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12.30.2002
Never MindI just Googled "randomnymity". I got 3 hits. Another fruitless attempt to garner fame and fortune lost to quicker minds. • • • • • Is There A Philoligist In The House?Randomnymity. Define the above word in OED [Oxford English Dictionary] style to win brownie points with Ol' Banzai!* The correct answer can win millions! I like this word, and I like the fact that as of this writing, I can still think that I've coined it. If you know better, please tell me if I've stolen it from any other wordsmith. *Please use the comments, I'm beginning to feel guilty for taking up server space at ennetation. • • • • • Oh Rapture!I hear the angels singing. Not the literal angels of course, the Raelian angels. I hope that their cute little cloney-woney is legitimate. It would put all this ridiculous public debate to bed and allow the mad scientists and their hunchback assistants to get on with their messy, malignant and malefic work. But I digress--thanks to Jason, my pal, my buddy, for tuning me into perhaps the greatest site ever [and linking to yesterday's rant in the process]. No, it's not as fun as that catch Jacko's babies game, or as, ahem, stimulating as terapatrick.com, but it's a sincere, nicely worded easily digestible treatise on the bane of my internet [note the lack of a capital there, also see J's Notes] experience. It is an essay by a Matt Olson on the lack of writing skills demonstrated by 95% of all English-speaking illiterati on the internet. It's all the things that I have tried to say at various times, but has been bottled up by much too much hatred for stupid bastards. Sometimes, I wish my computer had more memory, so I could store all the translation code I would need to check for bad grammar and spelling errors in other languages, too. Go here, you wankers. Read. Repeat until it's sunk in. Writing is not filling virtual space with characters that make sense to you. Writing is communication; to everyone who might stumble across it. Then visit Mike's site to see a well-structured literate site, with links to other well-structured literate sites. Come to think of it, Jason's has some good links, too. I just haven't clicked many of them recently. • • • • • 12.29.2002
RandomnymityThe well-respected and brilliant Ian McClellan has agreed to replace Richard Harris as Prof. Dumbledore in Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. Is there a movie franchise out there that can afford to have this fabulous actor not appear in it? Lucas, are you listening? It's about goddamn time that he's getting his due. Strangely enough, all these big paydays are coming after he came out. You go, girl! Speaking of Lucas, Desson Howe picked epII as the 2nd worst movie of the year behind only Swept Away. Hey, did you see that? That was my new-found, Strummer-appreciation-related respect for Mr. Howe jumping out the window into a dumpster and fleeing down the alley. Hoity-toity bastard. I am so fucking tired. My mind won't come off it's edge. I need a nice, relaxing, productive day at work tomorrow to take the edge off all the post-Christmas retail bullshit. Which, incidentally, is much, much worse than the pre-Christmas rush. Darrell Green played the last game in a 20-year Redskins career today. So long, Darrell. He's a great player and a nice guy. So what if he's a crazy evangelical Christian and he collects vintage VW Beetles. Hey, Snyder! Retire #28! And #9 while you're at it! This is only marginally current, but earlier this week the local newsradio did a series of pieces bringing the year-end messages of world leaders to us. First, they played exerpts from Queen Elizabeth's year-end greeting. She spoke of her personal loss and the trials we Britons face. Then, the reporter mentioned a year-ending "open" letter to the Cuban people from El Presidente, Fidel Castro. He wrote of his continuing recovery from a debilitating infection brought on by an insect bite [!] and the expansion of the glory of the revolution. Quite a contrast, eh? Great reporting, that. It occurs to me that this blog stuff is complete worthless shit. In the new year, I resolve to take this pseudo-space to new levels of fecundity and illiterate ossification. Vive la Internet! Vive la France! I also resolve to rectify a long-outstanding debt to the State of Maryland, travel to New York City, and see more movies in the theater. Oh, and become a better person, pursue my education [or at least a career path that may actually be fulfilling], spend more time with my siblings [who are fascinating people], walk my dog more often and trim her nails on a regular basis. More resolutions to come... • • • • • 12.26.2002
