Thursday, December 22, 2016
My Wombat (REDUX)
12.4.2016 (first posted this week 2000)
I ain't giving any presents fer xmas this year. Instead I figure I'm just gonna party. I was out pickin' up some Christmas paper and I'm thinkin' I need to start getting things to wrap up with this stuff. I'm makin' up a list of folks and there's quite a few people I'm figurin' I ought to be picking something up for, but nothin' is jumping right out at me. That's when I figure out the party deal. So simple. Party. And race. Party and race. Dog? Nope. Horse! Them are two things you can do at the same time: Party and race. So that's it. You want a Christmas present? Sorry. You want someone to party with? Cool. I'm yer man. You wanna go to the racetrack? That's cool too. Too bad there ain't any, like, car or motorcycle races going on around now. Or bike races. That's a full day of fun. Goin' to the mountain bike races. Oh yeah ... I'll go skating too. Party, racetrack and skate. I know a bunch of people are clearin' out for Christmas and all, but there are going to be people about to party. So that's it. Let's kick off the partyin' tonight!
Tonight - Orbit Room (duh... it's the Winter Solstice. Get it?!?)
Also, last "offical" meeting of the year.
Everyday is frikkin' Christmas at this joint. Thanks to Tama for the venue suggestion. Any more news? I don't know. One announcement: If you're to enjoy winter sports, esp. alpine events, please be careful. Have fun, but safety first.
TONIGHT'S CONTEST: Refrigerator Art. (Art majors not eligible.)
TONIGHT'S DRAMATIC REENACTMENT: The Rescue of the Andes Plane Crash Survivors. On this day in 1972, two members of the Uruguayan rugby team who had survived the crash of their plane in the Andes mountains led rescuers to the crash site and 14 more survivors. The plane had crashed ten weeks earlier and many passengers survived both the crash and the fierce conditions high in the Andes. These folks resorted to cannibalism to stay alive! Players: Raub plays the plane; Alan plays the Andes; Lori K. plays the fierce elements (!); Serena and Lisa W. play the two team members who led the rescuers to the crash site; Clova and Al play rescuers; Team Bjeldanes plays the dead folks and ... eeeewwww ... Bobo, Mark, Chef, Bishop, Jeremy, Robin, Sue, Dee and (nameless) play the CANNIBALS!
TONIGHT'S SINGLED-OUT LIST MEMBER(S): Mr. and Mrs. Jim Rose. C'mon out.
Guess what? I used to rotate. Now I spin.
Lock them casters and climb on the TNSC experience! After all, it is the penultimate Y2K TNSC meeting! Bring a yule log and some mistletoe and knock back some nog at Orbit Room. Bring yer pals, I know I will. See you there!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, December 15, 2016
Black and Deck Her (REDUX)
12.3.2016 (first posted this week 2009)
Witnessing righteous mothering in action daily, what with my Little Wife throwing around mothering Ez Pez like a pro, I figure it's a good time to dig up a TRUE story of a mother doing some kick ASS mothering to combat a lousy mother's mothering from way back, nearly a meeelion years ago, sometime in the 1980s.
My neighbor's future convict, or "son," had a birthday and, being neighbors of the same age, I got to go give him a Chewbacca actio figure and get some cake and ice cream with a bunch of other little lunatics. It all went down like you can imagine: Screaming and yelling, cowboys and indians (or "coyotes and Border Patrol" as we played in the Desert Southwest), Jarts®, presents, and then cake and ice cream. I played the role of Milton from Office Space and, uh, got no cake and ice cream. Because I had a run-in with my neighbor's lousy mom a couple days earlier, I clammed-up and sat it out. No cake, no ice cream. No shit.
I must have casually mentioned the omission to my mom later that day. That's the only thing that explains why shitty-neighbor mom brought a slice of lousy cake and a scoop of melted ice cream over to my house. I think she asked why I didn't say anything at the time. I don't remember what I said, but I hope to fuck it was funny.
