statistics of strangeness

The following pie chart appeared in a recent statistical report and reflects what words have been searched for to find this page.

Don't ask me, mang.

laptop + stray skin cells = bioelectronic device

Two orders of business.

1.
On a steel bench with leg crossed in the downtown campus, a man and woman exited their car and made their way to the sidewalk. As the man stepped up on the curb he turned to me and, keeping his stride, projected a gruff, arguably confrontational, question. "What's tuition a quarter at 'Mosey' these days?" Unsure of the best way to condense the explanation that I was not of exceptional privilege, but planning to be haunted by banks for decades after graduation, I said, "Quite a bit," in the most neutral tone I could produce. He stared after me, but was swiveled away by the woman taking his arm. A sum didn't seem like what he was after, though maybe I'm cynical. His question and kinesics were posed in a way that he just wanted me to 'think about that.' In hindsight, I could have replied, "Worth every penny!" Someone could have taken a snapshot of my teeth and put it on one of those pamphlets recruiters bring to high schools. Just superimpose a girl sitting next to me, and print it.

2.
One thing 'Mosey' has instilled is the experimenter's itch. I had a rash of it while using Microsoft's Hotmail web client. I asked myself if advertisements remained constant against various ages of users. Being 24, it seemed natural they would choose to sell screen space for my age group to Internet dating sites. In the 'Personal' subcatagory of my account's configuration, I changed the year of my birth to 1940. Returning to the 'Home' screen I was greeted by health and fitness guru, Dr. Phil... Interesting. At this point I was sure I could create a study caliber for a page on the main site. I needed more data. This time, I changed the year of my birth to 1990. Legos, Pokemon, I thought. "You need a parent's permission to continue." I had locked myself out of my account. The client was unfazed by frantic back-button clicking. Using a friend's (who now, as far as Microsoft's .NET is concerned, was at one time my legal guardian) account and my own debit card, I restored my account and corrected my birth year to 1978. I was then again greeted by Dr. Phil. The hypothesis was incorrect. Learned something about giving false information over the Internet, though.

stoic in the face of robbery

I usually have a lead in to a rant, tonight is no exception. It is the night of the day before the week of finals. Believing I can reproduce a term's worth of mathematical knowledge by scanning a few tests and selectively staring into my notes is easy. Justifying my enrollment in an electrical engineering major at age twenty-four takes some work.

I engaged a hockey player in conversation over some stuffed manicotti and mashed potatoes in the 'caff' this afternoon. Though completely noncompetitive in tone, it revealed our ultimate reasons for being here. He wasn't completely sure of the feasibility of his plans. And I of mine, less so. He dreamt American: of his own business. Responsibility isn't my strong suit, and I want time for other pursuits.

I'm putting my ass into this education thing, but what gets me wondering is if it'll be half gone when game time comes. Electronics are fascinating in their application. Ultimately I'd like to be working on medical equipment or sound reproduction. Upon hearing this, a friend asked, "Why not a doctor or a rock star?" I'd like to be a paperback writer, but I know what I can chew.

As I walked in from a cigarette, the television lounge blared something about plasma televisions. I remember being intrigued by the concept of a wider, clearer picture. It's kind of faded now. Maybe it's the times. I remember thinking those little toy rockets with real propellant were the greatest thing when I was a kid. Now, the idea of working on a cruise system that sends an explosive cargo several hundred more miles to its target doesn't excite me in the way rockets did when I was a kid. It excites me more in the way that I'd like to immediately take to the streets with yardsticks, tagboard and markers.

Is my interest in specific applications of electronics indicative of a thriving interest or a growing disinterest? With one major-related class in next term's scope (to this term's none), it should be revealed. Would transferring to an arts college confirm that I'm wasting my time here, or would itself be a waste? It would be romantic to drop school all together and try to write for a living, but I decided against that in the shower earlier. I decide a lot in the shower.

What scares me about universities of a more intensely intellectual curriculum is the kids. My friends would probably agree that I'd fit in just fine. These people bug me, though. I hear them at the coffee shop analyzing poetry at a volume deliberately set to preside over the smoking section. With my houndstooth slacks, rock t-shirt and smart spectacles I stick out at this school of visual normalcy. But there's something to be said for that.

to be continued

pangea in solstice

Old Fart Winter is blowing hard from the north in Milwaukee tonight. From inside a building, it often sounds like a woman screaming. On the outside, like a crowd of billions cheering at the rock concert on Doomsday. Continents of leaves collect in the gutters and in front of buildings, following some higher mathematical pattern. They are dispersed by the howling gales into smaller colonies that then grow just as dense. The gibbous moon moves against the breaking cloud cover while cyclones raise dead leaves tens of feet from the sidewalk into the air. If only I could find my way to the core of one of the air columns and be tossed carelessly into the night like one of them.

preamble to previous

A friend and I share a fascination with the dark alleyways and grimy corridors of adjacent large cities. I am reminded of the autobiographical account of her young life she shared with me when I shared with her my first pale attempts at fine literature. I am reminded because I would be using time more wisely in completing a paper on the safety on campus than coaxing these words back from last night's crash of this, and the previous, post.

