. The former is worse, because no matter how nice you think things are in your casino, you still have hundreds of clinking loud whirring machines with flashing displays. At least the castle guys appreciate the inherent cheesiness of the situation, and even celebrate it. Bobby Joe from Iowa probably can appreciate the fact that your fancy hotel has a botanical garden, but he's still heading to go play "Slots-o-fun" in his Big Dog t-shirt and shorts. It's a tacky town covered in too much brass and ugly faux-oriental carpeting. And it's wonderful, if it appreciates that, or if it doesn't.

So why go to this town, where dreams are broken every day? Where those who can afford to gamble are given perks while the rest of us are ignored? Where you can lose a full paycheck in moments through a hand of cards or toss of die?

Because it is unique; and even if the casinos themselves don't appreciate it, it's a place that inhabits the side of our personalities that relinquishes all grip of reality. People do things here that would make them pariahs at home, and with such gusto that it's infectious. It's a place that celebrates humanity as the animal- full of vice, disdainful of responsibility, always seeking the next thrill without regard for the future.

And I have the best strategy for blackjack that I got off the Internet...

All Hallows Eve

2005-09-26T19:46:00.000-07:00

I've been gone. Well, not so much gone as busy as hell with buying and selling real estate. One stinking house is enough to reduce me to tears and occupy my life completely. I don't know how Trump does it; okay I do- he hires people on TV to do work for him. If I could convince people to engage in a cutthroat competition for my benefit, I would, but alas not even UPN has called.

Coming up at an alarming rate is the single most important holiday that any nation in the world celebrates. I speak, of course, of Halloween; where most of the country lets it's hair down and dresses up and gets drunk or goes and begs for candy, depending on your age and the availability of fake identification. There are those people who believe that Halloween will lead our children into witchcraft and Devil worship. Those people are idiots, because sane people realize that witchcraft is reserved for people who got kicked out of the Society for Creative Anachronism for being too dorky, and Devil worshippers are only doing it to bag others with low self-esteem. Also, there's no such thing as magic.

I have consternation, however, because I have not yet chosen a costume. I have been, in reverse chronological order: a punk rock chick, a pirate, a ww2 soldier, a knight and a sea captain. Prior to that, I was in college, and can't remember what costumes I had. I do remember a couple from childhood, though. I was the Greatest American Hero, for some reason as a young child. Another year I lovingly spent hours cutting and wrapping foam padding with grey duct tape and creating a knight costume, complete with helmet- it also nearly suffocated me, so that was fun. What to do this year? Ron Burgundy, from Anchorman? A pirate (again)? The Black Knight? The options are endless.

And therein lies the fun of the holiday- getting to be something you're not, for just a night. While in theory I could dress like the Little Mermaid on a Tuesday, say, and go to work, at some point someone would say something. At best they would exchange furtive glances with each other. I would be a fan of a change to that societal restriction. If President Bush came out in a Batman costume, I would have a more positive opinion of him (not to mention making debates more interesting). The evening news could be presented by Zorro with weather by Strawberry Shortcake. It could even help people who have trouble with their wardrobe: every day is a good day to be a Ghostbuster.

If that happened, though, I would be sad: The thing that makes Halloween so special would be gone. If you had seen twelve Supermans and seventeen Smurfs every day for a year, it would have less impact. And eventually you would run out of ideas, as well as closet space.

No, I approve of keeping Halloween as it is, but perhaps we can schedule a few more scattered throughout the year. I know that right around February I'm feeling the itch to wear some tights and a cape. But perhaps that's too much information.

Very delayed blog - the home sale edition

2005-09-13T06:23:00.000-07:00

Some advice: Never sell your home, if you can. It's too much of a hassle. The simple act of keeping it clean is an exercise from the Devil's handbook: every morning before work it must be spotless, and the next day you start over. The longer it goes on, the more you wonder if you can skimp on little things; dusting the cabinets, making the bed, picking up the landfill-quantity of trash strewn across the living room. This is in preparation for people who may or may not come.

When I was a child, my mother insisted I make my bed every day, and I wondered why- were burglars going to come in and be offended by my sloppiness? And even if they were, would that prevent them from stealing things? Now I know the real reason, which is that my parents had to be ready at a moments notice to sell their house. I could have come home from school to a moving van on any given day.

Another interesting thing that I noticed is that realtors are evil people. Those we could lure in with a commission came in snarling and resentful; standoffish. They didn't want to exchange money for my house; rather, they were paid in human misery. We ourselves went looking for houses, and were told rather snidely that nobody sells their house without a realtor. The same people emailed me once they discovered I had sold my house and with a wolf's smile asked if I needed them to show me anything else and to please contact them.

Being a realtor is not a bad job- you drive to houses for sale and unlock them for people. And you fill out a little paperwork. The average commision for this noble and useful task is 3%- the average home price around these parts is over $500,000. I'll let you do the math, and then you can go find out how much it costs to become a realtor. I think some of the people weren't even realtors- they just wore big red jackets.

Once you do sell (and do a happy dance for it), you then have to buy, which now makes you exalted among all mankind, even Solomon, which is pretty good. Every realtor is your friend and will forward many listings to your email (the more pricey, the better!). The first question out of selling realtor's mouths is, "Are you working with a realtor?" and it's fun to crush their spirit when you say you are (otherwise they get a whopping 6% commission).

A fun part of buying is submitting an offer, because you can stipulate anything you want; "Seller must provide 12 packs of multi-flavored pudding snacks upon delivery of house";"Seller must perform Pirates of Penzance with no less than 3 backdrops"; "Limo rides must be provided to buyer for a period of no less than 2 months, or as the buyer wishes". All of these demands will ensure that you never get the house, but it's fun to think about.

So at some point your offer is accepted, and it's only $45,000 more than you can afford, and the roof is made of straw and here comes the Big Bad Wolf. The next step is to call all of your utilities and ask them to turn off service. And call the utilities in the new house and have them turned on. Both will require DNA samples.

So that's the simple way of selling a house in Modern America. God forbid we go back to the day where a guy hands you a sack filled with money and you give him the deed. That would be far too simple and painless. And then where would the realtors go?
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Note: I do not hate all realtors, just all the ones I'm associated with. Perhaps in times where real estate is less of a cash cow, there is civility and honor; since this is not the case, I can only speak to what I know.

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A note to Milk readers: I have a tendency to be silly in this blog. Originally, my intention was to use this as a way to improve my writing, but it's turned into a thing where I've tried to be funny and/or irreverent, as well as tell the fantastic/interesting/stupid stories of my youth. It has a voice, and that makes me happy, and I will keep doing it as long as it's fun.

That said, I lost the original focus of this blog, which was to improve my writing. So I've created a new blog meant for actual serious attempts at literature. It will probably devolve into something where I post naked celebrities, but I'm going in optimistically. If you're interested, you can check it out at Lake of Pines. I neither expect nor require an audience there, so if you hate that kind of crap, skip it.

Advice for Kids: Vol. 1; How to kill yourself, or die trying

2005-09-07T09:09:00.000-07:00

If there's one thing I've learned in life, it's that I'm invincible. As a child, I had a propensity for dying, or nearly doing so. As an infant, just a few weeks after being born my parents had to fly to New York for a wedding and shortly thereafter I guess I decided to have some fun with my grandparents by turning blue and having to be rushed to the hospital.

Another story that my parents love to tell is when I wouldn't eat solid food despite being the proper age. Actually, I would eat it and then vomit it back up, because otherwise it wouldn't be disgusting enough. Another trip to the hospital, where they were rapidly learning my name, and I was diagnosed with pyloric stenosis, in which the muscle that lets food into the stomach doesn't open. A little surgery (and a fun episode where, at less than a year old, I pulled the oxygen tubes out of my nose), and I was ok. Though I have a neat scar running along the ride side of my abdomen, which I like to say is from a knife fight where I rescued a virgin and three kittens.

Killing me isn't just a fun activity for a hateful God- I certainly tried to do it myself enough times. Jumping into a pool despite not knowing how to swim, falling on my head from the playground, flipping my bike backwards until it landed on top of me- all fun activities that may well have resulted in a tragic death. I lived at the bottom of a cul-de-sac on a hill and I enjoyed riding my bike down the sidewalk and then jumping off into the grass at about 15 mph. I played with lawn darts, right up until I threw one and it broke a 3/4" piece of wood. I had turned a boogie board the wrong way around in heavy surf and was dragged to the bottom and barely surfaced in time- I remember laying face-down on the beach with water lapping at my heels, panting afterwards. At 5, I thought it would funny to throw my parents car into neutral- we merely rolled backwards out of the driveway and into the curb across the street. At my sister's girl scout meeting, I jumped off the stage and landed perfectly, except I bit my tongue and needed stitches. However, I recall chocolate ice cream, so it was OK.

Others, too, enjoy killing me. For some reason, my sister's friend tossed a rock from 20 feet away that I caught right in the center of my forehead. I'm glad that my dad was around to make the joke that it had "knocked some sense into me". This from the same man who has tried to kill me on every watercraft imaginable, from jet skis to sailboats. I think next time he'll try to do something with a catamaran, if possible.

Also, I fell out of a window.

Ok, I guess that bears explaining. We were sitting in the living room (decorated in fashion-forward early 80's tones of dark brown with orange accents, I think). The couch was directly underneath a window, and as usual, I was sitting comfortably on the windowsill, the cool breeze comforting us as we watched whatever was on TV. I leaned back to support my small 5-year-old frame against the screen, but there was no screen and I fell backwards out of the window.

Fortunately, the window was on the first floor, so I only fell 4 feet, perhaps. Unfortunately, there was a bush there, so I fell onto it and through it. My mother later recalled looking up and discovering I wasn't there. I survived, albeit with some cuts and bruises.

So we go back to my original statement, in which I say I'm invincible- obviously, if I have gone through all of this and managed to live, what else could get me?

Labor day: Not a day to labor. Or go in labor.

2005-09-05T10:22:00.000-07:00

Today is Labor Day in the US. It's also probably the one U.S. holiday where we aren't consumed with buying gifts. But that's only because the card companies haven't figured out how to sell it to us. We're real suckers when it comes to that stuff, I guess.

No, the history of Labor Day is a communist one. It started back right after all those people working in factories and coal mines and other deadly jobs decided that they needed rights, because the whole dying-at-30-from-mysterious-disease thing wasn't that much fun. However, rather than ask for things like safe working conditions or a living wage of $.02 a day (of course, at that time, a penny could be used to pay rent on a 4-bedroom house, buy 2 cars or 3 horse-drawn carriages, purchase a fancy steak dinner for a family of four, 2 gallons of ice cream, a sailboat and still have enough change for a newspaper), they asked for a day off. Baby steps, I guess.

So that long and storied history basically boils down to one thing: Everyone gets a day off work. Traditionally, this time is used for barbeques, beach-going and enjoying the last days of sun. Less traditionally is it used to run around naked with a sign around your neck that says "Ornate and authentic renaissance costume" while singing old folk songs with an English accent. But sometimes.

There are other traditions associated with Labor Day. Okay, one- wearing white after labor day is a no-no. This is presumably because if you do it then a team of heavily-armed men in a black van will grab you and sit silently around you in a menacing manner, their black sunglasses betraying no hint of their personality or humanity. If you're lucky, they take you on a fabulous $5000 wardrobe makeover. If not, they'll pitch your lifeless body into a ditch on the side of the road. So you could take a chance to win fabulous prizes, but it's probably better to go with more of a beige.

Labor day also signals the end of summer. In fact, at midnight of the day after labor day, punishing cold rains and winds fall down across the nation to remind us of that fact. Children are left weeping and knashing their teeth (in the Biblical sense) as school looms close. For working people, it means an end to "Funny Hawaiian shirt" Friday and the beginning of "Conservative raincoat" weekdays. The world grows cold and grey and weary, and the bleak burning sun is often obscured by forbidding cloudbanks and provides no warmth or joy anyways. Flowers wilt and trees lose their leaves. People are left in woe and misery, where the greatest horror of all is the realization that the next six months will be naught but a dreary monotony of identical colorless days. But at least it's not hot.

Happy Labor day, USA. Happy day of working everyone else.

Impotence, Judaism and you

2005-08-31T09:06:00.000-07:00

Since I was a wee lad shining shoes and selling newspapers on the streets of New York, dressed in my finest rags and faded windsor cap, I have been competitive. I always want to be the best in whatever I choose to do, unless it's something I'm no good at, in which case I give up completely and curl into a withered, quivering ball. Despite being of a rather average size, I was able to do well in some sports, with the exception of golf and basketball, or anything that requires coordination. The other night I managed to knock over an entire stand of chapstick, sending lip-soothing comfort scattering across the cashier's counter.

I am irked by this blogging thing- on one hand, I don't want anyone to read it, because that removes all the pressure involved with coming up with something interesting to say (No danger of that, as you all know). On the other hand, I want it to be read and adored by millions, leading to a lucrative book deal that will allow me to retire in style to my mountaintop fortress, complete with boat dock, laser cannons and rotating bed. If I did well enough, I could fashion the entrance to look like a skull, and that's cool. In other words, I want the benefits without any of the hardship- is that too much to ask? Fortunately, I have found a happy medium that works for me- A quality that varies from mediocre to poor and an update schedule that recognizes no human timetables. I pass the savings on to you.

One thing you may know or that I might have mentioned is that I am half-Jewish. This has never brought me any hardship- in fact, with a December birthday, Christmas and Hanukkah, I made out like a New Orleansean looter for a good number of years. Since we're bad Jews, we never went to temple, but rather celebrated in the other Jewish temple: restaurants. There's no holiday too sacred for the Spaghetti Factory. I think we should just go all the way and have pork ribs with big glasses of milk for Easter, just in case there was any lingering doubt about our piety. If Moses was around, I think he'd be a little pissed.

The other great thing about being a Jew is that I can make all of the Hitler jokes I want. Thank goodness for that, because there's nothing funnier to me than Nazis. I don't understand why people get so upset about the Nazis: It's ok, we won. Nobody is goose-stepping down Martin Luther King Blvd.

Recently, they had a protest at a nearby university against their Native American mascot. To support their cause, they had made up t-shirts with the "Harlem Blacks" and the "New York Jews", depicting a sterotypical Jewish image with the big nose and whatever else Jews are supposed to have- smiling eyes, I guess?

Let me state this in no uncertain terms- I want a New York Jews T-shirt. I want one, because that is the most awesome thing that has ever existed. I would wear it proudly, and in fact I might want multiple colors so that I can have one for every day of the week. There could be one with the Jew handling money, or one dressed up as a lawyer- there's lots of options, each funnier than the last.

I could even wear them when I'm out shining shoes and selling newspapers.

A Love Story

2005-08-29T22:32:00.000-07:00

I am in love with a person other than my wife. There, I've said it: It's shocking, and I expect those who wear monocles to have them popping off of their eyes, while their top hats are simultanously suspended above their heads by surprise itself. And yet, that's not the most disturbing thing: It's a man. Yes, I can imagine you now, the simple exclaimation exuding from you, if harnessed, able to fuel mankind far longer than any oozy black liquid. And yet, this man most certainly has no idea of my admiration for him. That's because he's dead.

Am I a philandering homosexual necrophile? No. My love affair, while torrid, is merely one of affection for the work of my favorite author, Samuel Clements. Yes, Mark Twain is my secret love, or rather, his writing. As for the man himself, I would guess that he couldn't be the most pleasant of company, what with decomposition being what it is. And barring any sort of necromancy or Day of the Dead style action, I can't reasonably assume that he will be in the future. As an aside, I bet his corpse, dressed smartly in a new white seersucker suit, would make an excellent conversation piece once the initial awkwardness is surpassed.

"Our heroes are the men who do things which we recognize with regret and sometimes with a secret shame that we cannot do. We find not much in ourselves to admire, we are always privately wanting to be like somebody else. If everybody was satisfied with himself there would be no heroes."