Tonight - Wooden Nickel
Robots wish Happy Birthday Drinkys to H.Founding Member Mathias Alonzo Genser and Novice Member Gaelan Thomas Alonzo Mundorff
Oh and for you archivists out there (Alan), the neighbor lady mentioned in the VA is indeed the one who got a penny stuck in her scalp. Yay, lawnmowers!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Witnessing righteous mothering in action daily, what with my Little Wife throwing around mothering Ez Pez like a pro, I figure it's a good time to dig up a TRUE story of a mother doing some kick ASS mothering to combat a lousy mother's mothering from way back, nearly a meeelion years ago, sometime in the 1980s.
My neighbor's future convict, or "son," had a birthday and, being neighbors of the same age, I got to go give him a Chewbacca actio figure and get some cake and ice cream with a bunch of other little lunatics. It all went down like you can imagine: Screaming and yelling, cowboys and indians (or "coyotes and Border Patrol" as we played in the Desert Southwest), Jarts®, presents, and then cake and ice cream. I played the role of Milton from Office Space and, uh, got no cake and ice cream. Because I had a run-in with my neighbor's lousy mom a couple days earlier, I clammed-up and sat it out. No cake, no ice cream. No shit.
I must have casually mentioned the omission to my mom later that day. That's the only thing that explains why shitty-neighbor mom brought a slice of lousy cake and a scoop of melted ice cream over to my house. I think she asked why I didn't say anything at the time. I don't remember what I said, but I hope to fuck it was funny.
Tonight - Wooden Nickel
Robots wish Happy Birthday Drinkys to H.Founding Member Mathias Alonzo Genser and Novice Member Gaelan Thomas Alonzo Mundorff
Oh and for you archivists out there (Alan), the neighbor lady mentioned in the VA is indeed the one who got a penny stuck in her scalp. Yay, lawnmowers!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, December 08, 2016
Teacup (REDUX)
12.2.2016 (first posted this week 2005)
Growing up I had a friend whose folks were very, very wealthy and the things they bought and did, and indeed the house they lived in, showed it. Their house was more like a palace: It had a four-car garage, a pool with a slide built into the mountain they lived on, a shooting range in their basement and - best of all - a two lane automated bowling alley. IN THE HOUSE. Holy shit. Well, like I said, I was pals with this kid and when we were little, the Mexican maid would make us after school snacks and when were a bit older we would take a couple of the horses around the mountain preserve. Yeh. Some places have wetland preserves, others have forest preserves and the desert I grew up in had mountain preserves. Fulla cactus, dust and rattlesnakes. And certain days after school in 1985 or so, a couple dorky teenage kids on horseback.
I wasn't a total stranger to horses. I got kin up Oregon with a big 'ol ranch and they got plenty of horses. On vacation to the ranch my brother, sister and I would coax our cousin into saddling-up a couple of the horses and we'd ride. Fun. This rich friend of mine's horses were not ranch-style work horses. More like "prance around fancy-like" horses. Beautiful, well-fed and meticulously fawned over by their trainers if not their owners. All I did was learn how to saddle them, ride the mountain trails and brush 'em down after. Calm.
For a while.
1985 woulda made me and my pal 15 and being 15 woulda made a guy wanna smoke ciggys and drink slushys and horseback or no, we'd get it done. If it weren't for the Cubs cap, OP shorts and Black Flag T-shirt I woulda looked like the frikkin' Marlboro Man up there. Oh, and for the 15 yrs old part. And for the fancy horse. And Vans. And $5k saddle. And no guns. OK. I think you get the picture.
Invariably two 15 yr olds would run out of ciggys and need a neon green slushy and need to get them some so they'd ride them horseys off the mountain and down the road to the 7/11. Horseback riders were not an uncommon sight in the desert city back then. We'd get a lot of stares, a few honks and lots of room: Them pansy drivers didn't want anything to do with a big 'ol horse - prissy horse or no. 7/11 didn't accommodate horses anymore as they'd removed the hitching-posts a few years back when folks began to use the motor car. So either my friend or I would stay there in a parking space with both bridles while the other would go in for smokes and slushys. Twice, TWICE I tell you, when I had horse duty, my horse took a huge dump in the parking space.