Her account was but a few paragraphs and in a freer form than I work. I recall it being rich in sensory description and, at times, being self-cynical. The hardcopy, or e-mail (I don't remember which) is lost now. It would be nice to be able to reference it now. At the time I read it my medically-hindered comprehension skills required an explanation. There was a city train scene, where she seemed to feel she belonged, and a fruit plate convention at a cafe, where she seemed to not.

The sadder side of beauty is often only found in the observing participant. In conversation, the other party will try to direct sunlight in the form of, "You've come so far," on one's dark or prideless past. When the carefully constructed catharsis is written, the reader may not interrupt. The fact bleeds from the page that the writer's period of uncertainty wouldn't be traded for a body of the bluest blood.

The previous post is written imperitively to myself. I think it bears some similarity to my friend's autobiography in its flat truthfulness.

(previous)

Every once in a while I come here. Every once in that while Blogger loses my entire post before it reaches publication. This night is that every once in a while. I had planned (and written) a preamble to the following madness. I might be able to reproduce it to some extent, but my memory has left me with not even the title much less the crucial adjectives. It was good, but I won't paraphrase it because you would just have had to be there.

Assorted things to do today:

• Search for the list of things to do yesterday. You will know it by its total dissimilarity to a scheduler or daily planner. Look for a small piece of notebook paper with bits of spiral-binding artifact hanging off one side. It will be contrastingly scrawled in black Pilot V5 Extra Fine Point pen. Once the list is found, try to remember the things you had meant to add to it. Don't forget to panic.
• Choose an album from the bookcase half-filled with cds. Spend the first two tracks justifying your selection based on the state you have been put in by school, people you know, and your current neuroses. If you must leave the room, have a hard time deciding whether to stop or pause the music, or to just leave it softly playing for whomever else may wander in.
• Take a shower. Allow the near-scalding water to run while no activity involving soap occurs until the heat is sickening and it would feel better to be out of the stall.
• If you are sick, take pleasure in the fact that now your smokers' cough actually has something to work with.
• Compose in your mind a letter of longing to a lover no-longer.
• Try to remember a clever saying you thought of. Realize it is less clever in print.
• Pass by the hordes of plain old college students and wonder how much avoidance in your young life it would have taken to achieve that kind of inobtrusiveness.
• Come up with yet another theory about the afterlife.
• Based on whether you have classes early or late, throw on one or two blankets respectively, and sleep it off.

i've been robbed!

The fictionfiction.net mailroom has felt a surge. Our best CSRs are on the job. Here's one that got into my hands.

Below is the result of your feedback form. It was submitted by Inspector Gum-Shoe (gumshoe@expect_no_potted_meat.org) on Wednesday, October 29, 2003 at 12:15:25
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subject: My little boat is empty?

realname: Inspector Gum-Shoe

body: whatever happened to "my little boat is empty" that was such an enjoyeable site
i enjoyed downloading the childrens stories a great deal, which I read to the students in my kindergarten class.
well, i hope you at least put up some pictures of kittens instead.

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Inspector Gum-Shoe,
The site you are looking for is in retirement. Find all writings by George K. George at the graveyard. Knowing you, I wouldn't trust you to Satan's own kindergarteners.

low sampling rate

aliasing - 1. The appearance of jagged distortions in curves and diagonal lines in computer graphics because the resolution is limited or diminished. 2. The static distortion in digital sound caused by a low sampling rate.

If my theory that the universe is built in binary holds its liquor in any philosophical realm, human experience can be aliased by a number of methods.

Sight:
Jpeg images are smaller in size than bitmap images because they follow a mathematical compression pattern to then be decoded by the viewing software. Bitmaps assign a binary number, respectively larger or smaller based on the large or small color depth of the image to create each element. When millions of colors are represented, the number becomes larger, and then the x and y of the image are factored with this number. The result is the bitwise size of the image. Jpegs are smaller, but contain overlying color distortions as a result. In some cases, it isn't pleasing to the eye. Anti-alasing can be computed for jpegs, but the accepted definition of anti-aliasing is to smooth pixelated edges of objects. A very low resolution image of a simple circle may look like bars of different lengths when one forces the mind to see it as such, but its recognition as a perfect circle is the initial and unavoidable perception.

Sound:
Mp3s work on a similar priciple as jpeg images. A raw wave file will consume much more physical space on a storage device because the entire sequence of sound is mapped bit by bit. Though barely detectable to the ear at very high sampling rates, an mp3 will reflect, with some metallic-sounding wavering, the fact that it is a patterned compression of the original. Thus, it is smaller is size. Like the style of clip heard on a vinyl recording, the mp3 could have extra appeal for its subtle distortion. Effects pedals of rock-n-roll guitarists can be configured in inumerous ways. Some resemble fuzz, others bring to mind gritty soil. Through the mess, a note with sustain and pitch is perceived. The mind oscillates between pattern and uniformality, generating a dynamic experience. Rock-n-roll!

Controlled Substances:
Pepsi, I have discovered has the same potency as a similar volume of coffee. I'm in no condition to function any morning before one or the other has been imbibed. Coffee is much prefered, though sometimes less available. Not only for the bold taste and warmth in these Autumnal times, but for the particularly smoother let down than given from a can of Pepsi. I believe a tribe I hung with for a time incessantly pointed out the use of 'Federal Drugs.' Caffeine, acetaminophen, nicotine, dramamine are all legal inducers of human aliasing. They roughen the edges, smear gunk over our eyes and fill our ears with gravel. Beautiful, isn't it? Coffee in the quote-unquote morning, cigarettes to see the day through, and grain alcohol to lessen them all in prep for the dull slumber. The 24-bit world is posterized to a more managable Atari 600 level.