What is it about his style that holds so much allure to me? His fairly brusque manner, simple and to the point, with an unrelenting view that made him both popular and controversial? Was it his blatant Americanism, so easy to define and defend in that period? His acerbic wit? The longevity of consistency of his humor? I can't say. All I know is that his works resonate with me. Also, his hair was awesome, and I can only hope one day to have a coiffure to equal a tenth of it.

"An author values a compliment even when it comes from a source of doubtful competency."

Indeed, I find that my own writings stray towards his, though I could never hope to approach it in substance. I am far more fond of an impressive word than he was, though the criteria has changed since his day: rejoice, blaze, tingle and exqusite were all common words for him; for us they are far too verbose- "thing" and "stuff" are our keywords, and we all make liberal use of them.

"The difference between the almost right word & the right word is really a large matter--it's the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning."

We share some of the same feelings: Anti-imperialism, imagination, humor and a fondness for pirates that borders on the unhealthy. I have said that I am temporally displaced- it is true that I could envision myself enjoying a leisurely steamboat ride on a humid June day, watching towns roll slowly by. It's a conservative ideal to return to an idealized time- Twain lived in the era of slavery and Civil War, of factories with horrendous working conditions (no water cooler, even!), but there is still something innocent and good there. Perhaps I want the Disney version of Reconstruction-era America, complete with animatronic puppets that are vaguely creepy and $15 dollar sodas.

"Now and then we had a hope that if we lived and were good, God would permit us to be pirates. "

Even in my love life, he has been instrumental. Throughout his life, he was madly in love with his wife, and it came through in his writing. My personal favorite is the Diary of Adam and Eve, in which Adam first reviles, than doesn't understand, then grows to love Eve. I strive for the same deep and abiding love in my own marriage.

"Wheresoever she was, there was Eden."

So I am afflicted with this disease, this great love for a person who lived a century before me, who could not imagine the world we live in, whose bitterness definitely exceeded mine, and who, if we were to meet, would undoubtedly tell me to gather up his bags and take them to his room. And yet I cannot help myself. Perhaps I should frame his poster and put it above my bed, so that I might lie back at night and wonder about what could be...

"Ah, well, I am a great and sublime fool. But then I am God's fool, and all his works must be contemplated with respect."

The weekend cop-out edition

2005-08-28T12:45:00.000-07:00

I'm not feeling particularly verbose right now, so I'm going to post a random thing I wrote elsewhere, partially to share and partially to have it in one central location. Without further ado, here's "Moving":

Nobody knows it yet, but I'm secretly planning to move to Norway, land of my father's fathers. It will be in that frozen and blasted wilderness where Vikings once dared to tread that I will kill and skin a small douglas fir tree, thus completing the circle of life, and providing me with the suit made out of bark and pine needles that is critical for my urban lifestyle. So outfitted, I will travel to the northernmost fjord and recite the tale of Beowulf to many an amazed and shocked timber wolf and bear. Then, using handcrafted skis made from millions of individual hairs from the elusive albino stag of Oslo, I will ski my way towards the northern lights, which will bear me up and will carry me home, to be laid in a bed of various berries and meats, and I will drift softly to sleep, content in my success. My time is short, I must not tarry- for if I am to fail, all the world will suffer.

A proposal

2005-08-24T15:10:00.000-07:00

In October, I will be celebrating the first anniversary of my marriage. Then, sometime in July I will be celebrating the anniversary of paying off the wedding, but I digress. There is one thing that predicates all of these things and yet is utterly essential to their occurance. I speak, of course, of the marriage proposal.

There are many questions to ask yourself before you pop the question. Do you enjoy sharing the bed with someone who elbows you and snores (and can likewise put up with your snoring)? Is your pet name for them "Honey", or is it "Snookybootiewootlebottom"? Do you enjoy spending time with them? Even if it's shopping for clothes? Even if it's for hours on end until your feet are blistered and raw and your leg muscles long ago turned into jelly and you're nearly comatose while waiting in the "man chair" outside of the changing room? Oh, and it might help to consider if you love the person, too.

If you answered yes to these questions, then you're ready to be married. But there's still one thing you need: An expensive piece of hardware to prove your love. No, I'm not talking about a dump truck or chainsaw, I'm talking jewelry, and only the kind that is inexplicably inflated in price will do. So you go to a jewelry store and feel lightheaded when they show you the price, along with tightness in your chest and a tingling left arm. No, it's not that burrito combo you just had for lunch (well, maybe it is), it's the cost of that little sparkly gem. Don't worry, they'll let you examine it with one of those thick monocle jeweler thingees so you can see the flaws in the stone. Keep in mind that you'll have no idea what you're looking at, so just nod stupidly.

The first place I went was amazed that I wanted to check out another jewelry store. I know it's a racket, but there's a slight chance that one shopkeeper will take pity on me and only charge me 500% cost instead of 700%. And indeed, I found a place that was cheaper: the gumball machine at the store has lovely moon gems set in the finest plastic bands. They are a little harder to resize, however.

So, you have your ring in pocket. Now you have to guess when you should ask: be careful, if you don't do it in exactly the way your future bride imagined it in her daydreams, she'll be bitter forever. Do you have a traditional girlfriend? After a nice dinner, but before the "mile high mudd pie" is a wonderful choice. Slip it into her wine glass and hope she doesn't choke on it; for the more frugal, slip it into her "unlimited refills" plastic soda cup at McDonald's. For a less traditional way of doing things, take her on a drive to the middle of a dark forest and chase her through the trees with a hatchet, but instead of murdering her, give her the ring with a charming smile. She's sure to forgive you. Of course, if you reconsider while you're chasing her, that forest is very deep, and no screams can escape...

Ahem. For my own part, I decided to propose during our trip in Las Vegas. We were staying along with my family at "Sam's Town", which for the uninitiated is the most popular casino among 55-75 year olds. It's about 5 miles from the strip, so it's safe from all of the fun and excitement that lies therein. It does have a show in the center of the hotel that features a bear, an eagle and a coyote singing some patriotic tune. In other words, it's the worst hotel in Vegas. The only upside was driving a handicapped scooter at maximum speed through the hallways and the people next door to us having very loud sex all night.

It was Saturday night when we escaped, and although calling a night in Vegas "warm" is redundant, it was in that it was comfortable walking outside despite it being November. We walked around the strip, the lights and displays illuminating the street filled with thousands of people, and only maybe half of them handing out flyers for "entertainers". I knew that somewhere this night I would propose marriage.

First, we headed into the Venetian and walked to the "Canal shops". I've never been to Venice, so I can't really say if the gaudy painted-on sky was realistic, or if the namesake canal running through the middle of the super-expensive shops carried the same aroma as the original. My plan was simple- an endearingly cheesy gondola ride and a proposal. Me on bended knee while those perched above us applauded. And yet, it was not to be, because before I could suggest this plan, she said, "Those gondolas are the stupidest things ever."

Our next stop was the Paris hotel and casino. On the outside, a loving tribute to the iconic Eiffel Tower hovered above a place that promised to bring forth the City of Light. Inside, another casino, but this one with the waitresses dressed like French maids. We walked into a shop, and exited with a skinny shot glass with a poodle painted on the side. She then announces that she needs to use the restroom, and I hatch a second plan. If I hold her package for her, I can slip the ring inside the shot glass and have a toast later. So I offer in my most gentlemanly way to hold her bag, and she says, "No, I'm fine, just wait here."

I have one final attempt to make- a trip to the top of the Eiffel Tower. It's hard to escape the cheesiness of Vegas, but there's a charm in it, and there's romance in looking over the city, whether it's from faux tower or not. I suggest we take a ride up to the top, and she says "It's $10 a person, that's a waste of money."

We exit by a side door, and we are shielded from the crowds passing by on the street in front of us, and the fountains of the Bellagio beyond that. I grab her arm.

"Hold on a sec." I say. She looks beautiful, as she always is to me.
"What?" Her eyes widen slightly as I fumble in my pocket, finally producing a small, black box.
"You, my dear, are being a pain in the butt. Will you marry me?" The hands fly to the face- common to all women, but it just accentuates her beautiful eyes that are tearing up.

The embrace, the kiss and the slipping of the ring on the finger. The promise of a new life; together.

Chapter 3: Death in the Desert

2005-08-23T09:17:00.000-07:00

I was, as I have mentioned, a Boy Scout. This led me to some interesting adventures, whether it be nearly freezing in an icy mountain lake while attempting a swim test or running around half-naked at Indian Camp. Sundry meals have been eaten, countless activities and hikes attended. Injuries have been sustained, such as the time I played caveman baseball with my friend (which requires a tree branch, a rock and a hapless bystander to play). Eerily quiet nights have been spent under a blossom of stars that lit the night sky in the desert. Fish have been caught, canoes tipped over, sunburns accrued and guns and bows shot at hay-backed targets. Horses have been ridden and legs have bowed thusly. Searing hot campfires have been built and shoes melted on the edges of said fires, as have marshmallows and metal and God knows what else those kids put in the fire when the adults weren't looking.

So it's safe to assume I look back on my scouting days with fondness and affection. At the time, I'm sure I dealt with boredom and heat, but time has softened the edges of those sharp points down. I often bemoan the fact that it seems that kids are increasingly insulated from any kind of experience that might be less than ideal. The thought is not so much that they don't go outside, but that there's no danger or real adventure waiting them. Indian camp is a perfect example: how politically incorrect would it be to have it today? Kids running around in loincloths basically unsupervised for a week? I can't believe it would be allowed, unless it was completely sanitized. And moreso, I realize that my own experience was probably more bland than previous generations. I imagine them running around with guns in the woods, sleeping in moth-eaten, drab canvas covered tents with ditch latrines and I am envious.

I think I got my wish when I was twelve, then, when we were on our yearly outing to Fish Creek, which has neither fish nor any sort of water whatsoever, being located in the middle of the desert as it was. Millions of years ago it had been at the bottom of the ocean, however, and a riverbed wound it's way through tall canyons when you came into the campground. It was one of a number of weekend trips we made: leave Saturday morning; arrive in the afternoon; break camp in the afternoon the next day. There had been some excitement before: on the previous trip, it began sprinkling and then raining and then a sheeting downpour that grew less humorous and resulted in us rushing out of the campsite in the riverbed before it flooded and killed us all. So that was cool.

It was Sunday morning and nothing too interesting had happened. My patrol (a subdivision of the troop that numbered about 10 kids) had eaten our gourmet breakfast of little boxed cereals and milk and was lounging around the campsite when it was announced that there was a hike through the canyons and that we were being highly encouraged to attend, which meant that we were attending whether we liked it or not. This suited us, though, as the cliffs would shield us from the unrelenting sun, so we gathered our gear and headed out.

Our hike was one of relative obliviousness; we chatted amongst ourselves, pausing occassionally for a leader to point out some interesting feature of the terrain. The conversation was light and the pace was steady- there was no rush and the sun was still well-hidden behind the towering cliffs. We rounded bend after bend, travelling perhaps a half-mile, and then we rounded another bend and saw a lone camper sleeping under a heavy drape of blue and black blankets.

As we neared, we grew quiet- we didn't want to wake the sleeping guy, who was out here without any gear or vehicle. We moved closer and stared at the strange man, whose blankets were actually ropes and why would he be under..?

Oh, he's dead. Or dying. Well, shit.

It was obvious as we stood next to him. Our eyes darted upwards and saw the broken edge of the cliff where he had fallen from. His hat had somehow pulled itself over his face; a small blessing in light of the awkward angle of his legs and arms.

A note to anyone who's considering rapelling down a sandstone cliff: Don't. It's hazardous to your health, and to the mental health of the patrol of scouts that has to find your twisted, mangled body.

So, we stood there for a good minute or so; A gaggle of 12-year-olds and a couple of adults, one of who finally managed to yell, "Go get help!" So I ran. I ran faster than I ever have or probably ever will. Through the cliffs that we had strolled through and back to the camp, with the only thought in my mind being that if I wasn't fast enough, the guy would die. If he wasn't already dead. Chest heaving, I managed to spit out my message, eloquently- "Guy...cliff...dying...help." On second thought, it might have been slightly less coherent. Still, we called the ranger and drove back to the body and the gaggle of scouts and leaders. We hiked out, quietly talking about what we had seen. I had questions as well: what was the guy doing out there? Did he have a family? Kids?

It was odd and surreal, and happened in an instant, in a millenium.

It was real.

Nature's Fury

2005-08-22T09:29:00.000-07:00

Crouched and low to the ground, she sits- a murderer, no doubt, and death to whatever hapless creature might offend her noble sensibilites. She pauses silently, waiting for the moment to lash out; to strike. Then, she leaps and is on her quarry, claws slashing and teeth gnawing on her helpless victim.

This:

is the killer whose evil knows no bounds (her occassional victim is pictured as well). Descended from the greater demons of Hell, she has no master but the Devil himself.

So she's evil, but cute.

It's a combination that has worked before. The Sirens that lured Ulysses, for example. Evil and cute go together like chocolate and ice cream. This may seem odd, but keep in mind- we expect evil to be large and dark and impolite and hurtful, not a fluffy fuzzball with wide eyes that sometimes purrs.

It's camoflage, really- my wife and friends have been deceived by her exterior and cannot fathom the murky darkness that her being consists of. But I bear witness to her evil, with scratches running the length and breadth of my poor tortured body. My wife believes that she is "playing", but I know for certain that "Clementine" (Her real name is Stormcloud Killclaw) attempted to tear out my Achilles' tendon. The only thing that prevented her from doing so is her stature- scale her to be twice as large and I become no more than people-flavored Meow Mix.

She's looking at me with her eyes half-closed- who knows what evil thoughts dwell in her malicious mind?

The stratification of friendship

2005-08-18T10:43:00.000-07:00

We all have friends; at least, those of us with affable personalities and good hygiene do. Now, I am talking about real friends, not the Internet kind, nor the imaginary ones that some of us invent. The latter usually indicate that you need some sort of psychiatric help, while the former exist on an entirely different strata, which I will deal with shortly.

While we may believe that there are many different kinds of friends, there are actually just two sorts: the kind that you can burp in front of, and the kind you can't. However, to make this entry a little more interesting (and lengthy), I will examine the Inferno-like circles of friendship.

At the outer edges of the friendship pond are the Untouchables. These are usually friends of friends who you can't stand, but you tolerate for the sake of peace, as long as these jackasses don't try to stand too close to you or attempt conversation. Another in this group may include people who irritated you and, although you forgave them, you did it so sarcastically that they should realize you don't really like them all that much- and yet they don't. This also includes the creepy guy who you accidentally made eye contact with at the restaurant- he's now your friend!

Closer in we have the Unknowns. These are people who you lost touch with a while ago and suddenly bump into at, say, the grocery store. Although you might have had a good friendship with them before their disappearance, now you can't be certain what your relationship is. Expect awkwardness, moreso if you're meeting the person for the second time. Others in this group are people who you are too afraid to approach, such as co-workers and lepers.

As we move closer to the all-encompassing power of your glorious friendship, we come to the Acquaintences. Your extended family lives here, waiting to pinch your cheek and tell you how they remember how small you were and how you have grown. If you're a teenager, your entire family is here. Don't worry, you'll probably grow out of it. This large group also includes anybody you've met more than once, or your "good friend" at work who you wouldn't socialize with in any other social situation. These aren't bad people, necessarily: they're just not good enough for you to pay any real attention to them.

The widest ring is that of your bonafide Friends. It's also subdivided into groups, and it's almost a necessity to keep those groups separate. For instance, if you have bicycling friends but also drinking friends, do not let them meet each other: either the reaction will be like oil and water, or like matter and antimatter- either way, nothing good can come of it. Occassionally, one or two can slip between groups, but it's best not to force the issue. In fact, you probably don't want to let the groups know the other exists, except in a vague way. Refer to them as "those people I bike with" with a sour look on your face and you'll cover your ass.