Post-Yule ShitHappy Boxing Day to all you servile bastards out there. Retail establishments should have Boxing Day celebrations for their employees. Today was under-staffed return and exchange hell at the corporate book box. 3 call-outs [who can blame them?] and 1 out-and-out resignation. Joy to the world. I am not getting past this as I would have liked. Check the revised links in essential media. This evening I tipped some Newcastle out to Joe. Rest in peace, man. Emma's link is now updated. Christmas is over. I now feel safe in revealing my favorite Xmas stuff. Best songs: "Father Christmas" by The Kinks, and " 'Zat you, Santa Claus" by Louie Armstrong. I also like the album John Denver and the Muppets: A Christmas Together, but don't buy the new version, there are 3 tracks missing. Two worst: "Jingle Bells" by Babs Streisand and fucking "Grandma Got Runover by a Reindeer". Best Xmas TV specials: "The Grinch Who Stole Christmas" featuring Boris Karloff, "A Charlie Brown Christmas". it hasn't been done better, ever, than those 2. Two best Xmas movies: "A Christmas Story" [props to TNT for 24 hours of bliss], and the George C. Scott version of "A Christmas Carol". Honorable mentions to "It's A Wonderful Life", it's much maligned, but truly great, and "Silent Night, Deadly Night 4". Eat your words, Mickey Rooney! Worst Xmas movie "Santa Claus: the Movie" [honorable mention: "The Grinch Who Stole Christmas" w/ Jim Carrey. Watch the cartoon 4 times instead!]. I had a nice, relaxing, commitment-free Xmas and wouldn't have traded it for anything less than the $318,000,000 PowerBall jackpot. I do miss my mother's cinnamon rolls on Xmas morning, though. She won't make 'em anymore, they're not vegan. Peace on Earth, goodwill towards all persons not shopping. • • • • • 12.24.2002
Tidings of Comfort and PainJoe Strummer died on Sunday. He had a heart attack. He died at home, with his wife and 2 daughters. When I heard this in the morning, my spirit was crushed. Any Christmas bullshit that had been dancing around to Guaraldi or Tchaikovsky in my head vanished without a trace. After a bit, I put on a happy face to my co-workers and the fucking customers, but I am torn the fuck up. I came home, made myself 2 drinks and am right now listening to every bit of the Clash, and all of his solo/Mescaleros stuff. If there was any, I'd be watching Clash DVD's, and crying my fucking eyes out while I stomp around the living room. I got to see him and the Mescaleros last September [2001 for those of you who won't remember]. It was only 2 weeks after 9/11 and the energy that we created there, in the 9:30 club here in DC was tactile. I went with my bothers and it was as true a bonding experience as there can be between guys who are dysfunctional at best when shit is normal. 2 weeks after 9/11, I didn't want to admit it, but I was out of my mind with anxiety. I had seen shit happen, and had felt it happen to people I know that I hadn't had to deal with before. I was no longer cocooned in America, I was part of the violence of the New World Order. I was weak, I was vulnerable, I was pissed the fuck off! Jesus, this concert was just what I needed. There was new stuff, but more importantly the was old stuff, Clash stuff. Joe, in his black suit soon soaked with sweat and beer, brought the house down. 4 encores, but much to the chagrin of this guy who seemed to hang around me all fucking night, no 'Clash City Rockers'. I suppose the 6-7 Newcastles helped a bit, but I had never had a better time, or felt cleaner, when my brothers and I staggered out of that show. A while after I read the news, a fucking Christmas carol came on the overhead. No big fucking deal, right? The shit's been playing all day. Well, it was fucking Robert Goulet. I had to go find a quiet place for the next few minutes, because I couldn't stand the thought of Strummer being dead and Goulet still inhabiting some small, untalented corner of the Earth. Presley, Cobain, Strummer. Morrison, Hendrix, Strummer. Lennon, Harrison, Strummer. This is a blow to me, I won't pretend. Even though they were inspired by many acts before them, The Clash perfectly embodied me: my id, my ego, and more importantly, my politics and my musical aesthetic. I will not pretend that punk rock anymore survives. The era is over. They have won. The temperate, the nominal, the cowed, the non-commital. Strummer is dead, Vicious is dead, Joey & Dee Dee are dead. There is still rebellion out there, but it will never be as well promoted or eulogized as it was between 1977 and 1985. All I want for Xmas is a Clash poster. Good night, Joe. Fuck. • • • • • 12.19.2002