I just finished a six-page research paper, I needed to unwind.

gaseous clusters beyond the cinderblocks

Calculus. My teeth know more about it. And they do. After scribbling a value approaching infinity of question marks next to admittedly impressive, less universally known symbols, I paroled myself from it to integrate more into this neverending equation.

Classes in this linear math science are stirring simply from the vocabulary used to relate the ideas. 'Infinity,' 'negative infinity,' 'undefined,' and 'higher power,' are spoken from a rich male voice reminicient of the narration of a highly intriguing educational video. Lead breaks and smears with sweat from my palm in the fury, to keep pace with the instruction. The approach as a student to take is simply, 'if at first you don't understand, keep writing.'

Reasoning the standard starfield simulation screensaver the least distracting as I manipulated variables, I'd come to a failed solution and stare into the generally accepted, though improbable, visualization of future space travel. The shaded florescent blub from above caught the great amount of dust clinging to the outer membrane of the screen. My eyes focused on it, then the white pixels zipping past. The dust particles became the backround as stationary, faint stars. They were the worlds too far to have passing perspective.

I was held, contemplating the scene. I searched for the one miniscule duststar at the center of the screen, the ultimate destination for which this power conservation program was navigating.

George K. George, shall I compare thee to a tool? To explore a relevant metaphor, take the pencil. With plenty of time to sharpen it, it makes a pleasing mark. With returning to engineering school, I fear my social implement will dull with time. Further on, it may lose its lead completely, and make impressions only by its horrible bluntness. To reclude seems the best protection for all on the page. Installments may, and have, become deliquent on the plot sickens with constant regret to the de nada girl.

Into my second year in Milwaukee, I've shown myself in the last week point five just what I learned last year about such a place. Street dwellers are easily managed. Approximate pedestrian travel time is easily estimated. The US Bank building is the slickers' Polaris. And there's a quiz about once a week. Just as ongoing is the (Oh, yeah.) academic aspect of living here. Although I can see the Starbucks around the corner from where the record store is situated at a distance of several blocks, I can't see the star at the center of the screen, that holds the bucks, from where I sit at my desk.

blue angles

Black Bavarian Lager runs through my veins this morning. The premium grain elevators have been populating the crispers lately; for in a day or so I'll be rejoining my peers-with-less-years in Milwaukee.

My summer holiday flashed before my eyes tonight, and it looked just like what was, in fact, in front of me. The time I've spent in Bayfield, Wisconsin could be represented on a pie graph. The yellow of a mid-munch pac-man would represent the time spent between the computer, where I kept my eye on the world, and the front stoop, where I kept my eye on the moon. The black wedge between pac-man's jaw would split between the time I spent buzzing myself up at the coffee shop and in my home town of Merrill, Wisconsin. The play of a pac-man game could easily represent my goings on at MSOE--gobbling knowledge pellets of power while avoiding ghosts.

I've been staring into the backlit LCD more than is likely healthy for the retinas each night, sending out lifelines and messages in bottles. Fictionfiction.net was reborn early this season, in a scale of gray. This place ain't no Geo Cities squat house. It's a studio that requires annual attention. For this reason I may not be able to look it up 20 years from now and entertain myself with its quaint sense of humor. Though, I arc'ed a number of dusty files from the family's soon-to-be passed on Gateway 2000 Pentium 166. (How quaint the term '2000' will be in 20 years--and 'Pentium' perhaps.) Viewing these files was like finding a seventh grade English composition folder. They included a Word document of random notes to self, two barely-begun interactive fiction games in Inform, a 24 page hack at a novel, and one sadly up-to-date resumé.

The coffee shop has a public restroom. With the amount of diuretic I'm usually served, I became familiar with the decor of it. I believe number seven on the list of 'How to build a community,' was 'Sit on your stoop.' I wore a hole in the ass of my favorite jeans sitting on the sand laden paint job (of my own work.) What gave the most entertainment was the hive of bumblebees under the oregano patch. At any time, in the afternoon sunlight, there were three to four bees going at it with the herb flowers. I'm not literally allergic to many things. I feel a bit cheated when I see an allergy sufferer enjoying a good sneezing fit. Bees have typically scared the shits out of me, though. These gentle creatures, however, could easily have their Charlie Brown sweaters stroked with an index finger as they did their business. Early on, a gentle creature waved at me from a passing car. Could be that I barely moved from that stoop for the rest of the summer in expectation of another.

Tonight, as I was slugging Sprecher, a bat made passes under the street lamp as I watched until long after I had finally noticed that my cigarette had burned down to the filter. It must be like shooting fish in a barrel, the bugs, for unknown reasons, swarming around the orange glow. The bat systematically fluttered through the beam then back again from the other direction. Here and then, it would pull off some Blue Angles style aerobatics, only to return to its pendulum-like swing under the light.