The first time was the best: My pal goes in and I wait. A few seconds later my horse let 'er rip and I started laughing my head off. There was a small group of people gawking at the horses and they too began to laugh. My pal came out with the goods and the 7/11 dude came out too, initially to look at the horses but immediately noticed the giant pile of horse shit and his look of amused wonder became that of rage. "You - you - you clean that up!" he stammered. "What? No way," I said. By this time my pal was on his horse and he said the same. "No way, man." The 7/11 dude was pissed and took a step toward us and thought about it but quickly assessed his chances against two jerky teenagers on horseback and decided against it. "You never come back!" he yelled as we put the spurs to 'em and trotted on out of there. Ha! Well we did go back, often, and by the time he'd forgotten about the poop my horse pooped again. Makes me laugh 20 yrs later.
Tonight - Tempest (by request)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Growing up I had a friend whose folks were very, very wealthy and the things they bought and did, and indeed the house they lived in, showed it. Their house was more like a palace: It had a four-car garage, a pool with a slide built into the mountain they lived on, a shooting range in their basement and - best of all - a two lane automated bowling alley. IN THE HOUSE. Holy shit. Well, like I said, I was pals with this kid and when we were little, the Mexican maid would make us after school snacks and when were a bit older we would take a couple of the horses around the mountain preserve. Yeh. Some places have wetland preserves, others have forest preserves and the desert I grew up in had mountain preserves. Fulla cactus, dust and rattlesnakes. And certain days after school in 1985 or so, a couple dorky teenage kids on horseback.
I wasn't a total stranger to horses. I got kin up Oregon with a big 'ol ranch and they got plenty of horses. On vacation to the ranch my brother, sister and I would coax our cousin into saddling-up a couple of the horses and we'd ride. Fun. This rich friend of mine's horses were not ranch-style work horses. More like "prance around fancy-like" horses. Beautiful, well-fed and meticulously fawned over by their trainers if not their owners. All I did was learn how to saddle them, ride the mountain trails and brush 'em down after. Calm.
For a while.
1985 woulda made me and my pal 15 and being 15 woulda made a guy wanna smoke ciggys and drink slushys and horseback or no, we'd get it done. If it weren't for the Cubs cap, OP shorts and Black Flag T-shirt I woulda looked like the frikkin' Marlboro Man up there. Oh, and for the 15 yrs old part. And for the fancy horse. And Vans. And $5k saddle. And no guns. OK. I think you get the picture.
Invariably two 15 yr olds would run out of ciggys and need a neon green slushy and need to get them some so they'd ride them horseys off the mountain and down the road to the 7/11. Horseback riders were not an uncommon sight in the desert city back then. We'd get a lot of stares, a few honks and lots of room: Them pansy drivers didn't want anything to do with a big 'ol horse - prissy horse or no. 7/11 didn't accommodate horses anymore as they'd removed the hitching-posts a few years back when folks began to use the motor car. So either my friend or I would stay there in a parking space with both bridles while the other would go in for smokes and slushys. Twice, TWICE I tell you, when I had horse duty, my horse took a huge dump in the parking space.
The first time was the best: My pal goes in and I wait. A few seconds later my horse let 'er rip and I started laughing my head off. There was a small group of people gawking at the horses and they too began to laugh. My pal came out with the goods and the 7/11 dude came out too, initially to look at the horses but immediately noticed the giant pile of horse shit and his look of amused wonder became that of rage. "You - you - you clean that up!" he stammered. "What? No way," I said. By this time my pal was on his horse and he said the same. "No way, man." The 7/11 dude was pissed and took a step toward us and thought about it but quickly assessed his chances against two jerky teenagers on horseback and decided against it. "You never come back!" he yelled as we put the spurs to 'em and trotted on out of there. Ha! Well we did go back, often, and by the time he'd forgotten about the poop my horse pooped again. Makes me laugh 20 yrs later.