Near the center of the circle is the thing ring of Best Friends. These are like friends, except you talk to them about sex. For women, this involves details of lovemaking. For men, this including the phrase "bang","screw" or "fuck". Then the subject changes to sports. Best friends will not judge you or lie to you or betray you, unless it's especially in their best interest to do so.

At the very center are Sex Friends. These are friends that are having sex with. When you're done with each other, you will be relegated to each other's Untouchables group. Sorry, that's the way it goes.

"But wait", I can hear you saying,"you have not yet explained to us how Internet friends work, because we are otherwise unable to draw these conclusions on our own." Very well, since you ask: Internet friends operate on an identical plane that resides just above the normal one. It is impossible to jump from one plane to another, unless you do a bunch of stuff that involves the occult and witches, so don't even try. It has nothing to do with the personalities of the people involved, or even the way they look, really. The Internet allows us to be far wittier and sociable than we actually are, all thanks to the backspace key. We can take back that stupid comment we were about to write and replace it with something charming. People cannot do that in the real world, and so say those things aloud, thus dooming any relationship.

So, is there hope for someone in a lower strata to move up, to approach the greatness that is you? Possibly, but it probably depends on their effort, or barring that, extravagant gifts.

Monsters in the bed

2005-08-17T08:02:00.000-07:00

For a few months now, my legs and feet have been relentlessly attacked by voracious invaders who are slowly devouring my body. I've not seen these creatures- they make no discernable noise and their movements are invisible. I am not imagining them, though- my feet and legs bear the dreadful scars of their attacks.

I've tried to determine what dreadful creatures must be waging their nightly war on me. It's been difficult, but I think that my detective work has paid off.

I was able to immediately discount pixies, boggarts, faeries and bogies- those sort are more interested in playing pranks and mischief than outright damage. If they had been involved, I could expect my legs to be turned into flower stalks or brooms, and only some reward or offering would satiate them. To be sure, I left out a plate of brownies for those devilish hobgoblins, but the only evidence of tampering there were crumbs strewn around my wife's sleeping body.

I next suspected a terrible giant- perhaps a cyclops, minotaur or titan. Certainly one of those enormous creatures would need the ample sustainence my calves would provide. Aha, I thought, this will be easy, for they are so large that they cannot escape my search. I checked the bed and the drawers and the sinks and the closet (twice), but alas, they were not there.

For each monster I checked it's most likely hiding place- The troll under my bed said that there was nobody else there; the phoenix had long ago flown into the window; The dragon in the corner was benevolent, and assured me that she had no machinations on my person. To be sure, I checked my wife's reflection in the mirror to verify that no, she was not a doppleganger or vampire.

I even made sure there wasn't a bunyip or two being transferred from my Australian blogger friends (without their knowledge, of course).

I am at a loss as to what kind of animal could be doing this to me. The two puncture wounds, the itchy, puffy redness that fades after a day- none of these things point to any creature that I know. I am certain of one thing, however; it is the most terrifying monster of them all.

The Adventures of Tom "Tarbeard" Flint, part 2

2005-08-16T07:03:00.000-07:00

(Ed. note- We explored the so-called recorder monkey in depth, but were unable to find any sort of playback button or switch. What we overlooked, however, was the note it carried, along with this exquisitely detailed painting.)

It was already two bells past the first dog watch when me crew finally get their shiftless hides assembled on the deck of the Bloody Mary's Revenge. A sordid lot they were, culled from the meanest jobs in all of Portsmouth. Some of em didn't come so willingly, but the tip o' me cutlass were all the encouragement they needed to ship out with me.

Twenty-three men in all, a decent number fer the enterprise we were about to embark on. But they were green, too- half of 'em didn't know stem from stern, but they would surely learn their business, by the devil's beard, or they would have it taken out of their hides. The only man with any sailing experience were an old salt- I had taken him prisoner aboard his ship, which was named the Seaside Lady. He were made me first mate, and I nicknamed him "Waldorf", after a salad I had the night before.

Me crew shuffled their feet as I walked along the deck, staring each one in the eyes. I marched back to the middle o' the deck, and spoke in me most dreadful voice, "Lads, ye are a lazy and worthless lot. And green as a spring day. And ye smell all clean and bathed. Well, we'll remedy all of those things before this voyage is up. Ye're aboard the Bloody Mary's Revenge, and.."

One of the men, all dressed up like a priest, which I later found out was because he was a priest, spoke up, "Sir, about that name- couldn't we go with something a little less...menacing?" The other men murmured their assent, even me first mate.

"Ye dang-blasted fools! If'n we wanted to play nicey-nice, then yah, we could be naming the ship the Watercrescent or the Butterfly Meadow or somesuch nonsense. But this is serious business, ye soon-to-be-scurvy dogs, and the Bloody Mary's Revenge it is!"

"I completely understand, sir. But maybe if we had a vote..."

"Do I look like a pollster to ye? Ye're under a grave misunderstanding if ye think that I'm here to be takin yer worthless opinion on everythin, and ye'll be walkin' the plank if ye believe otherwise."

Another man stepped forward, "Sir, I'm a lawyer who specializes in frivolous lawsuits and..."

I shot him right there.

"Any other complaints about the name o' the ship?" I asked. Me pale-faced crew shook their heads. "Good. Now we'll want to be paintin the ship black..."

"But black is not a fall color..." came a voice from the back that trailed off. Not wantin' to shoot me entire crew before we set sail, I just shook me head at the stupidity.

"Get te work, ye dogs. I'll be in me cabin, and when I come out, this ship had better be black as night!" I marched off below decks.

Rum - 80 proof, 100% fun

2005-08-14T20:59:00.000-07:00

I am not, by nature, a drinker. Despite that all varieties of fermented beverages have passed beyond my lips, I would not call myself an experienced imbiber. In fact, I drink so infrequently that a simple beer or two is often enough to get me feeling a little lightheaded. This isn't a fact I share with most people, because the common belief is that manhood is directly related to how much damage you can do to your liver and with what potency of drink- there's nothing more masculine than grimacing through a shot of some evil-smelling liquid that is normally used to clean airplane engines.

As a child, I often wondered why alcohol was so coveted by adults that they needed to withhold it from youngsters. The concept of drunkenness is absolutely alien to kids, whose only experience with an altered state is waking up groggily on an icy school morning. No, I reasoned that it must taste so amazing and wonderful that it was reserved as a special treat for those who had lived to that ripe old age of 21. I imagined liquid honey dripping from bottles, sweet as ambrosia without a too-sweet aftertaste.

So imagine my surprise when in college, I was offered my first drink- a beer with a name so long that I had to think it was delicious- Icehouse Dry-filtered Light or somesuch. I have since learned that a beer's quality is often inversely proportional to the length of it's name. This is why you order a Guinness or Bass in a bar. Regardless, I was shocked and disappointed with the taste, as you can imagine. It tasted like water that had taken a right turn into a sewer and then come out again. It being college, and an attractive co-ed nearby, I'm sure I reacted with the opposite reaction I just had. That said, you could see the same reaction on everyone's face: that slight twingle of the eyes, the small pursing of the lips- It was obvious that nobody was impressed, but none could admit it.

Since that low point, I've had a number of excellent beverages- imported beers, wines and better-than-average alcohols. They are all pretty vile, overall. Let me qualify that: They're terrible for the palate that is craving refreshment. This might be due to the fact that the process of creating them requires that you take something normal (grapes for wine, barley and hops for beer and old shoes for vodka) and letting them rot in a barrel for a while. Or you could use their term and call it "fermentation."

The only exception to this is rum. Yes, it's still rotting in a barrel somewhere, but it's made from sugar. Sugar, you may know, tastes very good. Rum, while not tasting as good as sugar, is still not too bad. And it has the obvious historical connections that appeal to me. The rhyme doesn't go, "Yo ho ho and a bottle of Fresca" for a reason.

Like any alcohol, however, overindulgence can be dangerous. I dressed as Jack Sparrow a few Halloweens ago. Naturally and logically, I assumed that by wearing clothes that resembled a movie character, I would inherit the powers of the character. That is, I thought I could drink rum like water. I certainly made a good try out of it. After the second glass in which ice was an afterthought, I was dancing around the room. After the third, I was returning the rum and the other contents of my stomach back to the Earth from whence they came.

Upon waking from unconsciousness with a splitting headache and wondering why I was wearing boots and a sash, I did what every reformed-upon-waking-from-near-deadly-intake-of-alcohol person does- First, I stared blearily at the sun, and then I swore upon the Nine Hells that I would never drink like that again. So far, I've avoided inebriation to that extent, but the vehement pledge I once made always chimes less forcefully after time.

Now, I'm just waiting for someone to tell me about the Super Secret Malcohol, which is only legal to those 30 and older. It tastes like the breath of angels, and can be drunk by the gallon, and the only side effect is euphoria.

Why must I be sad?

2005-08-12T08:37:00.000-07:00

It may not surprise you that I'm generally a happy person. I don't really get upset or angry over little things. I am, if you will, a steady ship on a rolling sea. Things just don't really get to me- I mean, I worry about war and politics and all the other grand institutions of life, but in reality, they don't touch my life in any meaningful way.

On a personal level, I don't really get upset by people. I'm always concerned that my friends and family are making good choices for themselves, and I try to help guide them. The only time that they don't seem to appreciate it is when I'm wearing my white robes and halo. Then it just seems patronizing.

So, given these facts, it's entirely possible that I'm mentally unstable in some way. Nobody can be happy all the time, can they? Except for billionaires who haven't let the money get to their heads- those people are probably not weeping into their platnium-and-jewel ensconced pillows.

I looked up the definition of someone with a manic personality, and this is what I found:

-A distinct one-week period, at least, where the person displays an elevated, irritable, or expansive mood. (27 years, going on strong)

-During the time of the mood disturbance, three of the following symptoms must have been present:

grandiosity or enhanced self esteem (But that's fitting for the Greatest Being in the Universe, of course)
less need for sleep (I don't need sleep, but sometimes the covers are just so warm.
abnormally talkative (Does singing random bits from the Safety Dance count as talking?)
racing thoughts (wooooblogIlovebloggingandnextI'mmakingapirateblogandwhoo)
highly distractible (This is one I don't underst
psychomotor agitation or increased desire to complete any goals (I will become the first man to tapdance on the head of Walter Koenig, by God)
excessive involvement in pleasure seeking and reckless behaviors. (I've only been given oral sex by a hooker while I was racing my car and doing coke off the back of her head twice. No, wait, three times.)

-The symptoms are not due to substance abuse. (I'm high on life and it's various derivatives.)

So I may be crazy, but at least it's a good kind of crazy. The only better way to be crazy would be if you had the urge to constantly bake cookies or something.

Then again, I may not be crazy. I mean, look at all the wonder that surrounds us every day- oranges grow in convenient little bite-size segments; trees are big and provide shade on hot days. There's birds and they can fly. And we can fly and drive and do all sorts of other cool things because some guy who lived back in the day when they couldn't do those things said, "Hey, I want to drive a motorized death machine", and he did. The ocean has waves that are fun to play in, and there's snow in the mountains so that people there aren't sad that they can't play in the surf. There are tumbling streams and icy lakes and rolling plains. There are buzzing insects and ancient boulders and water so sweet it's like summer wine. There are noisy farts. Goosepimpled skin. There are verdant and idyllic ponds filled with colorful fish and crossed over by stone bridges, and if that doesn't make you happy, then not even colorful balloons and crying children can do so. There are literally millions upon millions of things just in the area around your house (or hovel, if you are a medieval serf), and we have such a ridiculous and misguided view of how much we understand those things, when we don't even understand ourselves.

What's to be sad about? We're alive, if just for a fleeting moment. There is beauty, and it is in everything and everyone, even scurvy 17th century pirates (or should I say, especially in scurvy 17th century pirates). And it's Friday.

On second thought, maybe I am the crazy one.

Survey says...

2005-08-10T22:07:00.000-07:00

I have written over 21,000 words in the course of this blog, and 71% of those words were "I", "Me", "Pirate" or "Gadzooks". It's about a quarter of a novel's worth of words, and it's been all about me and my needs. I am giving you a once in a lifetime chance, then, to give me feedback. This is much easier than writing an entry, in particular because I'm experiencing the exacting pain of my spinal column collapsing completely into my shoulder blades and neck. While it's a unique feeling, I kind of just want to soak my shoulders and let the pain drift away.

So, regular responders and lurkers alike, please feel free to answer any or all of these questions (apologies to ChickyBabe, for stealing her idea, as I am wont to do. Feel free to make posts about random crap like I do):

1. How long have you been reading this blog?

2. How did you find this blog?

3. What kinds of posts do you enjoy the most? The least?

4. If you had to distill your understanding of Mahd into a single sentence, what would it be?

5. Anything else you want to know or would like to say, such as what you're doing for summer vacation.

As thanks for your replies, I will give you a hint about my next real post: It's coming by recorder monkey.

Internet Fame (not the real kind)

2005-08-09T20:15:00.000-07:00

What a kind and mysterious thing this is; this interconnected web of networks. Previously, I have expounded on it's wonderous ability to bring people together and The ease of finding quality information, and today, I will investigate another interesting phenomenon- that of Internet Fame.

Internet Fame, like Internet Relationships, Internet Personas, and the value of Google, doesn't really exist. At least, it doesn't exist in the world that has the whole air, mass and physics thing. If I was to walk up to my parents and try to explain this hilarious "This Land" parody song featuring Bush and Kerry, they would stare each other, then at me and back away slowly. Even if I told them about the part where Bush is in a waffle house. That was rich comedy.

Another endearing feature of Internet Fame is that it's very fleeting. By the time the normal Internet user discovered "All your Base", the elite uber-users (because "uber-user" sounds much cooler than "person who lives in basement") had moved on to the next thing. When Howard Stern recently played the "Whistle tip" audio clip on his show, he might as well have donned a fedora hat and broadcast news that the Nazis were invading Poland.

The Internet moves fast, and it's mostly due to the tiny gnomes that carry around the information in the tiny pipe that comes out of your computer: at least, that's what my extensive background in computer science has led me to determine. That's why it was nearly called the InterGnome, or GnomeNet, or the immensely less popular BunchOStuffButMostlyPornNet (BOSBMPN for short, which can be pronounced by jamming the thumb and ring finger of your right hand down your throat). Regardless, the speed can take some people by surprise. By the time they realize they're the Next Big Thing, and preparing to cash in on their success, everyone has moved on to some video of something else: a horse boxing a hobo, for an example. Then all that's left is a sad, sad man holding a box full of shirts that say "OMG WTF" or whatever the hell he became popular for. When the mainstream media gets a hold of the story and presents it like it's "fresh" and "original" (much like using quotes to indicate sarcasm), there might be a slight aftershock of hits, but after that, it's pretty much the cold and yawning gap of oblivion. So there's that.

Internet Fame wouldn't be much without a lettering grade for celebrity status, in a cute imitation of real life. You have your "A" list celebrities, such as the two gents over at the gaming comic Penny Arcade, who have successfully managed to convince people that they're not as hideous as you would imagine two geeks running a webcomic about video games to be. It's sad when people claim to look good just because the Internet can magically obfuscate their real appearance (Note: I still look like a young Harrison Ford. Really.) I would guess that any of the Star Trek actors probably fall into this category as well. Anyone who is a quasi-celebrity in the real world is instantly an "A" list Internet Celebrity, as is anyone who has staved off the inevitable disinterest 0f the web-browsing public.

Next you would have your "B" level celebrities. These would be people who achieved noteriety for constructing a Tron costume, for example. Although he might have touched upon the vaunted "A" status, this is where his home in the history of the Internet is for the moment. Others who partially cashed in on their success, such as the JibJab guys also are here.