I took a picture of the the scene to take to school with me. No camera was needed. The bees were asleep, the flying mammals were hypnotizing me, the neighbors' air conditioner was rattling, and Orion and his mighty shlong were rising in the east. Despite the transfixion on the bat, I would have liked to see the breaker reset on the street lamp. The sodium bulbs take a few minutes to warm back up, and the heavens would have become intense.

As for the town. I can't really say too much for it... Or about it. Fuck it. O bury me far away please. For being as small as it is, there are a lot of lost cats. I had never seen a cat look as shocked and confused, or in fact anything besides tired or inquisitive, as I did when one wandered within three feet of me, on the stoop, looked up, nearly shit itself, and bolted into the street, almost getting ground under the tire of an suv, then running to the middle of the street, starting in one direction, stopping, starting in another direction, repeating this three times, then bolting into a flock of black birds feeding in the neighbors' lawn.

No conclusion planned. Though, I'll mention 'the plot sickens' as a new ongoing collaborative project. What will she say next?

217136 miles of white ribbon

To be considerate of the feelings of inanimate objects is to be American. To mourn the sale of one's car, is human.

Mechanical devices have yet to be accurately personified. I may have driven my '89 Camry to Chicago, and to Minneapolis countless times, but it hasn't 'seen a lot' any more than you can dismantle your television to find the cast of your favorite show having tea in their dressing rooms. A gradeschool teacher said many memorable things; one of which was his theory that all sound could be brought back from any room; as though the walls logged the vibrations from within it. He was also thrilled when he figured out how to record an entire day's worth of surveillance by connecting an early home video camera to a vcr containing an 8 hour tape. I think he liked to make us nervous.

The cigarette-burned bucket seats and the rear-right window that doesn't unroll could easily echo nearly every Frank Black or Pixies song, or perhaps whispered conversations about the front-seat folks. The interior certainly wouldn't speak of any sexual relations, at least of my making. The car was previously owned by a librarian. Perhaps the engineers knew what they were doing when they only taught the thing to say 'beep,' 'vroom' and 'errt.' No, this car was purchased at a retrospectively low period of my young life. Though while driving it 40 miles from town, I had never felt as at home.

It sat for over a year, collecting the dried up reproductive extremities of overhanging trees. The '85 Dodge Aries owned previously managed to collect a family of mice. The Toyota Sedan of which I lament was in stagnation much longer than was the Aries, but apparently urban wildlife are a good judge of what potential homes look as though they are going to move again.

For a year it sat, catching my occasional frown on my way to the image-destroying Mom-mobile. It was a more-than classic case of the funny noise going away once the vehicle was in the presence of skilled wrenches. Occasionally, the beast bottomed out, balls to the floor, at 40 miles per hour, but only when I was driving alone. The nearest Toyota dealer was well out of the car's operating range, and the local, recommended, repair shop refused to 'nickle and dime' around the problem, to ultimately total the car.

But tonight, "I remember you," I'm sure I said aloud. I took the key from the ignition while it ran, stopped the wipers halfway up the windshield, made sure the rear-right window was stuck in place, fiddled with the factory rheostat volume control on the tape deck, and flicked some ashes in the lighted ashtray. Wisconsin law says it's ok to drink in thine auto so long as thine key is not in thine ignition. Engine off, music on, key out, drink up.

She never could get a name to stick, the old Camry. '19th Nervous Breakdown,' though perhaps a supertitious flirt of a name, was taken by a friend's car. I remember tossing around 'Camile.' Not sure why... Oh, yeah, I get it.

With the reconstruction of north downtown Milwaukee, destruction came to auxillary parking for students. For this reason, and the stories I've heard involving purchasing gas at inner city stations unwittingly located to make metropolitan drivers seriously reconsider contributing to traffic density, I will not be setting sail for school in this vehicle. Besides, I'd be waiting for the moment the RPMs fly and the speedometer sinks. She broke my trust, and that's something you don't do... Contrary to my forgiving nature with animate objects.

The Kelly Blue Book tells me I can pull more money for the thing than I paid the librarian--Provided of course it is in pristine 'fair' condition. Will the new owners peel the CD stocking stickers from the dash? Is the Smugglers Canadian flag sticker on the bumper doomed to be replaced by an American flag? Will one fly from the antenna? I was told the two successive previous owners saw the car in a parking lot and identified it immediately by the dimples on its rear bumper. Easily personified, like an old flame.

autumn arrives in the night (a venn diagram)

{ autumn [ ( driving with one window cracked ( unmistakable feel of car heat ) ) ( the air ( could be cracked with a hammer ) ( cigarette smoke becomes harsher, better tasting ) ) { Libras ( Diane Kienbaum ( the antics of ) ( The Dead Milkmen ( Dean's Dream ) ) ) [ ( Jenny Hayes ) } the 6th ward, Merrill, Wisconsin ] ( rock n roll ( hitting the g-spot just a little bit harder ) ( The concert cafe ( Boris the Sprinkler ) ) ( The mission coffee house ( The Invaders ( skankin' real close to strange girls ) ) ) ) standing on top of the world as it dies ] }

georgie and georgina's lucky casino rush

I took myself on a date tonight. It was an unplanned date, not set up by friends or lamented over for weeks in advance. It was spur of the moment chaos, my favorite one-on-one activity. The idea struck me as I was trying, fruitlessly, to play a dvd. The machine is new, and frightfully tempermental, taking a full five minutes to reopen the disc tray after the dvd title is inserted. Viewing the contents apparently involves more keystrokes than depressing the play button with the thumb. Give me a vhs system any day; for digital video went public after I turned 13! It's not often I have the itch for television. I remember that I own the invention only after I can't face my 2-5 current projects any longer. My itch for television, though apparently marginal by my viewing selection, a Japanese anime series, was singular.