Masterpiece TheaterI knew it would be a good night when I discovered that the crappy multiplex was now less crappy because they sell Goldenberg's Peanut Chews [quality, nourishing chocolates]. Plus, I was only 7th in line for the 7:30pm showing of The Two Towers. On top of the chews, I had a large popcorn [to share], Twizzlers for Jenn, and a Diet Coke for Jennifer. Will wanted a Mountain Dew, but the place only had Coke products and I didn't know if Mello Yello was an adequate substitute. But since I was only 7th in line, he could get anything he wanted when he showed up and we would still only be 7th in line. We got seated dead center and we settled in. My god, were the trailers long. There was a commercial for George Harrison's final album, Brainwashed, which was more like a documentary, a commercial for the new Volvo, then sneak peeks of T3 [bleah], X2 [yeah], Final Destination 2 [was there a Final Destination 1?], Dumb and Dumberer: When Lloyd met Harry, or, When the Shameless Hollywood Machine Wouldn't Leave Well Enough Alone pt. DCCIIV! The only [prohibitively] decent flick advertised was Bruce Almighty. That shit looks funny. Liar, Liar is my 3rd favorite J. Carrey movie and this is written, directed, and starring those guys [Ace Ventura: Pet Detective and The Cable Guy are 1 and 2, disrespectively]. ...An aside, I saw a rumor on the ol' Net yesterday that a trilogy of films starring the aforementioned J. Carrey based on the fantastic kids books A Series of Unfortunate Events by Lemony Snicket. He would play Count Olaf, the villain. In the right make-up, I can see it! I just hope that the producers find a part for Tim Curry who reads the audio books and does a great job... So, once the previews were over, and the lights finally went down. I settled in, enjoying the fact that I had prepared myself by not having a sip of liquid after 2pm and non-reactive food for the past 2 days. I was not going to the bathroom for the next 2 hours and 45 minutes, no matter what! Were my overly obsessive measures rewarded? You're goddamn fucking right they were! Aside from the one not-quite as perfectly produced bit and one nearly-worthless plot addition, I was enraptured. The Two Towers was the middle third of the best movie trilogy ever produced. And I mean that sincerely. Barring some unbelievable twist, these 3 films will be more consistant, better written, better directed, better acted, better produced, and more nourishing to the soul than even the Holy Trilogy. As excellent as Star Wars and Empire Strikes Back were, I freely admit that Return of the Jedi's plot gaps, and poor story choices [killing Boba Fett, Ewoks] weighed the final product down. And don't get me started on the prequels. The Godfather Saga you say? Sure pts. 1 and 2 are nearly perfect movies, but again, the 3rd, mistaken installment screws with the legacy and significantly weakens the story. What else, The Matrix? Solid filmmaking with some nice gimmicks, but will unnecessary, studio-ordered sequels inspire the Wachowskis or will they toss some crap at the wall and see if it sticks? Gimme another! Evil Dead? Please, I love Raimi and Campbell, but c'mon! I'm waiting...see? Only some future, unforseen endeavor could possibly surpass the acheivement of Jackson et al. This is monumental movie-making. As I was saying, before I so rudely interrupted myself, Two Towers ROCKS! The battle of Helm's Deep has surpassed even Braveheart's and Gladiator's scenes of outright destruction. Gollum is the best realized CGI character ever. Yep, better than Yoda. I have heard rumors that New Line will be pushing Andy Sirkis for a Best Supporting Actor nomination for Gollum. I could see that. Wouldn't that be a kick in the head, a virtual character accepting an Oscar. Other acting nods should go to Viggo Mortensen and John Rhys-Davies. The makeup and costuming deserve award upon award. The sound is phenomenal, and I cannot possibly say enough about Howard Shore's score. I don't buy soundtracks very often, and scores even less. The last score I purchased was Fight Club. I have tossed out the extra $15 per for the leather-bound editions of the Lord of the Rings discs. John Williams, eat