As we descend into the circles of celebrity, we reach the "C" level stars. It's here that the "has-beens" live. All Your Base, Bubb Rubb; even more vile entries such as Goatse (please do not search for this)- all are here. Mostly used with the prefix, "Hey, do you remember", but not often. It's best to let these forever lie dormant here.

At the bottom of our list are the "D" list celebrities. These are the "never-beens" live. Countless bloggers, livejournalers, myspacers, Friendsterers and God knows what else are here. I would include myself into this category, but only as a compliment to myself, to boost my spirits about actually being a level "Q" celebrity. We are the great unwashed masses of the Internet, perhaps not seeking acclaim, but possibly becoming the darling of the Internet for a brief and shining moment. Then we're returned to our normal positions in the dregs. Delicious, delicious dregs.

Is this a vilification of the Internet? Not at all- it's the beauty of it. It reminds us all that we are all stars, that we are all dregs. Even the most well-known Internet famous know that it is a slippery and quick slope into the nether regions. And just as quickly is the rise from relative anonymity. Do we seek it? Sometimes. Do we deserve it? Possibly, especially if it involves pirates. Keeping perspective is the key, though. It's not the real world, just the InterGnome.

The noble savage, part 2: The Second Part

2005-08-08T19:23:00.000-07:00

It was hot and dry. This much I knew, because the pine trees were wilting under the blazing sun as much as the sparse yellow grasses that lined the loose dirt trails that would kick up little puffs of dust as you walked along them. Definitely hot, and only one source of respite: the pool.

This was a pool without concrete, lifeguards or that annoying sign that would dictate when kids were allowed to roam freely and when wrinkly old people could swim laps. Rather, it was both the single source of salvation from the arid temperatures and an intimate test of a young teen's manhood. 15 feet across and 10 feet wide, with a depth that varied from 3-5 feet depending where you walked on the muddy bottom, it was a natural construct whose purpose served all of the campers. The rub was, while you had the option of going in clothed, the end result was that you would have a damp piece of cloth rubbing your naughty bits until it dried. So we went in naked, albeit awkwardly and with great self-awareness. Myself, I quickly disrobed and fled into the murky water, then avoided all of the other campers.

Once in, it was glacially cold, and you didn't even mind the mud squishing underneath one's feet. Layers of dirt that had accumulated were washed away (and would return within hours of exiting the pool). Glorious, except for the fact that there were 15 other naked boys keeping to themselves in random spots. There were, of course, some older campers who preyed upon the shyest of us, but I went unmolested.

Every so often, "white" (read:leaders) would come and trade with us. We had endless supplies of beads given to us, but the traders had awesome things like rabbit skins, knives and, perhaps most coveted, paint. They spoke to us in what I would later recognize as French and were more generous than their real-life counterparts were. And yet, the Elk society was a very sorry one, because we could never gain any paint, which could be used to decorate our teepees or used as a body decoration. It was then that my genius plan was hatched: I would, somehow, get some paint for our society. Sure, it lacked in the details and execution, but I knew I would perservere.

And that's how I found myself holding the bottle of Tabasco sauce one kid has smuggled in. He had a smug expression, but more importantly, he had two glorious bottles of paint- red and yellow. We could have opened a McDonalds with that much red and yellow paint. At hand, of course, was the challenge. If I downed the entire bottle, both containers would be mine. Really, it wasn't the Tabasco that worried me. I was more worried about the aftereffects, in which I might have to subject myself to the dank and forbidding toilets that reeked of the worst of demonic evils. And yet I drank; I drank that whole bottle in one good, long pull. With a gleam in my eye, I nodded and he handed the paint over with a grimace. I strode confidently back to our camp, the paint held high over my head in victory.

What they did not see was how my nose was running like a faucet and my eyes watered and reddened as if I had just seen Beaches twice. My guts were in a knot. Once the paint was secured, I ran for the water fountain and alternated between drinking and vomiting. But I had succeeded.

Others were not so fortunate; the Shield society, which was composed primarily of campers that had attended for more than two years, decided to take our precious paint. Theirs was a cunning plan- sneak down the ravine border and up into our camp, taking us completely by surprise. It was strange, then, to watch them dispassionately from our campsite as they attempted to sneak down into the ravine. They had made some good progress, but then they stopped. We waited, but they didn't move. Finally, one of them shouted, "Poison Oak!". The procession made it's way rapidly back out of the ravine, and they troubled us no more. I'm fairly certain I saw some of them soaking sullenly in the pool later.

The week was drawing to an end- we had lived the lives of our fantasy Indians as best we could. There was some consternation when the entire tribe met with some more "white" people, who bore a document that the "chief" said he could not read. As it was passed around, bravado became silence as we each realized it was written in Cyrillic. But our travails had passed; all that was left was what I will call the "battle royale" and the sweet, sweet roasted pig.

In the battle, we were separated into two teams, and marked with armbands. Team members could be "killed" by maneuvering them into a center area. I am certain that had any responsible adults been there, we would have been taken away. Scrapes and cuts were numerous, along with bruises. As for my fate, I was doing well with a group of bigger kids. Somehow, I got separated and cornered; although I fought like the Devil, I was undone. I satisfied myself with the fact that one of my captors was holding his arm and other bled from his lip. So I sat and chatted with my neighbor, exchanging our battle experiences. We didn't even notice the buses pulling up.

"Everyone get into the bus, NOW!" came the order. We complied without too much resistance. As we rounded a corner, it became obvious. Fire licked at the edge of the road, and we were mere feet from an inferno. Quiet overcame us all.

Aside from that, however, it was pretty uneventful. We escaped easily. We were evacuated to a nearby school and spent the night there, where we feasted on Red Cross provided KFC and orange juice, rather than suckling pig. Kind of a letdown, but some fried comfort food after a week of more earthy fare was probably what we needed. Some of the older kids cried. Most of the rest of us wondered where our normal clothes were. The fantasy was over, burning on that hillside. We wanted to go home.

And so, home we went the next day- another bus ride, as if we were war orphans being shuffled around. The parents came; a blurb in the local newspaper; life went on. But Indian Camp never came again.

The noble savage, part 1.

2005-08-07T01:23:00.000-07:00

My childhood was filled with a ton of awesome things that were potentially dangerous and might have killed me: lawn darts, a giant red slide with no railing that was at least 20 feet to the ground with metal pinstripes on it that would burn your behind when you went down, metal toys with small parts. All of these great things were invented in a time before people thought to protect children from natural selection.

When I was 12, I was informed by my dad that there was a thing called "Indian Camp" for Boy Scouts, a group of which I was a member. It was a full week of running around, living like Indians (This was before everyone nonwhite was fortunate enough to get an obligatory -American at the end of their nationality, so I'll go with that terminology) and basically doing cool stuff like shooting guns and bows and living in a teepee. Oh, and no showers or flush toilets.

I was conflicted: On one hand, it would be awesome, because Indians are pretty fantastic. Anyone who's ever read Last of the Mohicans knows how badass Hawkeye is. He's got those cool auto-reloading muskets. Oh wait, he's not an Indian. But Chingachgook was awesome, and he was. On the other hand, I had some concerns playing Indian at a camp with adults and other kids of unknown quality. I thought about it; I even went to a meeting about it. I don't remember the meeting at all: rather, I remember my dad took me to Ben & Jerry's afterwards and got irritated with me because I got plain chocolate ice cream. Apparently, I needed to get some crazy sort of ice cream with pretzels and nougat to justify him spending an extra dollar over Baskin-Robbins.

In the end, I decided to go. After all, this was going to be the Last Indian Camp ever. I guess the Boy Scout leadership was just as wary of the publicity that such a camp would bring. I signed up, uncertain of what exactly to expect.

Driving up to the camp, it quickly became my responsibility to distract my mom from the hordes of half-naked campers and leaders that were carousing the sign-in grounds. I say half-naked because one of the fun facts I learned when I signed in was that my normal clothes would be locked up in a shed for the duration of the camp and I was issued a flimsy loincloth, belt and vest (For some reason, my black Nike sneakers were fine- I later found out that Native Americans started the first sweatshop a hundred years before the White Man came to America. So thank goodness we were historically correct). In addition to my vestments, I was also able to choose an Indian name: I want to say I chose something witty and incisive, like Dances Without Rhythm, but as I recall, it was something standard; Buffalo Breath or somesuch. I also was assigned to a society, which was just a subdivision of campers. Some of the societies sounded awesome: Wolf, Bear and Shield. Because I was a first-year camper, however, I got assigned to the Elk society. The goddamned Elk society- I might as well have been in the Vagina society.

I want to say that at this point I bravely accepted the less-than-optimal statues I had been subjected to up to this point, but inside I considered bolting towards the dwindling silhouette of my parent's car and leaping for it, John Woo style. I spite of this cowardice, I joined my Elk compatriots in our gathering area, and we made our way to our campground, where the first order of business was building our teepee.

Teepee, in English, means "Let's see how flimsy of a structure I can make with three sticks and some cloth. Someone had already secured the poles together, but whoever did that also thought that the sight of 5 scrawny 12-year old boys in loincloths attempting to construct a tripod whose height exceeded fifteen feet is the epitome of comedy. It might have taken an hour, perhaps, but finally we were successful. Except that the bottom of the teepee's wrapping had a 2 foot gap with the ground. I surmised that it was both the perfect size for snakes and insects to invade my blankets as well as for coyotes to feast on my slumbering body at night. But I didn't sign up for the world tour of luxury resorts, so it was ok. I just made sure to sleep closer to the center of the tent than the fat kid.

I honestly don't even remember what I ate the entire time I was there- probably authentic Indian foods or some crap. The whole week, though, was leading up to the feast on the last night, when the entire camp would spit a pig and roast it. So the first night, we ate whatever they gave us and after some retelling of how the elk tribe came to be, we passed an initiation in which we recited something and passed our hand through fire and went to bed, too exhausted to care that some feral animal was lurking in the bushes for an easy meal thanks to our lack of teepee architecture skills.

The next five days would be a blur, with some interesting asides. In my next blog, I will describe exactly what goes on at Indian Camp during the day, why you should always use marked paths when going on the warpath, why it's not a good idea to make any bets that involve Tabasco sauce and how the camp itself came to a final calamitous conclusion.

Beethoven has nothing on me- except talent

2005-08-04T19:30:00.000-07:00

Music has always been a part of my life. I was subjected to the soft rock stylings of Whitney Houston and her ilk as a child in the 80's while riding with my mom in the car. With my dad, it was former rock greats like Boston, Chicago and all the other great bands named after American cities, which as I recall, don't exist beyond those two. As a family, we would listen to the music my parents grew up with- the actual icons of rock and roll like the Beatles, Johnny Cash, the Big Bopper and so forth. We took many car trips, and as I grew up, I became intimately familiar with these classics, as well as every "car" song of the era, sadly. Every time I hear "Beep Beep" by The Playmates, a little part of me dies.

My family was also musically talented. My sister, in particular, was a pianist of good skill from her adolescence. I still remember getting dressed up for some half-an-hour performance she had that was an hour's drive away. I don't remember exactly, but I'm sure keeping me still and attentive for those droning exhibitions was fun and easy. Thank God she gave that up, otherwise I suspect I would still be subjected to those terror-inducing recitals. I love my sister, but God damn it if I didn't have to go to more boring crap thanks to her. I won't even get into her high school choir recitals. I certainly feel that it's a good idea to take awkward, gangly semi-adults, some of whose voices haven't yet changed, and make them sing.

My father is also skilled in music. He had an acoustic guitar which I never saw him pull out, but it was certainly fun for me to strum it as loudly as I could, then adjust the tuning pegs and see how the tones changed, and repeat this until he came charging into the room and chased me out, yelling. Other times I would be sitting in the car with him, and we would be quietly driving; all was well. Suddenly his head would start nodding back and forth in time with the music. Just as strangely, if he was really into the music and perhaps not noticing that his young, impressionable son was sitting next to him, he would sing along with the chorus. At this point I would try to be as surreptitious as possible by asking him an inane question, to shake him out of his stupor. That kind of behavior could scar me for life. Good thing I blocked it out until just now.

My own musical exploits are just as numerous. My parents apparently thought they could get a good deal by sending me and my sister to the same piano teacher; while my sister was an apt student, I found it more interesting to play the lowest keys on the instrument over and over. I was dismissed from the class for having "fingers that were too small". My hapless parents didn't learn their lesson and tried to send me to guitar lessons. After just a few renditions of my self-taught guitar work, I was summarily dismissed for the same reason. So either I had stubby fingers for years or every music teacher, while going to music school, was instructed to dismiss problem students by blaming it on digit length. My next exploit was middle school band- I played the alto sax with an amazing lack of skill. Sloppy fingerings, playing with broken reeds, I did it all. In a lone year of high school band (after which I determined my reputation might better be served by sticking with football) I managed to achieve 24th chair, which was right next to my friend in the worst spot, 25th chair. We vied for that vaunted "most terrible" spot throughout the year, each achieving it from time to time with a glorious smattering of sarcastic applause from our bandmates.

At this point I would just like to remind you I was a giant pain in the ass for approximately the first decade and a half of my life. Just so you remember.

My latest foray into musical instrumentation in a self-imposed one. I am returning to that instrument which I first played with gusto- a natural, you might say: the guitar. I have the advantage of being able to read music, but so far my greatest performance has been Blow the Man Down. A friend suggested that I play songs that I like, but obviously he doesn't realize how difficult that is. There's a reason that those musicians are professionals: while others were socializing and enjoying themselves, those musicians locked themselves away in musty garages honing their art, eventually reaping the monetary and associated benefits. I'm still practicing, but it seems hopeless.

It might be time to resign myself to the fact that my fingers are too small.

A picture of a young Harrison Ford

2005-08-03T22:32:00.000-07:00

Since you asked, here is a recent photo of me that is in no way just a picture of Harrison Ford I found on the Internet:

I admit, it may appear that I look exactly like Harrison Ford in one of his Indiana Jones roles, but just bear in mind that I decided to dress up like Indiana Jones for Halloween that year, which is a natural thing, considering how much I look like a young Harrison Ford.

The adventures of Tom "Tarbeard" Flint, part 1.

2005-08-03T10:15:00.000-07:00

Note- we received this dispatch by messenger parrot. Given the blood, tobacco and unidentifiable stains on the parchement, we thought it best to publish it. Milk-TSK will return later. -Ed

The first rule of pirate captaining is to get yerself a crew. The second rule is to make sure that crew is foul, malodourous, vile, able seamen (if necessary), gangrenous, scurrilous and, if possible, scurvy-laden. The third rule, which is optional, is to kill that crew, slowly, so's they don'ts rise against ye. Insurance, ye see.

I made me way to the Pitch Adder, a dank den of iniquity where only the evilist and most loathsome creatures of humanity dwelt. I put me hand on the door, but it was locked. Apparently, the bloody place had received a "D" on their health inspection, so's they were shut down by the authorities. Bloody bastards: It's as if you couldn't even have a cook with bad hygiene anymores.

No matter: Portsmouth still had plenty of other wretched dives where the living envied the dead. I made mine way to each and e'ry one of them- The Pickled Pig was closed to remodel their bathroom; The Merry Wombat was now a clean coffee house, and nary a buccaneer to be found inside; The Queen's Knickers was simply gone. I meself had been gone far too long if this was the direction of the wind.

Nearly having given up, I entered the closest shop, knowing as I did that this town was a haven for rogues and scoundrels- those scalawags must be somewhere . Apparently, this was some kind of government shop, fer the workers all wore the same uniform. I felt some trepidation, fearin' a trap, but the young lad behind the counter seemed all right.

"What can I get for you, sir?" he asked me, cheerily.
"Lad, ye must be helping me!" I exclaimed, "Where be the sordid lot of Portsmouth? The dark and undignified lot that used to lurk in dark corners in the night!"
"Do you mean the disco dancers? They haven't been here in ages, sir."
"Bah! Nay, ye daft numbskull! Whar are the corsairs? The treasure-seeking seamen, by thunder!? Whar... are the pirates!?"
He looked uncertain. "Let me get my manager."