Listerine breath strip dissolving in mouth, I set about on my date. "Let's do something crazy," I said to my date, myself. I drove 40 miles out of town to a casino. On the way there I verified with myself that if it was a casino, it would be on an Indian reservation, and cigarettes would be cheap. Oh the luck of things! I arrived five minutes before the adjacent gas station closed for the night. I purchased a carton of Winstons while I waited, looking pretty, in the car. I didn't talk as much on the way back. The music seemed to be enough. There was even a love song or two for us to ponder.

When I arrived back in town, I asked my date, myself, if I was hungry. I suggested Country Kitchen, but I was wise to their non-smoking policy, so I went to the Hardee's drive-through. I was once employed at a Hardee's, or a Carls Junior's if you're west of the Rockies. Aside from the standard hamburger, cheeseburger, roast beef and hot ham and cheese, I believe the Hardee's menu made a complete shift in offerings from the time I enrolled until the time I called in sick of the place. A new sandwich with a noxious sauce every week. They liked to keep us on our toes with order of assembly too. One week, the burger goes on the bottom bun; the next, it's the salady stuff that goes on there. I quit about the time when the burgers began needing diapers. I'm sorry to inform all of you who have been partaking of the Hardee's Thickburgers, but at the shop, that folded napkin with which you've been grasping that 1/3 pound of Black Angus is called... a diaper. Digression. Digestion...

I sped off from the drive-through and parked in the parking lot of a park overlooking Lake Superior. With the music turned down low, my date, myself, and I ate my cheeseburger in the dark.

I returned home. I told myself that I'd like to see myself again, which is more than a lot of dates have said. I invited myself inside. I said I really had to get going. I argued that I really had no choice. I laughed; I can be so funny sometimes. Now it just remains to be seen just how easy I am.

deep inside of a perpendicular galaxie

For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Early, important, physics. New arguements contend there are infinite reactions for every action, implying infinite alternate realities, universes. Yeah, I read the captions in the illustrated version of A Brief History of Time. Time slides by with the occasional miracle on this face of the n-sided die. But, think of the compounded chance that may be going on in other spawns of existence. Por ejemplos:

• I am still playing my first game of pinball.
• A reality spawned near the beginning of ours exists where everything is precicely parallel, only the names differ.
• In some realities, our conversational English sounds downright dirty.
• Hitler may have won.
• Racoons are the dominating species.
• Every coin that has ever been flipped has landed on tails.
• Every roll of the die has landed on 6.
• The human race has died out because of zero gender diversity.
• There is a man who is the pachinko king.

sunday afternoon in bayfield, wisconsin

- georges seurat

popping and clicking

What do I do, you ask? Well, I work for the government: I keep the wraps on secret projects going on in New Mexico, and they pay me handsomely. You know?

hybrid blues will never perish

"Look at Def Leppard! The drummer's got one fucking arm!" - John S. Hall of King Missile

Such a subjective topic, rock music. A friend attempted writing a communications major paper on why anything could be played on the radio, so long as it's played enough, it catches on no matter the orginality nor quality. Amen. But hey, wait a minute. Does this call into question the validity of my admittedly elitist tastes? Fashionable is no requisite for phenomenal, though occasionally rock promoters take a gamble and win.

Recently, Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit" hit number one again. This time on VH1's top hit parade countdown extravaganza to end all extravaganzas. Named "Best Song of Last 25 Years," "Smells Like Teen Spirit" was mentioned in passing by Kurt Cobain during his living years in an interview aired on MTV to be "Kind of a Pixies rip-off." My immediate reaction was, what about the Beatles? Oh yeah... What year is it again? The best song of the last 250 years probably has strings in it. I was noticing today that Cobain's voice has qualities of a stringed instrument in clip through a dirt pedal. My late uncle, a viola player described the sound of strings as sounding like angels' voices. Won't pinpoint the irony.

Moving past the Pacific Northwest Revolution, let's pogo on over to pop punk. The genre can be shredded into many sub-genres, which I won't go into, only discuss my disgust with a few. "Sex punk," to put it bluntly, as do the artists of this division, can !@#$ my $#@!. To add some more editorial, I've found much of the pop-punk produced by female musicians to be better attempted. Shonen Knife, the Japanese girl band that toured with Nirvana, comes to mind. Not in this case particularly, but the Japanese inflection on English lyrics rings more of rebellion certainly than does the snotty delivery of triteness in the majority of today's chart-toppers. And those sneers.

Not the energy to tackle Korn, Staind, or almost any band that ends in a number.