Tonight - Tempest (by request)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, December 01, 2016
Nuts (REDUX)
12.1.2016 (originally posted this week 2002)
You ever stumble on a good thing and want to tell everyone? You figure out something that folks ought to know about and you're fired up to tell them but then something snaps! Why tell them and risk the new great thing being wasted, trampled, used up, abused and potentially destroyed? I'm sitting on a few gems right now that I think some folks would appreciate but I'm reluctant to share the info 'cause I don't want to fuck it up. The first thing, in all fairness, was revealed to me as something cool and I proceded to sit on it; didn't share with anyone else (it kinda paints me as a fucking asshole, I suppose). The item in question is the optimum lane on the Bay Bridge to take West to SF during traffic. A kind List Member revealed the secret to me and I saw the truth in it over several subsequent commutes. Why ain't I spread the good news? Well shit. I guess it's because I don't want everybody hogging the far- right lane from now on. Same with another cool thing: The poppyseed bagels at work are far superior to all the other shitty bagels. You can tell something sets them apart, as they come on a fancy plastic tray (fancy plastic?) and they're only served in the front (read: better) kitchen. Yeh, they've got too many poppyseeds on them, but all you gotta do is saw the thing in half and use the seedy sides as sandpaper, rub 'em together and get most of the seeds off. Toast, apply cream cheese and dang! After I discovered the great disparity between the myriad and plentiful "other" bagels and the poppyseed super-bagels, I shut my trap and never told a soul. Fuck. I'm beginning to see this as a character flaw. What a jerk. I'm sorry, officially. Go hog my bridge lane and eat up my fav bagels. They're special things and they should be experienced by everyone. Well, almost everyone. I can think of a few shitheads I don't want pawing at the bagels ...
Tonight - a "two-fer"!!! (by request):
venue 1 - Standard Deviant Brewing (they close by 10)
after that go next door to:
venue 2 - Armory Club
That said ... "See you at the bar." G'won over and hoist a few. Bring yr pals. I know I will. See you there!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
You ever stumble on a good thing and want to tell everyone? You figure out something that folks ought to know about and you're fired up to tell them but then something snaps! Why tell them and risk the new great thing being wasted, trampled, used up, abused and potentially destroyed? I'm sitting on a few gems right now that I think some folks would appreciate but I'm reluctant to share the info 'cause I don't want to fuck it up. The first thing, in all fairness, was revealed to me as something cool and I proceded to sit on it; didn't share with anyone else (it kinda paints me as a fucking asshole, I suppose). The item in question is the optimum lane on the Bay Bridge to take West to SF during traffic. A kind List Member revealed the secret to me and I saw the truth in it over several subsequent commutes. Why ain't I spread the good news? Well shit. I guess it's because I don't want everybody hogging the far- right lane from now on. Same with another cool thing: The poppyseed bagels at work are far superior to all the other shitty bagels. You can tell something sets them apart, as they come on a fancy plastic tray (fancy plastic?) and they're only served in the front (read: better) kitchen. Yeh, they've got too many poppyseeds on them, but all you gotta do is saw the thing in half and use the seedy sides as sandpaper, rub 'em together and get most of the seeds off. Toast, apply cream cheese and dang! After I discovered the great disparity between the myriad and plentiful "other" bagels and the poppyseed super-bagels, I shut my trap and never told a soul. Fuck. I'm beginning to see this as a character flaw. What a jerk. I'm sorry, officially. Go hog my bridge lane and eat up my fav bagels. They're special things and they should be experienced by everyone. Well, almost everyone. I can think of a few shitheads I don't want pawing at the bagels ...
Tonight - a "two-fer"!!! (by request):
venue 1 - Standard Deviant Brewing (they close by 10)
after that go next door to:
venue 2 - Armory Club
That said ... "See you at the bar." G'won over and hoist a few. Bring yr pals. I know I will. See you there!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, November 17, 2016
Your Lexicon (REDUX)
11.3.2016 (first published this week 2000)
I looked up the word "paradox" in the dictionary. I know what the word means but sometimes it's nice to see an official definition. Clears up any ambiguities. www.dictionary.com (a very cool resource) defines "paradox" as:
1. A seemingly contradictory statement that may nonetheless be true: the paradox that standing is more tiring than walking.
2. One exhibiting inexplicable or contradictory aspects: "You have the paradox of a Celt being the smooth Oxonian" (Anthony Burgess).