I ran him through. Had no other choice, as ye can see. And off I trudged into the night, desperately continuing my search fer a brave and loyal crew.

Brown paper packages...

2005-08-01T21:26:00.000-07:00

This is a photoblog entry, in that I have photos posted. Here are the things I mentioned a few posts back:

My beloved Volcom shirt. Now you belong to the ages. Fly high, my sweet and blameless angel. When I see you anon, it will be in the highest choir of Heaven.

The new hotness. I have made a sacred pledge to wear this shirt until it's weary threads can no longer contain my growing effluence. And let me tell you, it's some kind of effluence. Also, notice how buff this shirt makes me look, which is some sort of optical illusion.

My beloved debit card blanket. It is over 10 years old. I have had this blanket more than twice as long as I've known my wife. Many friends have come and gone since this came into my possession. If there was a fire, I would save it. Then, if there was time, the wife.

My train lamp. I have decided to make this my inheritance to my sons (who don't actually exist). They will give it to their sons, and then they will give it to their sons, who will throw it away. But it will have had a good run.

So those are some of my prized possessions. They're small on actual value, but their sentimental value is priceless. Unfortunately, that didn't count for anything when I tried to pawn them off on "Antiques Roadshow", so I will keep them.

Focus on the outside, where it counts.

2005-08-01T14:02:00.000-07:00

For much of my life, I was not really concerned with my looks. Some would argue that I'm still not. Regardless, I was a normal boy- shorts and a t-shirt were the order of the day, along with whatever shoe style was popular at the time. Through high school, I never had bad skin or pimples, really. My voice changed somewhere around 12 or 13, which set me far ahead of my friends. It was especially helpful, because pre-Internet bulletin boards would occassionally do phone verification to ensure that you were who you said you were. Needless to say, I used my power for evil in that I would verify that, yes, in fact I was 21 and yes, I did want access to PornShack BBS. The downloading of many 16-color grainy photos followed.

I had some problems, which I now look at with regret. I had braces that required me to wear a rubber band across the front, which would be removed during meal times. I had horrendous glasses that bring me to tears when I think about them. Worse, I had two pairs: Normal, and "sunglasses". Perhaps in some future time when the 70's look is back in I can take pride in them, but for now, let them forever be buried in the past.

I regret to say that I had a mullet for a short period. It was in fashion, but that still doesn't excuse it. My hair is kind of wavy to a point, and then it just curls up. I once wondered why my family didn't take many pictures of me at the time, and now I know why.

So let's flash forward to today. I'm 27 years old, and things haven't changed much- the only difference being that now I'm well aware of my physical shortcomings. I'm shorter than most of you towering neanderthals, I guess: 5'9". If I had known, I would have grown more. I'm not fat, but I'm not Dr. Ripped, Ph.D in "Getting Ripped", either. More of a "casually" athletic physique that varies depending on what I'm putting in my face and how much exercise I'm doing.

I still have my hair, for which I am eternally grateful. Most of my friends are beginning to thin out or recede a little, but I have been lucky. I credit genetics for the most part, but I also think diet makes some difference- I've tried to stay away from a lot of fast food or processed food, and I think that helps, even just a little bit. I have been making an attempt to grow it out while I can, and it's in that odd middle stage right now.

The worst thing for me is looking in the mirror and seeing little imperfections: one eye is a little higher than the other, or one nostril flares a little more than another. It's a little annoying, but I would feel pretty stupid getting surgery done to correct such small things. I don't like my chin much either, but it gives me impetus to stay thin: it would otherwise disappear into my face completely.

Nonetheless, I'm feeling almost womanly in my grooming habits. Most tellingly, I've been using this slick sandalwood sugar scrub on my elbows to keep them smooth. Even better is the main reason to have a wife: getting to use the stuff she buys without the social stigma of getting it myself. It's all heading down a road that invariably leads to me wearing panties, and that's not a road I want to go down (not a g-string, anyways. My wife wears them and they look awfully uncomfortable).

One thing about this blog: I know I've done a good job when I can take any subject and eventually bring it around to cross-dressing. I think anyone would agree with me on that point.

A mini-blog and the indefatigable top ten list

2005-07-30T00:16:00.000-07:00

First of all: I have been tagged by the wonderful ChickyBabe. Thus, following this little entry, you will get my top ten turn-ons and turn-offs. I'll stick to the PG rated stuff, because my wife reads this and she would never stop slapping me for some of the things I would list.

This mini-blog is about cookies. I made cookies from scratch tonight, and it made me realize something: I'm a pretty terrible cook when it comes to some things. I put the dry ingredients in a big bowl and the wet ingredients in a smaller bowl, and it was a whole juggling event to mix the dry into the wet. So there's that. Regardless, the cookies came out well- I didn't realize how much sugar was in those things! So, no eating too many of them, or I will have to do 100 push-ups with a small walrus on my back to burn the calories. Alternatively, a hippo will do.

So, here's my top ten lists: enjoy, and don't take them too seriously.

Mahd's 10 Family Friendly Turn-Ons

10. Outgoing Personality- I don't ask for much, just some eye contact and an opinion every so often. You're alive, don't act as though you're sorry for it.

9. The Eyes, Oh God the Eyes- If you're going to give me eye contact, it's nice if you aren't squinting at me.

8. Be a dork- I am a nerd. I revel in and enjoy this fact. If you are not, in fact, a nerd then that's still ok. Just be aware that I like a lot of the same stuff that your 12-year-old cousin does.

7. The Brain- I don't expect you to share my interest in pre-Civil War Southern Society. I would be a little worried if you did. Just have something interesting to say, even if it's about hair and styling products. I can go along with you on that

6. The Mountains- I love them. I need one of those long horn things that the Ricola guys blow, and also to live in the mountains. I will be the horn-blowing guy warning all travellers to the Swiss Alps that minor throat irritation can be easily cured with a pectin drop, and you will be my wife. Accept it, and let's move on.

5. Pirates!- Pretty self explanatory. Just the sight of the Jolly Roger gives me a tingle in my groin. And now I've said too much.

4. Backrubs- I like to give them, and I like to receive them. If my research is to be believed, they also lead to sex with the porn star whose TV I came over to repair. And by "research", I mean I watched some porn.

3. Enjoying a silent moment together- Sometimes, words are not necessary to explain the beauty of the moment that you share with someone. And sometimes, you just want them to close their goddamned mouth for a moment.

2. Sense of Humor- I'm not asking you to laugh at every thing I say; I just want you to admit that I am the funniest person who ever has lived or ever will. I think that's reasonable.

1. The Waking- I love opening my eyes and seeing the face of the person who I'm in desperate, mad love with sleeping peacefully, and knowing that every morning that I wake, she will be there. Also, knowing that I can play with her boobs for a few seconds before she'll wake up and start hitting me.

Mahd's 10 Family Friendly Turn-Offs

10. Hair where there should be none- I get it: you're a natural girl. Well, lady, you've naturally got a moustache thicker than my Uncle Luigi. Get the tweezers, please. And please, get the nose hair, too. It's long enough to braid.

9. "Friends"- No, not the TV show. I'm talking about anyone else you know. Now that you've met me, it's time to cut them off: I will provide you with everything you need as I keep you locked in our room and stroke your pretty, pretty hair.

8. Superiority Complex- Although I enjoy you telling me how much better you are than other people, I do have to say that you're coming off a little conceited. So maybe stop throwing trash at that homeless person.

7. Your kooky agenda- You say that Bush in being controlled by aliens? That men all need breasts so they can feel the pain women go through? That we should cut down all the trees to show those Commies? That we should murder people who cut down any trees? Let me just say I wholeheartedly agree with you, and I now have a restraining order against you.

6. That coat hanging on the door that looks like a murderer in the darkened room- I could have sworn it looked just like some crazy dude with a hatchet.

5. Con-men- Your sweaty demeanor certainly makes me want to buy a car/house/burial plot from you. And that bright red suit is only helping your case.

4. That joke you've said for the last 1o years- Yeah, that was good the first time. I regret laughing at it, though, because it encouraged you.

3. Helping the poor and helpless- Just kidding; I'm not a horrible monster!

2. Drug use- It's not "expanding your mind." You're not "experimenting". You are trying to justify stupid behavior that you should have grown out of a long time ago. What did the 80's teach us if not that, while anti-drug ads are dumb, addicts are pathetic.

1. Lie to me without skill- If you're going to put yourself on the line with a lie, please make it a believeable one. And don't exaggerate too much- that will just blow you out of the water.

That's it for me. I will tag Incoherent Proposal, just because.

A tale of two t-shirts

2005-07-28T09:33:00.000-07:00

Men, by our nature, tend away from the sentimental, at least publicly. Most movies or shows that are self-described "romantic comedies" direct the former towards the fairer sex and the latter towards us, the slightly-less-hairy-than-gorillas-but-still-pretty-hairy people. We have only recently been exposed to the fact that we too can groom ourselves beyond shampoo and soap.

It is my asserted, though, that every man has a hidden place, deep within his soul that holds the candle of love. That candle is lit in remembrance of the Favorite T-Shirt. Every man has one- it's a piece of clothing that transcends mere mortal comprehension. It's the same shirt you wore on that beach in Mexico as when you scored 3 straight shots in that pick-up basketball game, or when you made out with that chick whose name you didn't know and never will. It's magic- nothing bad can ever happen to you in that shirt. In fact, you may just want to be buried in it. Even threadbare, ill-fitting and faded, there's no other garment that completes you like that shirt.

I have had many Favorite T-Shirts in my life. When one is unwearable, you move on with great regret and sadness to the next. Many have faded into the mists of time, the details forgotten but the love still apparent and true. Then there was my Volcom shirt (my eyes are misting right now).

It was summer of 1998, and I was teaching at a summer camp. Actually, it was computer camp, which is like summer camp, but for dorks or children whose parents foisted them upon us in the vain attempt to push their children into a future job. The camp is not important- it was during that summer in Miami that I bought myself my grey Volcom shirt.

It was a light grey, the color of early morning fog just before it dissipates in the sunlight. It featured a stylized "Volcom" in a darker grey on the front, and a smart-looking "Volcom" on the underside of the sleeve as well, so that upside-down people could easily determine who made my shirt.

In 1998, Volcom was nigh unknown on the West Coast. So when, a year after I was wearing my shirt they began shipping different shirts to my area, I felt good knowing that it was no doubt caused due to my shirt-wearing.

Wherever I went, that shirt was there. I graduated from college, and came home and changed into that shirt. I met my then-future wife, and it was there. Rugged and comfortable, I imagined myself in the far future, my wife and children gathering around me as I wore that shirt. Then I'd be buried in it, with an awesome laser light show as my casket was lowered into the ground.

Then, tragedy: Our cat, Coco (hereafter referred to as "The Destroyer", "The Defiler" and "Black Cat Unit #31223" alternately) got loose in the backyard. Immediately, I girded my loins and donned my Volcom shirt to protect me from the bitter midsummer night San Diego weather, and headed out to retrieve my cat. And retrieve him I did, and until about 5 feet from the back door, he was fine, purring as I mumbled gentle words of comfort.

Then, he became a whirling fury of claws and menace. Dropping him, I crawled back into the house, the deep gouges his claws had dug bleeding profusely. It was then I noticed my shirt. Tattered and torn, it was the worst thing I've ever seen, and I believe I can say without exaggeration that the horror was worse than when a kid jumps on one of those big trampolines and gets caught in the springs at the edge. Oh, and the kid is on fire. Times like...I dunno, 30. That much horror.

I still have that shirt, shredded as it is. It will live again, and when it does, I will re-enter the bright and dreamy world that once existed for me. Not to be dramatic, but it wasn't until after the shirt was victimized that September 11 happened. That's all I'm saying.

In spite of this, I have found a new Favorite T-Shirt. A gift from my wife, it is green with a yellow clover and the words "O'Hurley" splayed across the front. When she bought it, they asked her, "Oh, is your husband Irish?", and she responded, "No, he's a Jew!" and they laughed and perhaps if I were more of a devout half-Jew or perhaps had no sense of humor I would have been upset at that, but things being the way they are, it's funny. Also, the shirt is miraculous in that it somehow makes me look much more in shape than I am. Perhaps my Volcom shirt's spirit managed to find a new host?

Some people have treasured possessions like stuffed animals, heirlooms and jewelry. I have my t-shirts. And my bank card blanket. But that's it. Oh, and my train lamp. The point is the item doesn't matter- it's what it means that does.

Oh, and my old computer parts....

How to upload the funny

2005-07-26T11:00:00.000-07:00

I'm glad to see that everyone enjoyed the pirate post. They are history that has become myth and legend, and are beloved despite the fact that they did some pretty horrendous things. In a way, it's human nature to romanticize bygone eras, or at least forget all of the crappy parts of it. Yes, the idea of knights and maidens joined together in courtly love is a beautiful one, but let's not forget they didn't have antibiotics or flush toilets (or worse, toilet paper).

I've had over 250 unique visitors to the blog this month- I suspect that a remnant of a remnant of that number actually reads it- maybe 20 people. This thought fills me with such dread, because now I feel obligated to be the Entertainer. It's not necessarily a bad thing, but I just feel pressure to continually update, which is bad because it steals away precious topics that I can use. I'm sure you'll enjoy my update next week when I discuss the hilarious variances in pH between different hand soaps. It promises to be charming and magical.

Therein lies the hardest part of blogging- finding things to talk about. I could tell you about my day, but sadly, most of my day is spent typing emails to people who don't understand how to print using different paper sizes or whose Blackberry handhelds mysteriously stop working when they throw them across the room. So I have to turn to my imagination, which is always the last desperate act of a man without options. And because television has altogether broken my fragile spirit, most of the jokes you find here are based off of episodes of The A-Team and Fraggle Rock.

As an aside, I will be making another attempt at writing something more substantial and novelish. So far, the two previous attempts have been stories so morose and depressing that it's hard to continue with them. Thus, my newest project will be a comedic story. I can never judge if anything I write is amusing to anyone but myself, but at least it will be good practice. In any event, I will release more details if and when they become available. Let's not get our hopes up, though- I only vaguely have an idea for the book, so it will be a while before anything comes together, and it probably will be a travesty of American literature if it is ever completed. That's just how I like to do things.

My secret dream

2005-07-25T09:03:00.000-07:00

One day, when the time is right, I will set into motion a plan of mine- one that has been stewing inside me since I was a young lad. In order to accomplish my goal, I must cut all ties to the world I know. Regrettable, but necessary if I am to succeed. First, I will submit the following letter to my employer:
---
"Dear sirs,

I regret to inform you that, two weeks hence, I will be resigning from my position at this company. It is with the deepest regret that I must do this, for you have heretofore provided me with ample opportunities and challenges, and I hold you all in the highest esteem. Despite this, it is time for me to pursue new journeys and achievements. By this, I mean that I am becoming a pirate.

The chance did not occur to me until I found myself amongst the crew in a local tavern. There, they swore to sail under my flag until death or capture. We will seek our fortunes and fame on the wine-dark seas, rather than in the neat cubicle that you provided me during my tenure at our company.

I can not say for certain what if fortune will favor me: nonetheless, I feel that once I have the rolling deck of the Bloody Mary's Revenge beneath me, the sea salt stinging my eyes and the Jolly Roger above me, I will have at last found my true calling.

Fare thee well,
Captain Tom "Tarbeard" Flint

---

Next, I will have to break the news to my wife. This will be the most difficult thing, because she'll probably start crying and then I'll have to punch her, because I can't stand to see a woman cry because of bad news- however, I love to see them cry because of physical injury, so it will work out well. Once she is assured that I will return with a fortune in bullion and jewels, and my love stronger than ever, it will be time to notify my friends and family, and then head to the seas.