To elaborate on attraction to female artists, another friend told that she didn't think women had what men had in the arena of talent. Admittedly, my record collection consists mostly of male frontmen. To drop some names, Suzanne Vega, a Japanese band called Feed, Liz Phair, have given chills like those at the end of Forrest Gump. I refuse to call them weaknesses. This reminds me of a story. My Technical Communications instructor, Ms. R, had the most beautifully airheaded, scratchy, teenage-girl voice I'd ever heard... Until I realized where I'd heard it before. Exactly like Kim Deal of Breeders. Another chill giver on Title TK. Never missed a class.

In conclusion, a catchy chorus, a breakdown, and a hypnotic fade out.

ten minutes on power three

Pop quiz.
Q: How long does it take to thaw a quart of yogurt that is frozen, not frozen yogurt, in the microwave until it is soft enough to chisel off a small hunk with a spoon?
A: About as long as it takes to boil macaroni noodles in a kitchen devoid of any other suitable milk product to cut the viscosity of the main dish.

Why there is a quart of yogurt-that-is-frozen in the freezer, I may never know. Luckily, the house has plenty of the all-purpose topping, ketchup. Tomato yogurt... There's one Yoplait hasn't attempted. Frankly, if they made Custard Style Key Lime Pie in bigger containers I might invent a new mode of death. ( Refraining from calling it God's Anything. )

I refer to God in the proper tense seldomly. It is less than an acknowledgement when done. Somebody's playing with the clouds tonight, and I think it's the meteorologist. Judging Amy, a television mini-series I assume ( "Mini" by way of my projected long-term interest the nation will have in the show. ) was interrupted by a "Weather Alert" promising plenty of stormy weather headed our way. Then the alert was rudely interrupted by Judging Amy. Not finding the will to live, save some severe thunderstorm action in the near future, nor the will to struggle through menu after menu to find the Weather Channel, I switched to the big screen and waited on the porch for something to happen. Nothing yet, I'll keep you posted.

Beverage: Leinenkugel's Boringinal, Buttery Noodles

a little on the chicken-ey side

Every word thunk is a word soon stumbled over. Planning an exit before the entrance. Anticipation of the hindsight. To relax is to go blank. With going blank comes the exit too soon. A script cannot be stuck with when only I know her lines. No matter the outcome, let it have the fluidity of a television show.

nature girl

Wed, 18 Jun 2003 19:50:42 -0700
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Hello,

My name is Marty Stouffer. I eat guys named George.
Most of them are pretty gamey and a little on the chicken-ey side....but hell, food is food.
Most of them can't run very fast so it's not the thrill of the hunt that keeps me coming back. No, the secret to my near lukewarm passion for George meat is, you guessed it, the convenience. They are found on nearly every continent, and all you need is a bright shiny object to distract them and a club. It's like shootin' fish in a really really small barrel that's crammed really really full of really really big fish. I especially like eating the young ones, older members of the George species tend to make for a tired and stringy plate of meat. You know?

Aside from filming and narrating nature documentaries, I also like:
-selling films to the saps at pbs
-shitting in the woods (screw Charmin, leaves are what make a man, a man)
-watching wild turkeys fornicating on cold winter evenings

Now, how about a little about you? I know I've talked a moose's hind leg off, I think it's your turn. (ahem.) bitch.

Sincerely, THE BIG M. DAWG

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bear

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picture of home

that's me on the left

journal entry #001 - ate too much cranberry pie

i'm like, OMG! my sex life is soooo boring. true as that may be, i won't delve into it. however, i will tend to get more into the journalistic applications of a blogger page. to mock the millions who bitch in online journals about their luck in the world of dating? perhaps i have a little already. there's a special treat at the end of the blog, so stay tuned.

this may have a free-association edge to it. as i usually do, this time i am without shiny nuggets already in my pockets. how many times can i write in an aire of amazement about the untouched environment of northern wisconsin? there are many more daily occurances worthy of the pen in day-to-day life in the metropolis. pretty soon i'll be like, 'oh, yeah, i ate a bowl of bran flakes today and saw a two squirrels mating outside my bathroom window.' on the other hand, many pen-worthy things seem happen when drunk. and there's no shortage of alcohol in wisconsin, nor in my fridge.

let's talk about the casino. i'm up on the casino about $3 since arriving. Lawrence is up at least $90 from putting the blackjack table to shame. it's in a sovereign nation of native americans about a mile up the road from bayfield. wednesday is 'spin the wheel night.' generally one comes out ahead on this day. what the tribe is counting on is a few of you coming back on a thursday. can't argue with the lack of tax on the reservation. $2.50 for a bottle of guinness stout, $1.50 for domestic on tap. cigarettes are legalized insanity too.

let's talk about the weather. 40 shades of gray descended upon this little coastal town. never to fear. i have more than the soundtrack for lying on thine belly and coasting in and out of a doze. let's talk about music. i dug up a tape my close friend cian compiled for me probably 7 years ago. 'a sad tape for a sad guy.' apparently i was having girl-trouble. let's talk about girls. let's refrain.

since leaving the literal confines of ashland behavioral health unit, things couldn't be fabulouser. it's painful to admit that professional detainment righted by occasional temporary insanity, but it has. i can't lay all the credit to them, 90% of which are chumps, chimps, or choads. 10% had substance to their persons, and i've been quoted as such in the height of psychosis. you know who you are. there's also #1. spending 2 months in a hospital for an illness that is similar to contracting 'hit by a bus,' i was in shock. for 7 years after, to some degree, i huddled inward, was avoidant like a cat avoids being thrown in a bathtub. instead of getting a chuckle out of a joke, i became paranoid that it was in some round-about way referring to me. i strived to leave this behind. and i think it made me stronger, though maturity has been creeping in only recently.