your heart out. For me, the moments that the whole movie hinged on were the first encounter with the Ents. For those of you who have yet to read the books, the Ents are large, tree-like beings that are integral to the plot. I had my fears that they would not appear, much like the lamented Tom Bombadil in The Fellowship of the Ring. My fears were unfounded, they were fantastic. I read one reviewer [Stephen Hunter, Washington Post] that couldn't get the images of the trees from The Wizard of Oz out of his head while watching these scenes. If you have watched Dorothy getting molested often enough to screw up the magnificent work that Weta Workshop did on those characters, then you need to stop writing movie reviews because you are jaded and cynical and you will fail your audience. But here's the one not-quite what I hoped moment. I promise you, it has nothing to do with the visuals. John Rhys-Davies also provides the voice of Treebeard [I guess he needed something to do on the days he was recovering from his allergies to his makeup]. His voice is too distinct as his own. I won't pretend to be a sound guy, but surely it could have been modulated to be further from the voice of Gimli. Now that I've finished being a complete geek and dork, and aside from that other meaningless plot addition, which I won't bore you with [Faromir dragging Frodo, Sam and Gollum to Osgilloth {sp?}], the movie was perfect. Seriously, perfect. OK, now stop reading this crap and go see it two or three times. Then we'll talk some more. • • • • • 12.14.2002
Star BlechThe new Star Trek film, Nemesis, is crap. I went to see it with friends who had personally heeded Patrick Stewart's plea to see it the first weekend, that's how Paramount will determine whether to make another. So, I was torn. Do I want more bad Trek? Only 3 of the 10 Treks have been quality films: Khan [2], the one with the whales [4], and First Contact [8]. 1 was intriguing, 6 was entertaining, but the rest just suck. There is a supposed rule that every other Trek is good. But as you can see above it's really more of a doubling algorithm. Interesting. It doesn't help that the producers have yet again screwed over my man, Wil Wheaton. There he was, Wes Crusher all grows up and sitting at the big table with everybody else. What, he doesn't have a word to say? Bullshit, man! Wil has been fucked with too many times, he needs to cut it off with those assholes. If you like your fellow actors, Wil, hang out with them. But you don't need Berman and Braga and the now-twisted-into-profiteering "Legacy of Roddenberry". On top of all that, there is too much Data. I don't like Data, he's boring. And in this flick, you get double the Data, double the fun! But at least he gets blowed up real good. But the double survives. In case of another sequel, Brent Spiner won't be out of a job, he made sure of that, he co-wrote the damn thing. And there was no mention of Lore, Data's evil twin from the series. That would have been a good plot twist. Since when did androids get heavier and more wrinkled? There was one review of this movie that said it was "better than Star Wars". Yeah, if Star Wars was complete shit. Why do the Trek-meisters steal so much from Lucas' space opera masterpiece? I'll tell you why, to make an entertaining movie. At one point Data is leading Picard like Luke and Han in their stormtrooper uniforms leading Chewie to the detention bay! Except Data isn't in disguise as a Reman [not Romulan, Reman]. Then, later, Riker [you don't want to get me started on his doughy, bad beard, beady-eyed, no-charisma-having ass] dives into a remarkably garbage-chute-like Jefferies tube [I hate that I even know what a Jefferies tube is]. I felt like screaming out, "Get in there you big hairy oaf! I don't care what you smell!" Stewart needs to stick to a franchise with legs [pun wholly intended], X-Men. Gates McFadden is still hot as hell, but Marina Sirtis' hips have disappeared, and that was all I liked about her character, those nice birthin' hips swinging down the corridors of the Enterprise. Jesus, this post sucks, it's just random sentences. Bye. LinkageVisit the site in Today's Specials [to the left] Emma has nice prose and a healthy, disaffected, anti-capitalist attitude. Plus [and more importantly], she has rated my meager site a 9 of 10 and linked to 'ol Banzai. I'm happily returning the favor. Thanks, Emma. Nice site. • • • • • 12.04.2002