Ah, piracy! Even the word connotates images of well-tanned corsairs sailing the Spanish Main in search for hapless Spanish merchantmen laden with treasure and exotic goods stolen from mystical natives. And that's a lot for a single word. True, pirates are nothing more than robbers on ships, but they're cool robbers, and they're on ships. And ships are cool, because they're made of wood and have cannons. Well, not all ships, but the good ones do.

So you may suffer a little scurvy or keelhauling or being-murdered-by-your-mutinous-crew or caught-and-hanged. It's a small price to pay for riches beyond your wildest dreams, and as much grog as you can drink. Plus, you can wear a poofy white shirt and a colorful sash, which especially shows your disdain for contemporary 16th-century society. Add an accessory, like eyepatch, hook hand, peg leg or parrot, and you're set. Of course, you'll have to give up your eye, hand, leg or dignity (in that order), but I consider it a fair trade.

Some may try to persuade me otherwise; that it's far more lucrative to become a cowboy or viking. But my mind is made up, and I will not rest until my dream is a reality. One day, I will realize my dream, and then I will be staring off the side of my ship, watching the sun melt into the calm and shining sea, the only sound the wind and the wood.

High school and the power of the press

2005-07-21T10:26:00.000-07:00

For some, high school is a nightmare, filled with constant reminders of the awkward state of one's teenage mind and body compounded with the viciousness that others release due to their own insecurities. For others, it's looked back as the greatest years of one's life- the faintly glowing glory days when they were at the peak of their physical and social lives; those fortunate enough to pass whatever arbitrary standard was levied were elevated to near godhood.

For me, it was an antiquated society, stratified and irredeemable among students and faculty. Conservative by nature and exclusionary by choice, it was what I would later call a "target rich environment." That is, I attempted to mock everything possible and do it without becoming ostracized.

"You were being a pain in the ass", my wife would say.

Me? No way.

I had some minor irreverencies: I played the tragic Ophelia in a front-of-room scene from Hamlet; We had a series of lessons and exercises about different types of poetry- no matter the type, iambic pentameter to haiku, mine were exclusively about Cheese Whiz. I would bring a big gym bag to school and steal sodas and food from my hapless friend who worked in a "lunch cart" with a decrepit old lady. I worked for the cafeteria for a month, in which I earned 80 dollars, a few slices of soggy pizza and a daily berating about how they were losing money because someone was stealing. When the lady in charge saw me later and waved, I gave her the finger.

My greatest work, however, was during my senior year. I joined the newspaper staff and immediately became the most inflammatory opinion writer ever. I didn't need sources or facts. What I had was a perfectly feigned sense of moral outrage, and somehow I rocked the school world with my first article detailing about how it was the Janitor's job to clean up the trash, not my own. It was a thing of beauty. Muffled whispers as I walked down the halls, or even outright acclimation from some of the less thoughtful of my classmates.

And yet, it was not my greatest work. A few issues later, I knew that I had to raise the bar. The ire and outrage I needed to spew needed to be even more venomous, needed to irk people even more. My grandiose article on how, if you lived in America, you needed to speak English was my Magnum Opus. I was actually called into the office to have the Spanish teacher verbally assault me for a half-hour. They didn't know what to do with me- Here I was, a normal kid with no bad record writing this hateful article. It was sublime. I wrote other articles, but I never got so vehement a response as those two.

It was all a joke, and nobody ever caught on. Wonderful. Magical. It's not that I delight in toying with human emotion- I just want to see what people will do.

"You were being a pain in the ass."

Of course I was.

Better than a shark riding an elephant that has had an energy drink.

2005-07-19T09:13:00.000-07:00

My most prized possession is one that I was born with. No, it's not my appendix. That goddamned thing hasn't done a lick of good for me. Nor is it any other organ I may possess, although I can think of a few that rank very highly in my book, and I do my best to maintain them and keep them shiny. The best way to do this is with quality rum, according to all scientific information I can find or make up.

I am in (non-romantic) love with my ego. Even as a baby, I had a swagger that was obvious. Oh sure, I gurgled and burped, but I did it with a confidence unknown to other floppy-headed infants. As I grew, so did my ego. By age 4 I was wearing a hat that said "Greatest that Ever was or will be. Far, far better than any of you slope-headed neanderthals." I was convinced that the whole purpose of Creation was to provide a cornucopia of plenty for me for eternity.

Then, an event occurred that shook the very foundations of my world. There I was, in Mrs. Levinson's kindergarten class. It had been a cool morning; brisk, with the telltale scents of fall in the air. I was dressed finely, my OshKosh overalls had been laundered the night before in preparation for my Show and Tell presentation. I had selected one of my favorite works of the time- Jaws, by Peter Benchley. A classic tale of gripping horror, I felt that it would be well-received by my schoolmates.

As the reading commenced, things seemed to be going well. Everyone's attention was focused on me, as well it should have. But then, as I continued, a curious thing happened: the children were losing focus. Here I was, a five-year old reading a novel intended for a mature audience and they were coloring on the tables, picking their noses and, to my chagrin, rocking their seats back and forth. My disgust turned to wonderment, and when I returned to my seat, my world was shattered when my classmate turned to me and called me a "nerd".

It dawned on me, then, that my ego had gotten the best of me. Later, I would realize that it had expanded too far and become that oversized "superego" that's all the rage with psychologists. With that in mind, I decided to resolve myself to becoming a more humble person. Yes, I would become renowned for humility unseen in human history. Musicians would sing of how awesomely humble I had become. Later, I realized that was also egotistical.

I managed to strike a balance. Humility towards others while never losing my sense that I could do anything if I focused my efforts. I learned that all people are capable of wonderous things, not just me. Psychologically, I was never more healthy towards my fellow man and myself.

Fortunately, it was just a phase, and now I remember just how fantastic I really am. So suck it, losers! (Kidding!)

Your dessert & beverage guide

2005-07-16T19:31:00.000-07:00

While my lovely bride and I were gallavanting around town today, we somehow got on the subject of chocolate.

Before I continue, let me explain something about relationships, since I am an unabashed expert on the subject, or at least I can fake it, since I tricked the woman who is currently singing to the cat into unbreakable vows before the Lord. The first stage of a relationship is the Dating stage- generally, money is exchanged for fancy meals and shows in a bizarre ritual, while each partner only shows the facets of their personality that are guaranteed not to immediately frighten the other away. This means that if you are showing your date your complete collection of Star Trek novels, you are showing too much.

The second stage of the relationship is the Normalization stage- often indistinguishable from the Dating stage at first, this stage is the riskiest. Slowly and carefully, you must drop hints at the fact that yes, you do occassionally play a game online where you are a scantily clad elf, and yes, you do get that right-wing newsletter. For the female, like a bird you will create a nest of hair and skin products that live in the male's bathroom. Don't worry, they will soon have a will of their own and expand- facial cleanser will beget exfoliator, which in turn will give way to decorative soaps and hand towels.

If both parties survive, they will get to stage 3, which is the Glorious Relationship. This stage may include marriage, a host of shrieking, drooling babies, thinning hair, increased weight, bloating, hot flashes, cold flashes, lukewarm flashes and/or pepperoni. This is the ideal state for a relationship to be in, and don't let those liars from Stage 2.5"Kinky Sex" tell you otherwise.

So, after that long aside, we have determined the following desserts must be served with the following beverages. A list:

Fruit-based candies: We agreed that these required some sort of cola. A lemon-lime soda would only mask the otherwise delectable flavor of your Starburst, or, if you prefer, Mamba (a note on Mamba: it is a risky thing to purchase one of these, as you only get 3 of the 4 available flavors in a single pack, and you may be saddled with the horror of the raspberry flavor)

Cakes, pies, cookies: Milk or coffee is your preferred beverage. You may substite with cocoa, but be careful- chocolate and fruit pies are a dangerous combination

Dark chocolate: Ice cold milk is our choice here. The reasons should be obvious. If they are not, then just suffice it to say that they taste good together.

Milk chocolate: We nearly came to blows over this choice. Many words were exchanged between us, because my wife felt that milk is also a good choice here, while I dissented, saying that milk was, in fact, contributing to an excess of milk. My tenative choice was cocoa, with coffee available as well. In the end, we agreed that milk is sufficient, but only with the stipulation that it be ice cold. In other words, I rolled over.

As general agreements, we decided that a sugary food item usually indicates that a soft drink should not be imbibed, while salty items almost necessitated a cold soda. I think my wife also mentioned something about a soda IV, but I don't know what she was talking about.

To summarize, my wife and I are insane and talk about nothing of import. But at least we take our ridiculousness seriously.

Gold-threaded paper of the gods

2005-07-14T09:16:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking about toilet paper recently. Not a lot- I wouldn't say I've become obsessed with it, just enough that I feel that it's time to speak out about it. Not a lot of people have the courage to tackle this issue, but if I don't step forward, who will?

Toilet paper is the primary example of why we have too much stuff. Too much choice, actually. You can easily make an argument for other products- toothpaste and soap come in different flavors/scents and textures; There are subtle differences between Coke and Pepsi; even plastic baggies can have zip seals or whatever. Toilet paper is unique in that it comes in so many different varieties, and yet, in the end, it's still used to wipe one's backside. Do we really need that many choices? In fact, I'm rather curious why anyone would buy "premium" toilet paper. Certainly, there is the sandpaper variety that most schools and businesses use that's made, I think, primarily from recycled glass and nails, and you can avoid that. I don't even think that's available to consumers, and even if it was, I'm not sure how they would market it. Perhaps, "Buttscraper toilet tissue: Now with 50% less chunks."

On the other side of the coin, they offer toilet paper that basically promises to feel like an angel using her heavenly tongue to lick you clean. I think I saw this the other day in the store, and the packaging was certainly attractive:

Caressoft premium toilet tissue is made from hand-stiched cotton grown alongside the finest grapes in the Chardonnay region of France. There, it is lovingly picked by the widows of war heroes and shipped by carriage across the Bering Strait. Once it reaches our Beverly Hills holding facility, it is washed in melted glacial waters from Antarctica and dried with imported sand from the Sahara desert. Master artisans weave the tissue using golden looms, and Orthodox religious leaders bless the tissue as it is stitched by one thousand Betsy Ross re-enactors. Once it is hand-rolled by former Presidents and heat-sealed in our fusion reactor, it is ready for it's final journey via Pony Express to your store.

That's all fine and good, but it's like 8 bucks for 4 rolls, and while I'm generally one who treats his ass to the finest things in life, unless it's reusable, I've got to pass on that. You need to have perspective on things like that.

On a different subject, I woke up the other day and thought about something and became kind of irritated. I was thinking about so-called "accidental inventions", like rubber vulcanization, penicillin and gravity. There's two things wrong with the idea of an accidental invention. First of all, I'm skeptical that those inventions are "accidental" at all. I know how it is- your wife is bitching to you about how Edison just invented the goddamned lightbulb and the Invention Board is starting to doubt that you can come up with anything and that your coal-powered dresser was just a fluke and not that good anyways, so you "accidentally" leave your bacteria samples out by the window. Not because you're desperate; no, it's all a mistake. "Oops, I spilled rubber on a hot stove." "I'm not shaking this tree in anger; I'm inventing!"

The second point is that even if these were really accidents, why would you tell anyone that? Stick to your guns and tell them that it's what you were trying to do. You might as well look like a hero, rather than a klutz. Even worse, these accidental inventors are lauded as if they did something impressive. It seems like luck to me, and that's why I'm proposing a Nobel Prize in Luck, to cover these people. The winner every year, however, might be that overweight nerdy guy who somehow has managed to nab a woman who is out of his league. You know the guy.

A year- and what a year it's been.

2005-07-10T13:14:00.000-07:00

On July 12, 2004, I got the bright idea to make a blog. I remember it like it was 363 days ago- I was in my office, bored from a lack of work.

I never intended for it to come to this- a year of searching for (and recycling shamelessly) topics, of experimenting with weird blog plug-ins and of realizing how edifying it is to do something for yourself, but even more edifying to have people really enjoy it. I never realized I was such a glory hound until this blog came along, and I've accepted it.

Some fun year anniversary facts for Milk-TSK:

Of the over 500 people who have visited the blog, the main reasons people have immediately hit the "back" button on their browser fall into these three categories;

1- Did a search for "drunk stripping whores" (320 responses)

2- Believe that the government is using school milk to hypnotize our kids (105 responses)

3- Will read anything (50 responses)

Weather and illness are the most common topics of Milk- everything else is a close second, except David Hasslehoff, who has never been featured.
In early 2005, Mahd subtly changed the blog's focus from humorous looks at everyday things to radical neo-Naziism.

Now, let's take a look at the month-by-month synopsis of the posts over the last year:

Jul 2004- Introduction, weather, illness

Aug 2004 - The famous "drunk stripping whores" blog that lures horny people to their untimely end

Sept 2004- "Story time", a series of horribly randomly generated stories. Lesson- never write stories based on random tables. Also, never ever be serious. The entire "Story time" collection will be out on DVD later this year, or 15 VHS casettes.

Oct 2004 - In the build-up to the presidental election, Mahd tries to exhort the American populace to take an interest in their communities and make a difference. Okay, just kidding: I wrote some random crap to mask the fact I didn't have anything to write about.

Nov 2004 - Post-election wrap-up, with obligatory Lincoln quote. In a nod to the Simpsons, Mahd uses the tactic of talking about how crappy the blog is, thereby diffusing any criticism about how crappy the blog is.

Dec 2004 - The "San Diego sunshine" weather post. Also, I think I made fun of fatties, which isn't very nice.

Jan 2005 -Mar 2005 - No blogs. Like Batman, Mahd was in a Central Asian prison, training to fight for justice. Also, he forgot about the blog. Look, I was busy, ok? I just needed some time to think and get my life together. It's in the past, so let's drop it. I did eventually write an entry about crazy Internet people, or somesuch. Just get off my back, man.

Apr 2005 - As springtime came upon us, I wrote a blog about getting outdoors. Then I think I played an outdoor simulator.

May 2005- A month that will become known as "Anno Mahd Prolifico". Topics ranged from swearing to writing novels. In the latter, I complained about how hard it was to write a novel; ironically, this month's word total equalled War & Peace.

June 2005 - My sweet and loving tribute to my wife. That post got me some ass, I think. Some other stuff in this month, too, but it's kind of tertiary after that one.

July 2005- Among a mediocre July 4th post and some rambling diatribe about animals, the critically acclaimed "Anniversary" post touched the hearts and minds of a nation. That nation is Eritria, and since they don't speak English, it doesn't count for much.

So what do Milk fans have to look forward to in the future? Let's take a look into the crystal ball:

- All the weather and disease related posts you love and can't live without

- "Return of Story Time", in which I create stories based entirely off of a set of "erotic" refrigerator magnet words.

- Whatever other crap I can pull out of my ass.

In conclusion, it's been a great year, except for my unexplained absence for three months. I look forward to worsening my carpel tunnel syndrome to entertain my phantom audience, and I hope that you'll remember my slogan- "You can't spell 'http://milk-tsk.blogspot.com' without a fuckload of letters"

See you next time!

When animals are awesome

2005-07-07T19:27:00.000-07:00

Recently, I was shocked to discover that people are not the only creatures inhabiting the planet. There are, in fact, quite a few of these so-called "animals" that are fortunate enough to have us above them on the food chain. The only animal above us on the food chain is the toucan, for reasons that I won't explain because they don't exist.

If we look at the word animal, we can, after a short trip to dictionary.com, determine that its root is "anima", or in English, "animated." This is why most cartoons feature animals; because it requires less work from the artist.

