Extreme Ironing. (Thanks Suzanne!)
Category / Silliness
Never Write Blog Posts
Not the public variety. The ones where you utter foolish statements ragging on people close to you and broadcast it to the public at large. The best reason not to do this is because you will always come across as an assclown.
On Friday my literary agent called me. I was surprised to hear from him as it was a long weekend and neither of us were on a first name basis with each other. In fact, my agent hadn’t returned my voicemails and was quite surprised to find that I was indeed one of his clients. Nevertheless, we chatted a bit about how inept we both were at making turkey and the associative guilt we felt at being relegated to mashing potatoes. Even then I was writing a blog entry in my head: he was calling me to tell me that I should probably write a pretty darn nice novel if I ever expected to be published. Again I was lazy. Again I lacked time.
The reason he was calling me was to tell me that he was leaving the publishing business, as well as his wife. He also told me that he had unexpectedly contracted herpes simplex from a Bob’s Big Boy waitress and that I should probably not tell this to anyone. He said he hated to use the word ashamed but that’s what he was. I was stunned. I told him I understood and that I would keep all this confidential. He fucked too much and he wanted to leave his wife. He doesn’t know what he’ll do, but hopefully he’ll be able to find a regular sexual relationship at his STD support group.
I asked him if this was the reason he had forgotten that I was his client. He said, “No, Ed. You have a tendency to shoot your mouth off.”
“Well, at least I’m not Sandra Scoppettone,” I said. “And at least you’re not a real person but rather a figment of my imagination which I can use for a satirical post.”
“That’s true too, Ed. But like most fictional characters, I too have feelings.”
Anyway, I promised to send him a Purina fruitcake later in the year and wished him well. And we concluded our call.
But unlike most professionals, I couldn’t really function after all this, even after about twenty expensive hours of psychotherapy and enough antidepressants to knock a circusful of elephants on their asses. Who will be my new agent be, if I’m going to have one?
Not to insult anyone, but this agent is the last of a certain breed…he is, in fact, one of those rare Border Collies who is not only capable of reading, writing and speaking the English language, but setting me up with publishing houses without so much as stopping to fetch a newspaper. He mentioned the possibility of one agent and I asked how old the person was. Not only was this new agent human but he was twelve years old.
I know any agent I take on is going to be a little different, but twelve? This kid can’t even get into a PG-13 movie! And I can! I’m not saying an agent at this age has to be horrible! In fact, a pederast down the street recently knocked on my door to inform me that he lived in the neighborhood, per the requirements of Megan’s Law, and he assures me that twelve year olds are more adept in certain areas than older people. I’m not certain I believe him.
Still, if this twelve year old agent can get me the gigs, and I can put my innate agism aside, concentrating on his skills as a professional, well then maybe I just might get through this thing.
Pardon me while I buy my new agent an ice cream cone.
Power to the People
As beautiful as haiku. (via MeFi)
In lieu of content today, I’ll point to a meme uncovered by Rasputin:
1. Go into your archive.
2. Find your 23rd post (or closest to).
3. Find the fifth sentence (or closest to).
4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions.
ANSWER: “A pomaded, well-oiled machine slightly better than Willie Brown, but no less accountable.”
Palabra About Paizogony, Baby
Gymnosophic grounds for gyniolatry. Solo, saccadic jerks before saltire, abbreviated waldflute for Waldgrave Wiggins, committing randy wales, always wanchancy before his own private obeliscolychny, if you catch my drift.
Wiggins, perhaps a pyroballogist (in a sense), pyrexic to the last about his xanthippe, afraid of xeransis qua “Oh!” and, were quacksalver transposed to quadrimular English degrees, a stolid pettifogger.
Certain dactyliologist, the Waldgrave ruminated further, facinorous in his fantasies. But not to be, the incident ended with neither paideutic progress or pumped penis.
About the Redundant Writer Who Couldn’t Stop Repeating Himself
When he met her he met her and he liked her as much as she liked him yes, he heard things better, meaning better than before and quite possibly better before he met her, and in his eyes those powerful bright blue orbs that had taken in her presence when he met her the lines of the physical world meeting up at that point where they had met each other and he had liked her, she liking him as much as he did, both standing on these lines signifying the point of the world where the two met, and they both liked each other. He was smarter, smarter than you, smarter than her yes, and quite possibly smarter than the rest of the world because he was a writer of redundant details, and he always had something to ramble about, whether political satire or short shorts or sentences for the kids. They would publish him because he was rich and because he liked you and liked her and he wrote about cute digressive things, nothing about the real world, the world he knew before he met her and they liked each other, just as they were standing on the lines of demarcation. But as to these physical lines of geography demarcating one detail from another, it should also be said that in addition to liking each other, they also liked these lines of geography, and it is safe to say that the lines of geography also liked them. And since everybody liked each other, they would soon spread this terminology across the planet, getting assorted people to stand upon these lines of geography, these lines of demarcation, and making them like each other without force. Everyone’s eyes would turn into bright blue orbs and, yes, he would like her, she would like him, the twain would like the lines of geography, and whoever else happened to be in the room (other than he and she and the lines) would also like everybody else. It would be a fine plan for a fine afternoon involving fine people.
Maybe It’s the Damn Rabbits Coming Through the Walls Right Now
QUICK UPDATE: For all who have sent well wishes, thank you. Will respond to all e-mails, most of which have nothing to do with state of health, when I’m of sounder and healthier mind. In the meantime, here’s The Book Quiz (via George, I think). My results:
You’re Watership Down!
by Richard Adams
Though many think of you as a bit young, even childish, you’re actually incredibly deep and complex. You show people the need to rethink their assumptions, and confront them on everything from how they think to where they build their houses. You might be one of the greatest people of all time. You’d be recognized as such if you weren’t always talking about talking rabbits.