chest tube scars which drove me to believe i had been speared by roman soldiers on the cross. glances at chest x-rays that looked like i had been eating containers of food instead of fishing out the contents, which i believed. trying my damndest to convince professionals that i had the same illness as my grandmother, though getting only catch-22 responses. waking up in the middle of the night to the realization that i had no idea if i was 16 or 60 years of age. staring at the blank television screen until something came on. having the ugliness of life and its processes explained to me by horned angels. my word.

this will be the first and last time i get into that mountain of shit. my mother saved pictures of me on the ventilator and skinny as a rod when i started pushing my iv stand around the halls. i'm not very interested in seeing them. i believe i've never written about it until now. the more i get it out the better, but that cup of liquid manure is getting down to the dregs, and i'm ready to move on. in case you don't know me, it was meningicoccal spinal meningitis that nearly took my heart and lungs away on valentine's day 1995. but i'll always have my spine. Hence the title, an Ojibwa man told me that in Ojibwa, my saying the name of the illness sounded like his people's word for cranberry pie. it's now my term for making light of the situation.

Mood:

Music: Enya, Micheal Bolton, Yanni, Joni Mitchell

nature boy

Marty Stouffer here. My reintroduction to the wild was kicked off by slamming into a doe, a deer, a female deer, in a pickup truck a mile outside the city limits. Since packing it up to the nether regions of Wisconsin from the larger, though day-walkable, metropolis of the southern side of the state, I have witnessed first hand several marvels of ecological Darwinism. Where does a hummingbird get off beating its wings at a rate faster than a G-force video card can produce, a lightning bug making its ass glow to attract mates, a skunk warding off unsuspectors with an unearthly smell of ass, a bumblebee moth defending itself by appearing as a threatening creature, while probably tasting like turkey to a feline or canine? Hell, it even flys like a bee. Speaking of turkeys. Saw what looked like a drove of vultures picking at a deer carcass on the side of the road. Must have been the turkey variety since I'm not in Arizona. I also took a few snapshots of bears resorting to a raid on our bird feeder. I'm not so impressed by bears. They look to me like overweight dogs. In Milwaukee the wildlife consists of herds of rabbits (Thank you Mr. Fred Rogers for clearing up the term 'herd' when referring to rabbits. Does that mean there can be a stampede of rabbits?), swarms of pidgeons and gulls... But I came across a possum scared out of it's mind and cowering between the pillars of the dormitory building. I shared the frightened creature with an acquaintance I picked up from finding out that a good friend of mine in grade school is his older cousin. He had only to add when I had the idea to make stew, "Nah, they're really greasy."

So why do creatures evolve clever camouflage, bizarre weaponry, flashy rituals, and physics-defying modes of transportation? I suppose if all species differed only in size and resembled one another, as if all animals looked and behaved like the homo sapien, there'd be even more confilcting views on carnivorousness, it would take a lot of trial and error to reproduce, and statutory rape would deadlock the courts... and there's always the beastiality issue. In any case, I have returned from a cigarette outside and saw a bat. And like the winged rodent that I am, I use my sonic abilities, and fade in to the night.

the number three exists only in our imaginations, naturally, four should follow two, it complies with logic, only because we recall the existence of one once two is realized can we mind the number three and experience three-dimensional conciousness

3 dimensions to space: height width depth

sides to a triangle: trigonometry being the first complex geometric math discipline

pi: 3.14

primary color frequency ranges to visible light: red green blue

main components to atoms: proton neutron electron

basic states of matter: solid liquid gas

states of conceivable time: past present future

3 orbits from the sun: our earth

states of living and non living: animal vegetable mineral

races of people

members of the biblical trinity

based numbering system (zero through 3 squared)

stung by a bee in the dead of night (rehearsal #3)

Okay, Blogger.com is starting to anger me.

Flanked by beer bottles, a 32 oz. Old Milwaukee stands out among the city of brown glass and is attracting most of my attention. I find myself socially drunk by myself for the 4th night in a row. I have the chat windows open, but none seem to be flashing. As the night rolls further on into solitude, the night becomes more and more alcoholic. I suspect my family of planning an organized intervention concerning my foul habits. Fitting that as I type this, Merle Haggard drawls from my stereo with, "I've got no reason to quit."

I'm back from the school machine. My grades were delivered today. I am hanging on to a 3 point by the ridges on my teeth. It's enough to participate in the peer mentoring program next year. TheSpark.com's personality test pegged me as a mentor, and I plan to pad my resume with it. What do I miss most about school? The dormitory urinals. I should mention Rob, with whom I've witnessed the break of dawn high on makeshift espresso more times than I can punch into my TI-89.