3. An assertion that is essentially self-contradictory, though based on a valid deduction from acceptable premises.
4. A statement contrary to received opinion. I like the number two definition.
At a Cubs / Giants game a couple years back my lovely sister wore a Giants cap and a Cubs jersey. I pointed a finger at her and said, "yer a damn paradox there, sister." (Anybody know what an Oxonian is? Look that sucker up.) It is, however, the number three definition that clearly conveys the paradoxical feeling I had the other day. I was being bad, but at the same time it was really good. I ain't gonna tell you details. (I don't want to tip my hand to the Sherrif's Department, if you know what I mean.) But there's yer paradox: Bad is good. Self-contradiction. Weird how that works out. I just wanted to share one of my favorite words with you. Tonight we trade favorite words and drink here:
The Homestead (a port of sanity in a sea of madness)
**NOTE** last official meeting of November. Came quick, no?
One fella new to the list: Don. Hi Don. Really nice turnout at Latin American Club last week. Might as well make tonight's meeting, too.
TONIGHT'S CONTEST: Limbo.
TONIGHT'S DRAMATIC REENACTMENT: The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. Players: Tama plays the Edmund Fitzgerald, "The Pride of the American Flag." ("The ship was the pride of the American side / comin' back from some mill in Wisconsin "); Moss plays iron ore. ("With a load of iron ore 26,000 tons more / than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty"); Jerry plays Lake Superior ("The lake it is said never gives up her dead / when the skies of November turn gloomy"); (nameless) and Dee play the northeast winds and the wily northwest winds, respectively ("and late that night when the ship' bell rang / could it be the north wind they'd bin feelin'); Spark plays the waves breaking over the side ("The captain wired in he had water comin' in / and the good ship and crew was in peril"); and Clova plays the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald ("and later that night when 'is lights went out of sight / came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald"). (You might guess that them lyrics are from that famous song. The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald; Lyrics by Gordon Lightfoot, Moose Music Ltd.)
Anybody see that lady sitting in her car in the parking lot yesterday? She was crying really hard. Weeping. I wonder if she's all right.
Another of my fav. words is "pariah." Haul your behinds to the 'Stead fer a shot. Bring yer pals. As always, I will. See you there! bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
I looked up the word "paradox" in the dictionary. I know what the word means but sometimes it's nice to see an official definition. Clears up any ambiguities. www.dictionary.com (a very cool resource) defines "paradox" as:
1. A seemingly contradictory statement that may nonetheless be true: the paradox that standing is more tiring than walking.
2. One exhibiting inexplicable or contradictory aspects: "You have the paradox of a Celt being the smooth Oxonian" (Anthony Burgess).
3. An assertion that is essentially self-contradictory, though based on a valid deduction from acceptable premises.
4. A statement contrary to received opinion. I like the number two definition.
At a Cubs / Giants game a couple years back my lovely sister wore a Giants cap and a Cubs jersey. I pointed a finger at her and said, "yer a damn paradox there, sister." (Anybody know what an Oxonian is? Look that sucker up.) It is, however, the number three definition that clearly conveys the paradoxical feeling I had the other day. I was being bad, but at the same time it was really good. I ain't gonna tell you details. (I don't want to tip my hand to the Sherrif's Department, if you know what I mean.) But there's yer paradox: Bad is good. Self-contradiction. Weird how that works out. I just wanted to share one of my favorite words with you. Tonight we trade favorite words and drink here:
The Homestead (a port of sanity in a sea of madness)
**NOTE** last official meeting of November. Came quick, no?
One fella new to the list: Don. Hi Don. Really nice turnout at Latin American Club last week. Might as well make tonight's meeting, too.
TONIGHT'S CONTEST: Limbo.
TONIGHT'S DRAMATIC REENACTMENT: The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. Players: Tama plays the Edmund Fitzgerald, "The Pride of the American Flag." ("The ship was the pride of the American side / comin' back from some mill in Wisconsin "); Moss plays iron ore. ("With a load of iron ore 26,000 tons more / than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty"); Jerry plays Lake Superior ("The lake it is said never gives up her dead / when the skies of November turn gloomy"); (nameless) and Dee play the northeast winds and the wily northwest winds, respectively ("and late that night when the ship' bell rang / could it be the north wind they'd bin feelin'); Spark plays the waves breaking over the side ("The captain wired in he had water comin' in / and the good ship and crew was in peril"); and Clova plays the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald ("and later that night when 'is lights went out of sight / came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald"). (You might guess that them lyrics are from that famous song. The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald; Lyrics by Gordon Lightfoot, Moose Music Ltd.)
