Been awhile since I knowcked back greater than 2 beer.  Tonight I did the whole after work beer thing.  When I get over two separate existensial crisis — the onw ehere I compartmentalize my life and drink no beer with co-workers and the other one where I compartmentalize my life and have no significant other, it was pretty cool.

I actually like some of the folks with whom I work.  How fucked up is that?

By the way, Jonbenet is dead, what of Natalie Holloway?  Seriously, her mother never even had cancer, so she must have loved her more.

Here's a sentence I thought I might never write (only I would never have actually thought it up in my imaginary inside my head world):

Today, I left work with a bag of raw meat in my hand.

It was leftovers from lunch.  (At lunch they barbecued the meat, it wasn't like us worker drones were chucked raw beef into their cubicles.)

I had a sleepless morning before dawn today after waking up from one of those kind of dreams that is so friggen mundane and dull that it seems absolutely real.  Essentially, and the reason I woke up, I went off on one of my siblings for some perceived wrong.

In retrospect upon waking, I had the feeling that maybe the recent death of a mom in my extended family had me thinking about the mom in my family.  For the most part, because I'm comfortable with my own relationship with Pat when she went, I'm all right with the sibs.  Not like hating and fighting is bringing up a resurrection.

Still and all, there's shit I wish was never said in the wake of Pat's wake.  It kind of goes back to being the baby kid sister I think.  In a lot of fights. pathetic victim kid sister that I was, I heard more than a bit of being "fat" and "stupid."  I never believed the "stupid," 'cuz frankly my tormentors had their own weaknesses, but the "fat" always sunk in.  I believed it until I moved out, started living my life and realized maybe I was robust or zaftig, but I was healthy.

At the end of the day, I'm pretty conflict adverse, hating fights and being far too fucking sensitive about name-callling.  Childhood, childish rules take over and all I fucking want is "taking it back."  All's fare, if you just take it back.

(Pretty much if you were to be a guy whose name begins with M. and you were to live with me, alls you got to do after a fight is take it back.)

I woke up this morning wishing some shit under the bridge, some words said, some accusations made could just be taken back. 

Yesterday's nature stroll produced only a handful of essentially crappy pictures.

These damn deer were all frolicking in the light and shadow of underbrush dappled by sunlight through a covering of trees.  Deer would be easier to photograph if they would stay out in the open, instead being all shy and coy and other bullshit emotions that they don't actually possess.  Bottomine, the shadows kept fucking up my ability to focus.

[image:4267:l][newline] [image:4268:l][newline][image:4270:l][newline][image:4269:l][newline][image:4274:l][newline]

I also saw some kind of hawk or kite or falcon.  A killing bird.  I likes the sweet little birdies that can kill.[newline] [image:4273:l][newline] [image:4277:l] 

That was fun.  I might even say so far this year that's the funnest I have had at the motion picture show.

Samuel L. Jackson deserves one of them acting awards for playing any number of characters he's played before rolled together with a heavy serving of not taking himself too seriously.  And, the writers who tossed around from plot (there was one), action (more important than plot to the concept of SNAKES ON A PLANE ), cliche, making fun of cliche, jokes, visual gags, and all sorts of other movie goofiness deserve something.  Some kind of prize or handshake or something.

I dunno, maybe it's just that it makes the whole leaving the house and sitting in a darkroom full of strangers way more better when everyone is into it and participating.  I haven't heard that much clapping at the screen, cheering, good talking and all, and I've been to Rocky Horror and film festivals. 

I wish, I wish, I wish I could show the pics.  But, you know, if I ain't done learned nothing about the workplace is don't be mixing the two worlds up.

So, what I don't got here is photographic evidence of the boss shooting around the office on one of these here bouncy, exercisey balls.[newline] Swear to fucking god.  Just bouncing around.

The plan with her and a few others of the California flavor is to get rid of their desk chairs entirely and enjoy their exercising fit bad selves each and every day whilst shuffiling the papers.

Maybe it's good, great or sucks what the kids might say, sucks donkey balls, but often M. and I are in sync.  Like, he has a shitty long tiring unproductive day (in his case job interviews), and so do I.  Mine was more about a meeting that lasted forever and gave me a sense of my own mortality.  You know, like cool, if I died right now, I wouldn't have to stay in this meeting.