Well if that’s the case, then it’s too bad my greatest accomplishment today was spelling the word “KITE” on a spoonful of alphabet soup.
Remarks from the President
The crazed Dean speech was one thing, but I’m starting to have grave concerns about the President. Here’s a partial transcript:
Remarks by the President to the Press Pool
Plenty O’ Ribs Cafe
Area 51, Roswell, New Mexico
11:25 A.M. MST
THE PRESIDENT: I need some ribs, goddammit.
Q: Mr. President, how are you?
THE PRESIDENT: Shut the fuck up, you gadfly. I’m hungry and I’m going to order some ribs, Laura be damned. I ran six miles today and eviscerated the Bill of Rights a little more. I earned my ribs, don’t you think?
Q: What would you like?
THE PRESIDENT: What do you think I’d like? Ribs. What does a man do in a cafe but order ribs? Do you have any real questions?
Q: Sir, on homeland security, critics say you simply haven’t spent enough to keep this country secure.
THE PRESIDENT: My job is to dry hump this nation. I’m riding bareback, my friend. Who cares about jobs? Who cares about the economy? Who gives a flying fuck about the deficit? We need a space program resembling a really bad Brian De Palma film. But right now I’m here to take somebody’s order. That would be you, Rubber Band Man — what would you like? Stop pestering me with questions and start eating, son. You’re looking a bit thin. Have you been drinking? I drank once, but then daddy bailed me out. Put some of that meager money on the table like a man. This is all about consumer confidence. I don’t care how little they pay you over at the State-Ledger. This is how the economy grows. Max out your credit cards, jeopardize the state budgets. It drives the economy forward. And, no, don’t quote Paul Krugman, you twerp. I’ve had enough of that whiny little bitch. So what would you like to eat?
Q: Right behind you, whatever you order.
THE PRESIDENT: I’m ordering ribs, goddammit. Do you know about unilateral decisions? Well, this is how it works, David, I’m going to order a rib for you and you’re going to eat it. And I’m not going to leave until you nibble that sucker down to the bone.
Q: But, Mr. President —
THE PRESIDENT: No buts, David. This isn’t a press conference. This is about understanding how ribs work. It’s a bad metaphor, but I’m not leaving until you understand it, son. Do you hear?
xmas prop a gander did we vote?
ears calumniated by duplicitous speakers
silent sales sandwiched between stale scrambled
unilateral steel toe lapping blood hard red green bow
spirit of giving
pint special sale medicine holed up
phone dead analog nosound
bathtub hot cold
alone at last
The Towers Are the Players
Original Post As It Appeared (December 4, 2003):
Gollum raps. (via Quiddity)
Addendum (May 21, 2013):
The Flash video I linked to was created by Ned Evett, who has since removed the video from his site. I found the link through the blog Quiddity, which I still follow ten years later. But there’s no trace of her original entries. (She has moved to Typepad.) And I have managed to find the old “Towers Are the Players” rap video on YouTube, but I can’t embed it on this page because the user who uploaded prevented this. Furthermore, even though Evett’s video set the precedence for Gollum rapping videos (and is still quite funny), the then groundbreaking visuals are primitive-looking by 2013 standards. And the popularity of Evett’s video has been superseded by a Gollum vs. Smeagol Rap Battle video uploaded on December 30, 2012 and that became quite popular on YouTube (to the tune of 1.6 million views). Nobody has thought to go back to the original Ned Evett video, which is somewhat irksome. I’ve emailed Ned Evett and asked him if I could interview him about these fascinating issues.
Second Addendum (June 19, 2013):
Ned Evett kindly answered my email.
“I’m currently overhauling my YouTube channel to include almost ten years’s worth of video content I’ve let go unmanaged online,” writes Evett. He hopes that the Gollum rap video will be included in this overhaul.
He hasn’t thought to update the video: partly due to time and not having the right idea.
“I tried to strike again but just couldn’t get a funny enough video going.”
Evett has since shifted his filmmaking energies to a series of Roadbot Videos, which ended when Evett directed this video for Joe Satriani in 2008.
He hasn’t had time to work on additional videos because he ended up touring the world with Satch with his band Triple Double. Evett also recorded an album called Treehouse in 2011, produced by Adrian Belew.
He says that he’s working on another Joe Satriani video and an original animated series.
Third Addendum (September 6, 2013):
Ned Evett’s latest animation has just been released. It’s a music video for Joe Satriani’s “Lies and Truths”:
The Charge of the Fight Club Brigade
Half a tale, half a tale
Half a book onward,
All in the hackrooms of Death
Wrote Chuck six hundred
“Forward, the Fight Club Brigade!
“Charge for the books,” Chuck said:
Into the hackrooms of Death
Wrote Chuck six hundred
“Forward, the Fight Club Brigade!”
Was there a reader dismay’d?
Not tho’ the fanboy knew
Some Laura had blunder’d:
Hers not to fly a kite
Hers not to think or write,
Hers not to like one mite:
Into the hackrooms of death
Wrote Chuck six hundred.
Lullaby to right of them,
Survivor to left of them,
Choke in front of them,
Purchas’d and plunder’d,
Gorged through with rage and unschool’d,
Boldly they read and watched,
Into the jaws of Fincher,
Into the mouth of Chuck’s checking account
Wrote Chuck six hundred