Anybody see that lady sitting in her car in the parking lot yesterday? She was crying really hard. Weeping. I wonder if she's all right.
Another of my fav. words is "pariah." Haul your behinds to the 'Stead fer a shot. Bring yer pals. As always, I will. See you there! bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, November 10, 2016
Bedtime for Democracy (REDUX)
11.2.2016 (first published this week 2004)
You ever get that "board-upside-the-head" feeling? For example, mebbe you live in a country you love and you respect your countrymen and have confidence they are pragmatic, intellegent people only to have the fact that the vast majority of them are ... um ... "not?" That is the "hit-by-board" feeling. Yeh, well I sure had that feeling, just the other day. I had me an idea about something and all of a sudden - BANG! - right upside the head. Here's the tale:
Not too many weeks ago I heard a news radio report that there was a DRAMATIC shortage of pole workers in the US. I thought: How horrible! I also thought: "Workers?" Pole "workers?" Since when did they call themselves "workers?" Perhaps they formed a national alliance of sorts, much like the strippers did in SF when they "Unionized." (I wondered if, in their unionization, the strippers considered a name-change too, something like, "Suggestive Erotic Clothing Sheddists (SECS)" or "Onstage Lingere Peelers.")
Union or not, the country seemed to be in a bad way for professional pole workers and report after report went across the radiowaves explaining the fact. I heard one report that ladies as old as 70 or 80 were coming out of retirement to answer the call. I thought: Good for them! Then I shook my head and thought: Ye Gods! An 80-year-old pole worker? One, I bet the tips won't be pouring in, and two, she better be careful up there or she could fall and break a hip!
The radio reports continued to say that, while the volunteership had helped, there was still a great shortage and some communities would suffer. I though it sad. Communities SHOULD be supported by enough pole workers.
THEN! and here's where the 2-by-4 comes into the story, then I switch on the torture of Election Day coverage on the TV this time (not the radio) and lo, there's a report about the pole workers. Only this time it's not POLE workers, it's POLL workers. WHAMMMM-O! Right in the bean. Then I thought: Fucking homonyms.
Tonight - Club Deluxe (by request)
Little Minsky's Burlesque and Variety Show - $7 cover / show at 10pm
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
You ever get that "board-upside-the-head" feeling? For example, mebbe you live in a country you love and you respect your countrymen and have confidence they are pragmatic, intellegent people only to have the fact that the vast majority of them are ... um ... "not?" That is the "hit-by-board" feeling. Yeh, well I sure had that feeling, just the other day. I had me an idea about something and all of a sudden - BANG! - right upside the head. Here's the tale:
Not too many weeks ago I heard a news radio report that there was a DRAMATIC shortage of pole workers in the US. I thought: How horrible! I also thought: "Workers?" Pole "workers?" Since when did they call themselves "workers?" Perhaps they formed a national alliance of sorts, much like the strippers did in SF when they "Unionized." (I wondered if, in their unionization, the strippers considered a name-change too, something like, "Suggestive Erotic Clothing Sheddists (SECS)" or "Onstage Lingere Peelers.")
Union or not, the country seemed to be in a bad way for professional pole workers and report after report went across the radiowaves explaining the fact. I heard one report that ladies as old as 70 or 80 were coming out of retirement to answer the call. I thought: Good for them! Then I shook my head and thought: Ye Gods! An 80-year-old pole worker? One, I bet the tips won't be pouring in, and two, she better be careful up there or she could fall and break a hip!
The radio reports continued to say that, while the volunteership had helped, there was still a great shortage and some communities would suffer. I though it sad. Communities SHOULD be supported by enough pole workers.
THEN! and here's where the 2-by-4 comes into the story, then I switch on the torture of Election Day coverage on the TV this time (not the radio) and lo, there's a report about the pole workers. Only this time it's not POLE workers, it's POLL workers. WHAMMMM-O! Right in the bean. Then I thought: Fucking homonyms.
Tonight - Club Deluxe (by request)
Little Minsky's Burlesque and Variety Show - $7 cover / show at 10pm
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, November 03, 2016
A Century in the Making
11.1.2016 (first posted this week 1908)
CUBS WIN !!!