A propos nothing whatsofuckingever, I fucking hate bad writing.  Not bad like this banal, meaningless, steaming pile that your eyeballs are reading right now.  I mean the special good tasty kind of bad writing that only the "educated" can pull out of their asses.  Note to the world, I don't believe the passive voice is bad, because some wrinkled spinster (such as I am) underlined it in a little book and told me it was a rule.  

Nope, I hate it because it's boring as all fucking hell, and like, um, there are usually indirect and harder to comprehend stentences in the realm of passive.  Break it down, people.  If I say "suck my cock," you know I want you to suck my cock.  (Context clues might even tell you if I want you to suck my cock, because I'm angry, or because I want you to make sweet, sweet monkey love to me.)

However, if you say instead, "a cock will be sucked," it's not effective prose.  Your audience will not know if they are to suck or be sucked.  Chaos, confusion and a cum-free existence (not in a good way).  Subject verb predicate, and ask yourself who is acting in the dick suck universe.

I think I need to write a grammar book with only dirty, prosaic sentences.  Nothing makes a point as directly as, I dunno, porn.  You ever watch a porno and question the meaning?

Check it — I hate like poison folks who get all fucking la-di-da, look at me, I be writing with their prose.  You don't mean "utilize."  It's "use," like I'm going to use my boot toe to fuck you up.

Same thing goes with "as well as," when what you really should be saying is AND.  Fucking "and," that's it.  Simple, reasonable and just ripe with connecting goodness.   I want you to caress my breasts AND call me Mother Mary AND touch me in the bad place.  NOT, and I repeat NOT, as well as touch me in the bad place.  You dig?

I will lick your balls, as well as polish your helmet.  That's where it works, when you already know what's up (helmut polishing), and you get the extra bonus thang (licked balls). 

Strunk, White and Ron Jeremy.  That threesome would be well-utilized in my thoughts, as well as a Kleenex.

[image:4216:l][newline] [image:4219:l]

My now neglected, because it's older and providing a metaphor for the cruelties of this life, car spent its weekend in the work garage.  Later, though, it was let out and cruising right into a Blockbuster parking lot.

I have no idea how long it had been there, maybe minutes, maybe days, but upon exiting the video store, I spied this artifact with my little eye.  Jammed into my grill and sticking out like a bad double-oh seven, Bond James Bond, outtake from Q's lab. [newline] [image:4264:l][newline] [image:4266:l][newline]

My bug is tricked out for logging. 

The weekend was multilayered with activity.  For me it ended in confusion, when I woke up this morning convinced I had spent the night making out with someone I know from comedy in Boston.  

Friday night was dinner with a "couples friend," the fact of which will always remind me of a bit from Rick Jenkins of the Comedy Studio.  I'm not happy that it does, but I guess fittingly, we followed up with a comedy show.  I have been so goddamn painfully lazy about comedy, I should be ashamed.  It was the first show I attended in weeks, I haven't performed since a month ago.

Maybe it's the summer.  Or, maybe it's existential comedy crisis number 973.  Sometimes I just get to hating on comedy and wonder why I have ever done it.  No doubt, I'll come up with some idea that gets me fired up again.  In the summer, though, there are many, many, many things to do and miles to go before I write.

Among this weekend's adventures was walking in the woods, or what the native Californians call "hiking."  The destination was Rancho San Antonio.  This area is pretty lousy, full-up with the nature and all.  Trees, grass, scat of mysterious origins.

I saw a family of these, and then realized I had no more memory in my camera.  Fucking technology.[newline] [image:4254:l] [newline]

I think my favorite shot of the day was this one:[image:4240:l] [newline]

Or maybe it was this one:[image:4243:l][newline] That's the one where M. gets to ultimately live the Californian American dream, where you hire someone from elsewhere to do a job for you.  It's another side to nature, as in natural order.  (Insert some kind of witticism to make that clearly a joke not a fucked up Ayn Randian bullshit sense of superiority.)

The next day was all about art, of the edgy, modern, electronic sort.  What we learned was some art is pure bullshit, other art is kind of vapid and pretty.  Most importantly, adding electronic media and computers just makes some stuff stupid or stupider.

But look, pretty and shiny and all color-y:[newline] [image:4226:l][newline]  

The one thing we both liked in a conceptual, cool, see look art can communicate kind of way was Ingor Gunther's Installation.  By modifying globes, it's a pretty brilliant way to metaphorically explain statistical shit.

I thought these folks were interesting, even if they are Canadian.  M. clearly got in touch with his inner child.[newline] [image:4212:l]