Over The River & Through The WoodsFirst, let me declare that not only is this is an account of a typical family get-together, but that this was one of the most pleasant in recent memory. When I say typical, I must further specify that this particular Thursday, which the United States government, led by U.S. Grant back in 1872 (or maybe it was earlier by Lincoln, I’m frightfully out-of-touch on holiday lore), has named and consecrated as Thanksgiving Day, is a day in which many, many families and familial units of all creeds around the whole of the Greatest Country in The World gather and perform the particular sacraments of this holiday which include gorging oneself on roasted bird, bread soaked in butter and broth, potatoes beaten to a fine mash then mixed with butter or broth, wine, pumpkin pie, and that most American of sports, football. This particular Thanksgiving took place on the last Thursday in November, in the year two thousand and two. On this day I had promised to attend a dinner at my mother’s house to which my sister and brothers, having traveled a ways, would also show their face. If you would, please allow me some further explanation. I come from a family of 6, which was put asunder some 18 years ago when my parents decided—somewhat one-sidedly—that the marriage was over, trusts had been broken, what was one was now one squared and cubed, depending on each spouse’s disposition of companionship at the time. I am the eldest of 4, my sister being the next, and my brothers (fraternal twins) the youngest. We have not all lived together for many years, the closest we had come was the time nearly 10 years ago when all 4 children were living, barracks style, with my father in his harpy girlfriend’s house in a leaky, mildewed basement room. Over time the animosity between my mother and father cooled to a simmer and all became well. Then, the family, none of the children being married or particularly attached, would spend holidays and special occasions together, all 6 of us. Most times, these gatherings would pass rather uneventfully, but often they would degenerate into screaming and insults and sustained levels of unabashed embarrassment in being a member of a terrible family filled with terrible people. That soon faded as well, leaving the children to quibble amongst ourselves. There were myriad life changes, featuring bisexuality, betrayal, drug use, deserted educations, employment (and the lack thereof), girl/boyfriends (and the lack thereof), cars, accidents, and drunken irresponsibility which could not be easily forgiven. Eventually we worked our way through all those issues of import, and settled into a nearly-tolerant, pastoral groove that we were unfamiliar with, so we began to spend less time with each other to re-enlarge the gaps between us. But as I said, eventually, we had no arguments other those socio-political statements that at least one of us would always disagree with. These are the halcyon days, friends, and I cherish them as they are meant to be. It was Thanksgiving, 2002. And we were gathered at the house that my mother had purchased and moved to nearly 4 months previous. She had not lived anywhere other than my childhood home for nearly 30 years (the only brief exception being the 6 months between October 1983 and March of 1984 that we lived 5 in a 2 bedroom apartment in order to demonstrate to the court how much she loathed my father). I was willing to put up with the presupposed antihistamine discomfort, seeing as how she has 4 cats, to which I am woefully allergic. She also has 3 dogs, but they don’t bother me psychically or systemically. Moreover, nearly 2 years ago my mother embarked on a strict vegan diet. This means no animal products in her diet or household, including cheese or honey. I am a consummate omnivore, extolling the virtues of that lifestyle and decrying all else (on both sides) as radical, even extreme zealotry. The denials of ones’ basic appetites are a denial of ones’ self, and seeing that self is a delicate enough thing, why perpetrate artificial constraints upon that fragile thing? My sister began the meatless, cruelty-free ball rolling, and my brother followed closely behind, but for vastly different and non-political reasons. So out of 6, 3 subscribe to the vegan doctrine and this of course poses a problem when mutual epicurean satisfaction is a goal. Disaster looms. The opening stanza of my holiday afternoon began at the moment that the food that we, my father and I, brought with us. These were the dishes that contained the traditional animal-derived ingredients. My