Will I ever get around to what I am try to say? Around I go. What you see before you is fictionfiction.net version 4.0, as you will not see it referred to anywhere. Fictionfiction.net began as a receptacle for web-bound authors to submit their works, as well as reviews of anything at all, for display. Turns out it is free and easy to get personal space on the web. Competing against a galaxy of home-brewed literature sites, fictionfiction.net fell into terminal disuse. Hence, 'the new' fictionfiction.net was born, featuring fun. Having since denounced fun, fictionfiction 2 existed for a few days, and resembled nothing more than a blogger page. Figuring an actual blogger page was more appropriate, you see before you what you see now. The new site is basically an archive of past achievements with an updated mp3 catalog and writings by george k george (me). I won't brag about how easy it was to create this site in 4 days, like I did in the other two rehearsals. But it was easy. Believe me.

Living with the mom is cushy so far, but I long to be back in the dirty city. I can't get enough of my mom, though. Let me start from the beginning. I was viewing some pornography the other night on the family's computer. Not moved to auto-eroticism, like some easily are. Yeah, I'm talking about you, Mary Kay. Being the considerate son I am, I cleared the temporary file cache and history index. The next morning my mom wonders why she can't access her bank account records on associatedbank.com by typing simply, 'www.ass' Ass! The autocomplete list was blank. Jesus only knows what might have come up in the address bar had the history not been cleared.

Ideas for topics of fiction are arriving like butterflies. Just need to squash the moths and asphyxiate the monarchs for pinning. With the vulgar praise of my mutual muse, the words have been falling like world leaders under the current administration. I have been published most recently in MSOE's annual verse/fiction/prose booklet. Should have the link to the *.pdf file pertaining to it shortly. Surprisingly enough, a select few engineering students have what it takes. As pretentious as could be, I signed a few random hard copies laying around the Campus Center. The graveyard should be the most updated page on the site. Check it if you feel.

I have pounded every nugget onion paper thin. I suppose I'll sit back and let the sick and tired catch up with the content and glib of my alcoholic evening. Hasta manzana.

pseudo meta description tag

write, writers, writing, author, authors, read, reading, book, books, authorship, cookie, cookies, school, college, university, universities, porn, pornography, porno, nude, naked, girl, girls, boys, men, man, pbs, public, broadcast, broadcasting, oprah, club, community, television, hitler, germany, cold, war, nuclear, islam, christ, christianity, jesus, buddah, krishnamurti, joseph, campbell, soup, rock, rocknroll, roll, music, weezer, pixies, pixie, sticks, drummer, joe, strummer, coffee, donuts, police, cops, fox, mad, magazine, magazines, gun, guns, clash, pink, floyd, big, audio, dynamite, cuba, cigars, cuban, fidel, castro, jimmy, jim, carter, reagan, bush, ronald, mcdonald's, george, k, kafka, gregor, billy, bragg, wilco, frank, black, white, orange, red, blue, green, sea, ocean, oceans, travel, hawaii, hawii, puerto, rico, suave, cds, cd, tapes, tape, records, record, vinyl, vinyls, stereo, radio, radiohead, head, blow, job, sex, city, cities, twin, minneapolis, denver, baltimore, washington, w, chicago, dallas, san, franciso, los, angles, police, uk, england, blokes, bloke, scotland, ireland, bachelors, masters, degree, associates, associate, bachelor, master, masturbate, breast, disney, mermaid, splash

(January 12, 2003)

the dull roar

I have observed that young women have a certain stamina for maintaining online journals. One that I kept up with for a time was updated an average of 1.25 times a day, usually with several paragraphs of content in each entry. This is much unlike my style. This page isn't exactly an online journal, more of a conglomerate of projects. But I work on a system much like 'found art.' I pick things up off the sidewalk and from the dusty corners of my everyday. When my pockets are full, I write. Occasionally I'll find a shiny nugget to pound into something presentable, but much of it either ends up lost in the laundry or glued shoddily together into an entry like this one.

My brother arrived safely in Zurich, Switzerland today. My sister is excursioning in Argentina, and it makes me think. Anxiety comes mainly from two places these days, exam preparation and reading the headlines when passing by newstands. The world is not such a stable place even here in the 'modern age.' My sister heads for the Southern Hemisphere, and my brother, the mountains of northern Europe--and in a neutral country no less. Do they know something I don't?

(January 30, 2003)

that guy must really have his life together

At home praying before meals has always been the thing done when clerical or otherwise pious houseguests were present. In fact, among new guests, there is usually an awkward pause when no one knows whether to start shoveling or fold their hands in their lap. And it never crossed my mind since leaving home. Though when eating alone, as is most often the case, tonight I witnessed a fellow lone cafeteria patron do something that appeared as bowing his head in a silent grace for a few seconds before starting in on his hot ham and nacho cheese sandwich with side of succotash. I was amazed. What other student would take the time to pay thanks to whom ever he believes is watching him? I'm sure many of the students here were raised in highly religious households, but to practice it right out of high school in the academic and social whirlwind of undergraduate college. I can't help but think that this individual really has his life together. His posture, unless he has some sort of spinal condition, displays the apparent super-organization of his routine as well. His strut is robotic and intentional. He stares rather blankly ahead. He's probably got his school supplies color coded, knows how much is in his checking account, calls his mother regularly, and begins studying for tests more than twenty-four hours before they're given. I envy in moderation this chaps regimen. That is, if I am at all correct in my judgements. My taste for chaos is strong, and if you'd ask my about my Provider, I'd say it's the entity that is not allowing me to upload these entries.