There are two schools of thought about the place of animals on Earth. In one camp, made presumably entirely out of buffalo skins, the people feel that animals are placed here by God to feed and clothe us, and to provide us moving targets to shoot large-caliber weapons at. On the other hand, there are a bunch of damned hippies who feel that animals have souls and that by harming them, we are harming, like, our soul siblings, man. Both of these people are completely insane. It's quite logical and obvious that animals are mechanical, programmed to repeat the same actions over and over again.

You may think I'm wrong, but ask yourself- why do the swallows always return to Capistrano, or squirrels harvest nuts for the winter, or ants systematically invade and destroy everything you've ever loved? Some call it instinct, I call it a logic loop. It's the same reason that a babboon will cradle a child when the stupid kid is screwing around and dancing in front of the goddamned ape exhibit even though you told him a million goddamned times to cut it out. If the babboon realized that it was a human child, particularly a no-good brat that your stupid brother-in-law raised, it would be far more likely to feed on the kid's sweet, sweet flesh. However, because the babboon is just following it's programming, it does what it has been commanded to do, and the local news has a nice story to put in the "Wacky News" section.

Murderous robots or not, there is one aspect of animals that kicks butt: animal fights. Documentarians have known for years that there's nothing greater than watching a Bengal tiger tussle with a rhino, or a bear on a log fighting off a shark. Animals, unlike humans, have secret weapons. Think that spider is gonna totally destroy the other small bug? Oh no, it's a Mexican burrito moth, which spits fiery tar from it's eyes. Totally awesome, and you can bet the spider wasn't expecting it.

And yet, despite their claws, teeth and poison-laced tentacles, man somehow rose to become king of the world. Some have surmised that it is because of our large, meaty brain that we were able to outsmart the animals. If true, it's not that impressive. What condor do you know that can do algebra? Do you know of a vole that can write like Keats? It's like if some bully picked only on quadrapalegics who were confined to wheelchairs with only one wheel, and also had bad vision. Oh, you're a big man, humankind. Why don't you go wrestle that bear and see what happens?

That's what I thought, wuss.

Land of the Free, home of the 99 cent store

2005-07-04T11:54:00.000-07:00

Today is officially America's birthday. 229 years old, which by the standards applied to nations, is just a drop in the bucket. Our country is just entering it's angsty teenage years, which actually might explain a bit. Other nations like France and the UK might scoff at us, but in reality their present governments don't look anything like the ancient kingdoms sustained by forbidding castles and mail-clad knights. Ok, I think France still has knights, but definitely not castles. You might expect me to tell you which country is the oldest: on the contrary, I have no idea, though I suppose it's luxembourg, because why the hell should they be changing anything?
The newest country, of course, is the Federated Democratic Republic of the Unified Congo States, the bloodiest dictatorship ever known to man. I know it's ironic, but it's mostly that they're counting on a preponderance of words in the country's title to stave off any coups. And yet there are coups aplenty. They've had coups that weren't even finished when another coup started. The old coup didn't even have a chance to put new drapes in when the new coup started.
But we're here to talk about America, land of my birth and, yes, land that I love. One question that invariably comes up is America's overall effect on the world. I will list the top three American exports to the world:

1. Confederate memorabilia, most notably a statue of Robert E. Lee that doubles as a flask (for moonshine, ostensibly)
2. Celebrity. America loves nothing more than to take a nobody and create them into a multinational star. And then to utterly destroy that person's reputation. Some may call this unhealthy, but for us it's very theraputic. Some people have 12-step programs, we have this.
3. Freedom, liberty and justice- now all conveniently packaged as "Jusberdom". Just unpack, remove the instructions in Chinese and assemble; in no time flat you'll have 10 Inalienable Rights of Man, with a new Inalienable Right every month.

The fact is, I can't define what America is. Nobody can, because as soon as we establish ourselves in one way, something else comes along and we go with that. We're the ultimate consumer whores, always travelling towards the newest thing. Sometimes, that gets us into trouble, but often it makes us look like visionaries, like we had any idea that we were going to be successful. It also makes us like the wily mongoose. The mongoose does it's own thing, and nobody fucks with the mongoose because it fights cobras. And cobras are awesome, which makes the mongoose even moreso. I'm not sure of my point there, but I just wanted to mention the mongoose because they are badass.

So this leads us to the inevitable question: What is the future of America? Will our nation lie in ruins for future generations to pick through? And what will they think when they find that sticky slime stuff that comes in the little plastic eggs? Or will America endure forever, it's ever-growing bureaucracy causing it to labor needlessly to perform even the merest of actions? The answer is that I have no idea, but I bet it involves robots.

Happy birthday, America. Try not to set the house on fire with all of those candles.

What lies in the human heart? A yearning for knowledge, a lust for adventure and... taco seasoning

2005-06-28T08:55:00.000-07:00

Hello again, gentle reader. Today I write about a subject that is near and dear to me: travel and adventure. I have what some might call "wanderlust", or in German "ze vanderlusht, mein herr." Nothing thrills me more than to see a new place or have a new experience. Even trying a new restaurant affords me a tingle in my spine and loss of feeling in my legs.

I'm not sure what it is about exploration that is so exciting to me. It's probable that it stems from my my belief that life is made to be experienced, although a healthy exchange rate doesn't hurt either. Every new experience opens your eyes to a new way of thinking, a new possibility. And even if you don't enjoy yourself, there's always something positive you can extract from any situation. For example,

"Yes, our plane crashed in the jungle and we were the only survivors, but at least the in-flight movie wasn't Battlefield Earth."

"I know you had your heart set on not being ritually sacrificed by these natives, but think of it this way: We'll get a good look at their village before we're eviscerated on the stone altar."

For some reason, other people don't share my enthusiasm for adventure. They'd prefer to "stay at home where it's safe and your eyes won't be devoured by the blood flies of Kalazoloo" and "eat safely prepared food that is devoid of disease and pestilence." I just don't get it.

The reality is that every new experience doesn't have to be that much of an adventure. I remember the road down to the coast of California north of San Francisco, with tiny villages of a few houses poised in ancient and verdant forests alongside the cold and forbidding water of the ocean. I remember the cool desert wind in my hair as my wife and I drove at sundown towards Nevada, the stars and moon above us gleaming unbidden and unleashed without any other light to dim them. I remember the snow covered bowl of Tahoe overlooking that icy lake, and the same view in summer, with the scent of pine always in the air. And I remember my wife in all of those places, her smiles and laughter caught for perpetuity in my mind.

That's the reason I enjoy experiencing new things; for the memories that I'll always have (unless I get Tunisian brain rot while I'm out, which would be ironic). So much of our lives is spent doing the mundane and rote actions of life- working, sleeping, watching TV- that going somewhere or doing something out of the ordinary is a special thing. Kind of like lime sherbet day in elementary school for St. Patrick's Day (because it was green; not, I assume, because of any citrus-related link).

The world we live in doesn't have ads in the paper for "explorers". I've checked, just to be sure. We can't "Go West", because it's already been gone to. There is no New World for us to discover (perhaps in space, but I hear tickets are very expensive, and I'm sure the bathroom situation is pretty sketchy with no gravity). What we can do is discover our own New Worlds.

There is always another road to travel, and though there may be potholes along the way, the trip is worth it.

Self-indulgence and amazement

2005-06-23T11:02:00.000-07:00

I got the bright idea to google my blog last night. Sure enough, it came up- all of the laughter, the tears, the ... uh... hyphens.

Google is an amazing tool. You can enter any random phrase that enters your mind, and you're guaranteed to get at least 4 related porn sites. Well, generally. But what I discovered was something far, far more interesting and terrifying.

There's a book, written by Dr. Nand Kishore Sharma called "Milk: A Silent Killer".

Let me repeat that, because it bears repeating: There is a book whose title is the same as this blog, whose named I pulled out of my nether regions.

From Dr. Sharma's book, we get this thought:

"One shouldn't drink milk just because it has been favored by rishi-munis or the ancient sages. Seek your own truth by using your brains, common sense and all the research available on the subject today."

Now I am afraid. Is milk truly a silent killer? What if I'm promoting the Culture of Death by trying to coerce people to laugh at this supposed adsurdity- all the while the reality is that old Bessie is delivering sweet, creamy poison to us all.

All I can picture now is a man slumped in front of his computer, the screen illuminating empty milk cartons strewn around the corpse.

God save us all.

Hostess fruit pies - taste even a superhero would love

2005-06-21T09:43:00.000-07:00

One reason I could never be a professional writer is that I only write when the mood strikes me. I'll be sitting on my veranda in my seersucker suit, watching the mighty Mississippi lazily wind it's way through the verdant forest as the sun lingers just on the horizon, a sliver of fire on an otherwise genteel setting. Sipping my lemonade, I'll lower the brim of my finely-stiched fedora and say "Why, I reckon' it would be most fortuitous if I were to plan on doing some writing, presently".

That's the way I picture it, anyways, in my imagination. That stupid thing is always getting me in trouble.

I went to see the latest Batman movie, and it dawned on me just how much I love comics. As a wee lad, my parents would foster my love of reading by buying me classic magazines such as
Mad and Cracked, but also comic books, from Groo to X-Men. While the former exposed me to interesting lowbrow humor, as well as some cheesecake artistry, the latter exposed me to lowbrow humor, cheesecake artistry, but also heroism. Of course, these were the days when your average Superman could, on occassion, still be seen hawking Hostess fruit pies on the back cover, rather than brooding menacingly.

It has been said before that superheroes are the personification of America's hopes and dreams- I fully understand that (except Aquaman- I mean, come on). It's my belief that in the far future, people will go to the First Unified Church of Spider-Man for bingo night. Church vestments will consist of spandex tights, and the prayers will be "to Superman, hallowed be His name." Superheroes represent the best ideals of humanity; they fight villians in a world of stark contrasts between good and evil. Also, they have grappling hooks and eye beams, and those are just cool.

Just as interesting are the different iterations of each character: Nobody, perhaps, more than Batman. He's been portrayed from a near-psychopath to, well, Adam West. Each retelling, even the awful Joel Schumaker films, offers a slightly different perspective of the hero, sometimes with elaborate traps. Tell me the giant Mouse Wheel of Death isn't awesome. How often did the ancients retell the stories of their own heroes- Gilgamesh, Thor, Beowulf? I imagine they often sat around the campfire and told stories, sometimes dehumanizing those icons, sometimes softening them, sometimes placing them in a locked room with super-slick floors, knockout gas and Julie Newmar. The key is that the characters always had the same morals and beliefs- those never change.

I often wonder what people would think or do if Superheroes actually existed. Would we think of them as a public nuisance? Or exalt them? My own feeling is that they would become the ultimate movie stars- we'd celebrate their success, but immediately leap upon any scrap of rumor that swirled about them. And I don't know if secret identities would work, either- there's too many tabloids for even Superman to escape from. Although, I think everyone is just humoring Superman and letting him believe that they all don't recognize him when he's Clark Kent. He's thinking he's all sneaky, but come on, you're wearing a pair of glasses. At least use some prosthetics or something.

I keep intending to talk about myself and adventure, and I keep getting sidetracked. Maybe I need to write more. But for now the veranda and the lemonade await me.

Your gateway to ADVENTURE!

2005-06-17T08:56:00.000-07:00

Hello and welcome back to the Milk show. Before I get started on my main topic about adventure and vacationing, I'd like to say something about Guantanamo Bay, which might be a vacation and adventure for those incarcerated there.

Recently, and by that I mean since it was opened, Guantanamo Bay in Cuba has been a somewhat controversial place. Apparently, it was promised to be a 4-star luxury hotel, but because of some bad reviews, it was rated as a 2-star motel. Oh- and the torture, there was some torture.

Interestingly, one of the main arguments the defenders of the base/jail maintain is, "We're not as bad as Saddam/Hitler/Vader/etc". I'm not sure if that actually qualifies as a defense. It's like when Chris Rock talks about people being proud of things that they're supposed to do; "I take care of my kids!"- well, yes, but that should be beyond question. Similarly, isn't it a given that we act better than murderous dictators and alien overlords? They need to frame the argument correctly, and focus on the positives for the inmates:

-Much less chance of being bombed by the US than if you were home.

-When you leave, get a t-shirt that says "I was incarcerated without a trial for an indeterminate amount of time and all I got was this lousy t-shirt". Mugs also available.

-Flush toilets that can handle any kind of action, from waste products to, let's say, books.

-Savage beatings only to within a foot of your life, rather than an inch.

and

-Escape means you can live in the wonderous island paradise of Cuba

Really, why is there any outcry at all? We've taken these people from their horrible, bombed-out existences and given them new, bright orange clothes, furnished them with bright shiny bling/manacles and have taught them about the wonderous free society that is America. Surely, whenever they gratefully return to their families they will be good-natured and forgiving about their detention.

Well, the wind is out of my sails for now. My vinegar is devoid of piss. Therefore, I will return later with a story of a young boy who learned what it was like to swim with dolphins, but more importantly, he learned how to cry. Or something like that

Foodstuffs n stuff

2005-06-06T11:33:00.000-07:00

There's a lot of types of food in the world. I've just invented a truism, which is that with everything that man discovers, he will either try to eat it or print pornography on it (or sometimes both, as evidenced by the existence of penis and boob shaped gummi candies). Let's just call that statement "Mahd's Law", because I always wanted to hold a sign that says "I am the law".

I digress. The point is, I'm not sure why or how we decided to eat some of the things we eat. Some, like caesar salad dressing or teriyaki sauce, were invented entirely by accident. Others took some effort.

I just had an interesting encounter with beans, for example. Being a frugal gourmet, I was going to make chili and purchased some dried beans. Now, I realize that dried beans need to soak. It's what they do, it makes them what they are. I didn't realize that they need to soak for a day.

It's this kind of thing that makes me wonder. Wouldn't it have been easier for Thog to go throw a spear at a wild monkey or something? How would he have determined that soaking the beans would release the beany goodness? At some point, you just say "Bollocks to this" and go grab a burger at a restaurant. Let them figure out how beans work.

Another one is cheese. The bulletproof scientific theory is that a nomad was riding around with some milk in a flask, and the right bacteria got in there and viola. Cheese. My question is, when you open up your flask and see that your milk has solidified, isn't it more likely that you'd say "damn, my milk" and huck the block of cheese across the horizon? Maybe that's what you did, until one foolish Saracean decided to have a taste. After that, it was just a matter of time before they invented the crappy imitation stuff they put on those terrible microwave pizzas.

I guess it's like anything else that, when you look at it objectively, it makes no sense. So let me get this straight- you're going to pull those plants out of the ground, mash them up, add a little water and tell me it's food? Riiight. After that, maybe I'll roll up some other plants, ignite them and inhale the smoke. Whack job.

So soak your beans, people. They're not going to do it themselves.

All my bags are packed, I'm ready to go...

2005-06-01T13:03:00.000-07:00

My wife is abandoning me- leaving me to forage alone in this cold and rocky wilderness, devoid of life or sustainence.

Well, kind of.

She's going to Miami for a few days with her friends, to enjoy the spicy latin salsa rhythm, or something. My belief is that she's going to get drunk every night and lay on the beach all day, the cool waters of the calm Atlantic lapping at her feet. And all I got was this lousy Pacific ocean. In truth, the reality of the situation probably lies somewhere between, and in fact almost certainly includes all of those things.

At least I'm not bitter about the fact that she gets to laze away her days in a unequaled paradise while I slowly work myself to death in an airless office, cut off from society. If I was bitter, it would be a lot harder to swallow.

The following comic basically sums up everything good about the wife being gone:
http://www.buzzle.com/showImage.asp?image=962

Surprisingly (and additional research has shown), there's not a lot there. Yes, I can eat what I want, when I want, who I want. I can sit around in my underwear all day, which I do anyways, even when she is home. I can splay out across the entire bed like I own the thing. I can monopolize the computer and TV as if I were a fiendish supervillian plotting the destruction of the world.