sister groaned as soon as she saw the conspicuous shape of a turkey under aluminum. The 4 cats smelled the wonder of actual meat and, working in teams of 2, began to stake their claim to the food. Cats have some sort of gland that allows them to spread their scent by rubbing their face on things, chairs, pants legs, etc. My Mom’s cats, from living in the completely free environment that they do, began to mark the food. Did I mention that I am allergic? Well, cat hair and dander was now all over the food containers, Saran wrap, foil and the quickly re-covered bits of food itself. As soon as 2 cats were shooed away, 2 more took their place. I was not pleased. So, everything was wrapped up as tightly as possible, or put away. And after my first beer, a handful of peanuts and a cracker covered in vegan egg salad, we all (including the 3 dogs) clambered back into 2 cars and drove off in search of a stretch of riverbank with a easy slope. Intriguing, no? Allow me to explain… 6 years ago, my brother, the younger of the twins, bought a Chinese water dragon. He named him Yoshi, after the character in a Mario Bros. video game, and loved him through what can be a trying time in any young lizard’s life, the involuntary sex change. Now, she is an amphibious lizard and he kept her very well for all that time. She grew constantly, going from being able to sit on my thumb with just her tail hanging over, to a length of four feet. Last weekend she stopped eating. He took Yoshi to the vet on Monday and they examined her. The doctors determined that an invasive procedure would be necessary to diagnose her. My brother gave the go ahead. They called him on Tuesday and told him that her liver had failed. It was enlarged and jaundiced. She wouldn’t survive the night. They gave him the choice of euthanasia under anesthetic, or finishing the procedure and allowing her to recover. My brother chose to have her die peacefully in her sleep. With the family gathering on Thursday, my brother decided he wanted all of us to participate in saying good-bye to his friend. He froze the body, gathered all the branches, driftwood and various ropes and things that he had given her to climb on in her really large cage and built a pyre. My brother is a spiritual person, not at all like his eldest sibling, and wanted Yoshi to depart in the two elements that she was closest to—fire, she is a dragon after all, and water—she loved to swim. So it was to be a Viking funeral for Yoshi! The Rappahannock River runs through Fredericksburg. Even though I have lived here for nearly 4 ½ years, I am not familiar with the river. The only place I knew of where we could walk right down to the water and had enough of a current to sweep the pyre away is right in the middle of town. I was sure that we would be noticed, the police would be called and we would all spend Thanksgiving in jail on charges of malicious mischief, or desecration of a body without a permit, or something. So I was a bit edgy. The 3 dogs came along, because they are family, too. They led us to an easy path, except for the mud. The thick, deep, fragrant river mud. My other brother, the older of the two, lost a shoe in a particularly difficult sinkhole and I had mud up to the middle of my calves. The others had an easier time of it, and didn’t get so dirty. We reached the water, lit the pyre, and said a few words. The fire had been burning pretty well for a few minutes when I saw a state trooper drive by on the opposite bank. My natural disposition to avoid law enforcement types when I should be at home enjoying a relaxing afternoon of turkey and football immediately spurred me to back away and deny any association with these people. I was assured that he hadn’t seen us. I wasn’t buying that. This was when the poor lizard’s body fell from its makeshift casket. It was a pitiful sight, and my brother was quite distressed. He picked her back up and laid her back on the fire. By now, I was too far away to comfort him. Once I crested the bank, I heard my mother call out for the dogs. She had lost her grip on the three leashes and the dogs, 2 German Shepherds and a mixed breed about the size and shape of a Sheltie apparently not affected by the emotion of the moment, had run off into the water to play. I ignored this while I grumbled my way through cleaning the large globs of mud off my boots with a stick. Scant minutes later, no police having shown themselves. The family members made their way back, across the soccer fields and past the pavilions of the public park, to the cars. We loaded up, muddy paws, boots and all, and headed home. The bereaved was satisfied and seemed at peace. Now, if I were given to exaggeration, I would tell you of returning home to discover a mangled turkey carcass and empty pie pans. This was not the case. The packaging had withstood the full, unsupervised fury of the cats, and after a few things were warmed, dinner made its way to the table. However, the 4 o’clock football game had begun. The older twin's beloved Redskins were playing the arch-rival Dallas Cowboys and he was frustrated that dinner was late and he wouldn’t be able to savor every frustrating down in glorious stereo sound. So, with the TV muted, we sat to eat. Everything was delicious, I ate the vegan fare, and the vegans avoided the non-vegan dishes like the plague. My vegan brother had added chili/garlic paste to the traditional green bean casserole, nice touch, and my mother made her usual mushroom gravy, which may as well be a meal unto itself. My sister’s sweet potatoes were fantastic, marshmallow-free, you know. The turkey was flavored with apple and onion and celery and orange zest. It was juicy and delicious, and there is still so much left over. The wine was fitting (and my sister didn’t accuse us all of alcoholism for having a glass or two). Only one dish was broken, a pitcher’s handle was cracked off. Everyone was well behaved; there were no arguments. In fact, the conversation was very stimulating. Until dinner was over, then the older twin transformed into a Neanderthal football fan, curses ejaculated with every sentence, even the joyful ones (take that, motherfuckers!), beer flying out of the bottle when he leapt up in anger or celebration. Eventually, when it was apparent that the Redskins were going to lose, he settled down into a moping slouch that has become all too familiar and, in this instance, matched the napping forms of my Dad, little bro, and sister. Oh, for the fondly remembered glory of the Joe Gibbs era! Dessert followed the conclusion of the game. And it was disappointing to say the least. My mother, usually a great cook/baker, made a vegan chocolate “cheese” cake. The filling was tasty, but the crust was made from couscous (bleah). The vegan brother made a vegan pumpkin pie, but he didn’t blend it properly; it had the texture of cottage cheese. If not for my practical brother's purchase of a fantastic sour cherry pie, there would have been nothing sweet to top the meal off. I was still very full, so I only had a small sliver. My father and I left soon after, since we had come together, to go home and see to our dog. Goodbyes were said, and we all departed on good terms, an amazing occurrence at a family dinner. My mother heaped more leftovers on us; we were already carting away all the non-vegan food [except, to my chagrin, no cranberry sauce!]. So I tied on my muddy boots and we headed home. Once we had unpacked the food and let the dog out, I cracked open a beer (which actually settled my stomach) and dozed off on the couch. Around 9:30 I decided to call it a night, and read myself into a satisfying sleep. After all, Black Friday was only 10 hours away. 12.01.02 Fredericksburg, VA • • • • • this site is copyright © 2002 no one [except where acknowledged] at least ¼ of this page's content isn't original, and all the images are taken from wonderfully ignorant sources who haven't sued...yet. |
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Banzai!'s Blog Of Fantastic Terror!      
Occasionally, I must write. I use my fingers to type and words come out. Occasionally, I must poop. I sit on the toilet, allow my bowels to contract and my sphincter to relax, then poop comes out. Occasionally, I get confused. This is the result.Silliness is the last refuge of the doomed. - Berkeley Breathed, Bloom County Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.-the First Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America jeremiad (n) origin: French, Late Latin : a prolonged lamentation or complaint; also : a cautionary or angry harangue
ESSENTIAL MEDIA: books: films: music: tv: TEAM VENTURE QUOTE OF THE WEEK: "What am I, hearing things?! Am I all alone out here?! "Didn't you just feel the the wind of freedom whipping through your sweater vest? Can't you hear the wind callin', 'Little Miss, Little Miss Can't Be Wrong? "We're free! "We are the future! You're still thinkin' like the old Dean!" -Hank Venture
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