These are all wonderful things, but there's only one problem. I like my wife, kind of. She smells good. She's funny, and she laughs at my stupid jokes a lot of the time. She occassionally cleans or does laundry. The inside of her arm has extremely soft skin that I just want to eat. I would carry her around in a backpack if I could. She's got a sweet ass. She's interested in what I have to say, or at least she does an excellent job of hiding her boredom. She makes fun of me for examining all of my options for getting out of my job and becoming a pirate.

Therefore, I am in a quandry: Am I more excited to be sole master of my kingdom, answering to no man? Or should I run after the plane, execute multiple stunts and stop it and her from leaving me temporarily? Can I bear to be without her for a few days?

The answer is, of course, yes. I can stand it because when she returns to me she will be happy, with a twinkle in her eye and a bunch of new stories to tell me. It's tremendously corny, but when she's happy, I am too. And so I can bear the intolerable burden of splaying on the bed, eating corn dogs for breakfast, internet porn and appliance monopolization. It's my terrible curse, but I will bear it....for humanity's sake.

Pejoratives and you: A fucking guide, goddamn it. (AKA "The swearing post")

2005-05-27T14:31:00.000-07:00

From time to time, I re-read my own posts. I do this because I'm a narcissist, but also to review my own writing. In doing this, I discover three things about my posts.

1. I need an editor. It's obvious now that I like to "twist the knife", so to speak. I just drag out the posts needlessly with my reckless attempts at humor.

2. I'm not that funny. I think I am, and indeed, I smirk to myself when I write these posts. I have an interesting thing where I tend to be funny on accident rather than when I'm trying. It's unfortunate, then, that I really try when I write these entries

3. I've been swearing a lot in my recent entries. There's nothing wrong with that, and I believe good, hardy sailor-esque euphemism can really put the exclamation point on a thought. It particularly helps my posts, where the issues are hard-hitting things like ninjas and traffic. Look out, Sundae toppings, you're my next target. I mean, chocolate and rainbow sprinkles? What the fuck? (You'll notice that had more impact than if I said "What the hey?")

Swearing is what makes America great. We practically won both World Wars by calling the enemy "rat fink bastards". And it's so versatile- You can call one person a "cuntmonkey" and the next an "assmonkey". Who knows how many other "-monkey" predicated insults there are? Even our great heroes swore:

George Washington- "Martha, would it kill you to have the slaves do the dishes every once in a while, for fuck's sake?"

Abraham Lincoln- "OW! Son of a bit..."

Charles Lindbergh- "How long is this goddamned flight going to take?"

Neil Armstrong- "HOLY MOTHERFUCKING CHRIST, WE'RE ON THE MOON! SWEET JESUS!"

So, gentle readers, you can see that swearing is not just for the rich and famous, we all can do it and profit. Maybe not monetarily, maybe not spiritually or in any measurable way- but somehow.

We're on the Toll Road to Hell, driving in the diamond lane.

2005-05-26T13:56:00.000-07:00

I'm back again, after a short hiatus. I was climbing the Andes, let's say. Yes, that will do.

Nobody seems to bat an eye at the name of my blog. At least, I've never had a question that runs along the lines of "Why... milk?". It's very true, there are other things that could be considered both silent and killers. Ninjas, for example.

I don't know if you expect me to go on some diatribe about how milk is harmful to America and the world, and if we don't cease milk production right now, well, we're colossally fucked. Unfortunately, I don't do crazy conspiracy theorist, so you're out of luck. Although you do have to question why the Dairy council spends so much on advertising. What terrible secret are they trying to gloss over? Think about it...

I have a long commute each day- somewhere between 90-120 minutes a day. That's two hours of sitting in a car in traffic. I usually refer to it as Fun City, land of ultimate enjoyment. I am also a sarcastic asshole. Fortunately, there are things to do to pass the time. The radio is a source of entertainment unparalleled by any other device. Certainly, there's nothing more enjoyable than hearing "I walk alone" by Green Day every 3.23 minutes, unless it's tuning in to "Angry McAnger" on an AM station rail at a caller about how the goddamned liberals are murdering babies to distill into sweet, sweet liquor to give to priests who will then allow same-sex marriages. I'm still waiting for some well-reasoned caller to phone in and convince the bile-spitting host that he's being unreasonable. I would give anything to hear him (and the outraged partisan lunatic is almost always played by a man) say "Oh, I hadn't thought about it that way." Then the radio would implode.

It's not to say that all radio is horrible. I often listen to Mr. Howard Stern, if for no other reason than he doesn't interrupt his program every 2 minutes for commercials. Likewise, Phil Hendrie is a good source of entertainment- the unique perversity of each individually warms my soul like a miniature butane stove.

Another fine pasttime is watching other people in traffic. These people are your compatriots in suffering. A truer vision of hell there never was than neverending traffic on a hot summer day. Ok, maybe fire and brimstone is a truer vision of hell, but you never know. Satan's a crafty guy, he could come up with something like that. You don't get to be the Lord of the Underworld by resting on your "pitchforks-and-accordians" laurels.

There are a number of different people in traffic. They are:

Person zoning out- this is someone who is lost in their own thoughts. It's kind of frightening that they're behind the wheel of a car, but at least they're not watching porn on their in-car DVD player

Person on cell phone- this is someone who has no idea that they're in traffic. In fact, you could bludgeon them to death with a table leg and they would still have their phone up to their ear.

Lane-switcher- This person is constantly switching lanes to "move forward". It's funny to watch them flagellete their cars, and it's okay to take a perverse pleasure in passing them.

Shoulder driver- is someone who decides to make their own lane by driving on the shoulder of the road. Often, they are trying to reach the next exit. Sometimes, they're trying to reach Minnesota.

The Blocker- This person's only job is to stop Shoulder Driver from doing anything. They maneuver their car in such a way that nobody will pass them using illegal means, including emergency vehicles. Also known as Uptight asshole.

The Crane- Can be found extending their entire torso out the window in order to solve the mystery of why all the cars are stopped. I'm not sure why they do this- even if they do find the cause, it's not going to help them. Does a secret path open up for those who find the reason for the traffic? I think not.

It's a curious amalgamation of folks, and I think we have all taken the place of one or more of these archetypes. It does prove, however, that we need cars that drive themselves while we sit in the back, sipping mixed drinks and watching strippers make out. Oh wait, that's called a limo.

Anyways, now you know why it's called Milk: The silent killer.

Looking Forward to the Past- A treatise on the present

2005-05-11T12:37:00.000-07:00

I am what you might call a "historophile", if such a word existed. I love history. In particular, I enjoy learning about those periods that US history either glosses over or completely ignores. As all American people know, the history of the world stops only at the following stations: Egypt (first civilization), Greece (That whole foundation of Western Thought thing), Rome (Big Empire, also Jesus lived during this time), England (Americans with funny accents, and they're cool except for 1776 and 1812) and the United States (Truly the pinnacle of all mankind's efforts towards Democracy and Freedom. Once we're around, everyone else can suck it).

Some of the more accomplished readers might notice a few absences from these general guideposts on the trail of human history. Oh, a schoolbook might mention Columbus or Magellan, might touch on the French Revolution (which of course was much less important than that of the US). Particularly lucky students might have even heard of the Holy Roman Empire.

It's not hard to blame the teachers: history keeps happening all the time. It's very inconvenient to try and keep up, and while it's important for us to have those 2 extra pages to focus on September 11, something's got to be cut out: I'm looking at you Magna Carta.

More interesting to me was a trend that first began in high school. In previous history books, we learned about Thomas Jefferson, brave Father of our Country and all-around hero to the world. Suddenly, we were learning about Thomas Jefferson, that dirty motherfucker who owned slaves. Now, I'm not saying I prefer the former description to the latter, but let's have some balance. He can be a founding father as well as a dirty motherfucker. It never stopped me in my personal or professional life.

So I look for information regarding the temporal cracks in our otherwise healthy, balanced and robust history lessons. What exactly happened during the period from 1813-1861? Why were there Viking ships in the middle east? Who is this Mao Zedong person anyways? All questions that would render comatose most people are like sweet manna to me.

It's not just the dates and events that interest me. People interest me as well. What about a family living in Israel in the pre-Roman era? We can assume there was toil, but what did they do for fun? Was it some lesser form of toil? Instead of attempting to haplessly fertilize the arid desert, did they instead carry unimaginable burdens to and fro? These people didn't even have Scrabble for God's sake.

Sure, life sucked without digital devices, but quantify to me how badly it sucked. Were they begging for the sweet release of death, or just for the semi-sweet release of a high-ankle sprain?

I could tell you that History is alive and all around us and all sorts of other bullshit that isn't true. History is where it belongs- in the past. That doesn't mean we have to ignore it. All the people who lived before us had interesting lives- many had much more interesting lives than we do. I know there's a special kind of adventure handling tech support calls, but I wagering that sailing across an ocean of unimaginable distance to a land undiscovered by civilized men beats it- just by a bit.

Besides, if you start reading history and you decide you don't like it, you can always go back to the essential rules

1. If it came before the US, it's crap
2. If it came after the US, it's crap
3. If the US did it and it turned out badly, it's because we wanted to fail to teach ourselves a lesson.

And, most importantly 4. Canada = America Jr.

The Lottery- A guide on how to delude yourself into thinking you're going to win

2005-05-07T09:41:00.000-07:00

In my last post, I mentioned Lottery Fever. For those of you unfamiliar with the concept of a lottery, it works like this:

1. You pay someone some amount of money for a little slip of paper with some combination of letters and numbers.
2. At a central location and specific date and time, they draw a combination of letters and numbers, which will in no way coincide with the ones on your paper
3. Your paper is ready to be recycled

In the event that your numbers do match with the ones drawn, then you should redeem your ticket to a lifetime of doing coke off of stripper's breasts and stop fucking around reading blogs.

Lottery Fever, by extension, is generally the period between steps 1 and 2, though in some cases where the jackpot is astronomical, it can precede step 1.

In my own opinion, the money you pay for a lottery ticket isn't so much for the miniscule chance you have to win (and really, you have more chance to be abducted by aliens that will give you a million dollars than actually winning)- you're paying for the opportunity to delude yourself into spending the winnings that you won't actually win.

I know what you're saying-why buy a ticket if you're just deluding yourself. Obviously, you have no chance to win without a ticket, so if you're trying to convince yourself that you're going to win a contest that you're not entered in, you either need professional help or instruction on how the exchange of money for goods and services works.

So you've bought your ticket with your numbers that won't be picked: how then do you catch Lottery Fever? It's quite simple- imagine that you've won. Really, the only thing stopping you from collecting your winnings is the fact that the draw hasn't been performed yet, and it's a foregone conclusion that your ticket and the draw will coincide.

First, imagine how you're going to avoid publicity. A fake name, phone number or wax mustache is a good place to start. Will you immediately cash your winnings and retreat to your newly purchased mountain fortress or underwater base? It's important to decide these things, because the media and other people will otherwise hound you for cash and interviews.

Next, think about how much you're going to spend on charity, because you're really a good person, much better than others who would be in that situation. Your generosity will put others to shame.

Of course, you can't avoid your family, no matter how hard you try because they knew you when you were 7 and remember your fondness for pirates. They'll discern that you'll be at you island pirate hideout and come there, so you might as well figure out how much each person will get. Try giving them an amount proportional to how much they mean to you, and don't forget to slight your stupid aunt that used to wash your mouth out with soap. That'll teach the bitch.

Again, remember how much you're giving to charity and how good of a person you are. Truly, your donations will change the world and your altruism will encourage the world to hold hands and sing, but more importantly, build statues in your honor.

The last step is to figure out what you'll get for yourself. Cars, houses, castles, ships, mazes from which there is no escape- the world is your oyster. Don't forget about the fancy parties that you'll have in your lakeside villa with adjoining helipad.

If properly done, Lottery Fever can last for a good 2-3 hours. Considering that a movie is approximately $10, for as little as one dollar you can entertain yourself for the same duration- it's far more economical.

Good luck, and if you do win, remember the guy whose blog inspired you.

How-to guide: Writing a novel (the Mahd way)

2005-05-06T14:11:00.000-07:00

As a writer, I wouldn't say that I'm prolific. Indeed, I'm tied for the least published author with everyone else who hasn't ever been published. I don't count this blog as published material for two reasons:

#1. Nobody reads it.
#2. Nobody cares.

Those two items- stumbling blocks, if you will, are the bane of any writer. I'm sure there are writers out there who stroke their beards and adjust their monocles and, in between long draws of strangely-scented cigars, shake their heads and say that they don't write for the recognition- it is the art that counts.

These writers are filthy liars. Inside the heart of anyone who writes, from your 10-year-old child who has just composed a poem regarding the more toothsome aspects of chocolate ice cream to your everyday Twain or Longfellow (Even a Chrichton, if you must scrape the bottom of the barrel) is that yearning for their work to be read. To be loved and understood. Just as the musician sings to the hopes and fears of their peers, or alternatively belts out a post-production, soulless pop ditty, so does the writer scribble out a somewhat roundabout lesson on life. Orwell could have just made Animal Farm consist of "Hey, look out for the commies" and been done with it, but that defeats the purpose of literature.

I do occassionally have the sudden fury and appreciation to take up my pen (by which I mean by keyboard) and craft The Novel By Which All Others Will Hereafter Be Judged Against (and of course, be inferior to). If "Anonymous" can be such a prolific writer, why not me? I have a blog that nobody reads, and by God, if that doesn't qualify me, what does?

I have a rather long commute to work, and if the thought strikes me at precisely the right time, I can pass the entire time by entertaining myself with clever plot devices and situations, character development and other crap like that. It's not unlike the Lottery Fever, which has so far claimed over 5 million lives in the Southwest. In that particular affliction, one fantisizes about how to portion out winnings to family and friends. It's the subject of a different bl0g entry, in any case.

So to continue, the wheels and gears are spinning in my head as I drive, and the spirit of the thing has completely consumed me. Now I am the story, and when I arrive somewhere where I can but record those many thoughts, it will be like a whirlwind, and the story will leap unbidden to the paper. I will have to do naught but hold on and perhaps enjoy a cool drink.

In the reality of the situation, either one of two things happen. In the first situation, I arrive home to find things in disarray- the dishes need done, dinner needs preparing, there's a game which inexorably draws me in for several hours. The second is more positive- I am able to settle myself into a chair and prepare to write the great Novel. And indeed, I lay into it with the heart of a man driven. And then I check my work and find that I've written a page and a half in 3 hours.

What happened to the fire and passion? The thoughts shooting out of my mind, developing the story into what it should be? The problem, I've found, is that I have an excellent outline, and a very hollow story. Like a chocolate easter egg, the whole is a finely decorated shell, but the interior is hollow, or worse, filled with that Cadbury creme stuff.

These setbacks would daunt a lesser man, and so, occassionally, I'm daunted sufficiently. Sometimes, though, the drive to create is overwhelming, so I press on. I move to storyboard what I'm going to do, and lay it out, even to go so far as to determine exactly how many pages each chapter should be. It's very important to have chapters that are of proper length, due to the bedtime phenomenon. It's my own practice of trying to read books chapter by chapter. Short chapters beguile the reader into reading on, and then they get trapped in Sudden-80-page-chapter, from which there's no escape for those who read in the same way that I do.

At some point, whether it's when I arrive at home, or after a successful night of planning,writing and eating sugary snacks, I retire to bed. And forget everything I planned and thought about the previous day. I may even venture to open the story and give it a once-over. That's as far as it usually goes, though. Work or other necessary duties beckon, and when I return to the story all of the wonderful and imaginitive ideas I has have disappeared. All is not lost- at some point I will remember the story in traffic and think of all new (and remembered) ideas, and the cycle begins anew. By using this process, I estimate that my first book will be ready in about 33 years. Look for it on the Super Internet at a Hyperretailer near you!

You'll know it by it's title: "Hey, Look Out For The Commies"