CUBS WIN !!!
CUBS WIN !!!
Tonight - The Wooden Nickel
Come taste victory.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
CUBS WIN !!!
CUBS WIN !!!
CUBS WIN !!!
Tonight - The Wooden Nickel
Come taste victory.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, October 20, 2016
Chester's Night (REDUX)
10.3.2016 (first posted this week 2010)
I know the shitty economy has affected several Lovely List Members and I hope things have straightened out and you landed or you will land in a better place than where you were bounced out of. I dunno if it's the economy or the abject greed of the executives that run the biz I work for, but it's looking kinda dire around here.
They tore down the blimp hanger yesterday. All those airship commuters are outta fucking luck. The bike racks were Craigslisted. The posting price was $65 and some dick offered 16 bucks and the greedy scum jumped at it. Lucky I both switched to skateboard and didn't park in the bike rack, cuz the pedalestrians are outta lucko too. And next, I hear they're going to cut the zero-vis guide ropes that stretch to the beach and what with the fog we've been getting lately, the beach traffic is gonna end up in Santa Monica. They conceded the helipad to thomeless, and the three-story thomeless wagons are fifty abreast. God, the stink of them.
Thomeless smell really fuckin' bad, too.
Tonight - Doc's Clock
(It's about time. Oh, and CASH ONLY, too)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
I know the shitty economy has affected several Lovely List Members and I hope things have straightened out and you landed or you will land in a better place than where you were bounced out of. I dunno if it's the economy or the abject greed of the executives that run the biz I work for, but it's looking kinda dire around here.
They tore down the blimp hanger yesterday. All those airship commuters are outta fucking luck. The bike racks were Craigslisted. The posting price was $65 and some dick offered 16 bucks and the greedy scum jumped at it. Lucky I both switched to skateboard and didn't park in the bike rack, cuz the pedalestrians are outta lucko too. And next, I hear they're going to cut the zero-vis guide ropes that stretch to the beach and what with the fog we've been getting lately, the beach traffic is gonna end up in Santa Monica. They conceded the helipad to thomeless, and the three-story thomeless wagons are fifty abreast. God, the stink of them.
Thomeless smell really fuckin' bad, too.
Tonight - Doc's Clock
(It's about time. Oh, and CASH ONLY, too)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, October 13, 2016
The Wind (REDUX)
10.2.2016 (first posted this week 2004)
Got a question for y'all: Did you wreck all yr Cat Stevens records, tapes and CDs when he turned out to be some alleged terrorist-sympathizer? I can say that I don't care much for terrorists or zealotry in any form, but back in the days before the name change, old Cat did him some quality recordings. You see "Harold and Maude?" His tunes were featured in that gem. Fact is, every time I hear a Cat Stevens tune I don't think about Osama BL or the El QWeda ... nope ... I think about "Harold and Maude." I think about a young Bud Court banging 80-year-old Ruth Gordon. Here's one of the best scenes:
INT. PRIEST'S OFFICE - DAY
It is the same little old priest we have met earlier.
He sits at his desk and addresses the camera like a TV
audience. A picture of the Pope is over his right
shoulder; a picture of Jesus Christ over his left.
PRIEST
(very reasoned and slow)
Now, Harold, the Church has
nothing against the union of
the old and the young. Each
age has its own beauty. But a
marital union is concerned with
the conjugal rights. And the
procreation of children. I
would be remiss in my duties if
I did not tell you that the
idea of --
(he swallows)
- intercourse - the fact of your young, firm --
(growing disturbed)
-- body commingling with the withered flesh, sagging breasts, and flabby buttocks - makes me --
(falls apart)
- want to vomit.
Tonight - Lone Palm
It's Low-retta's BDay!!! Only white linen tables for her.
Come on down and bestow your BDay wishes!!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Got a question for y'all: Did you wreck all yr Cat Stevens records, tapes and CDs when he turned out to be some alleged terrorist-sympathizer? I can say that I don't care much for terrorists or zealotry in any form, but back in the days before the name change, old Cat did him some quality recordings. You see "Harold and Maude?" His tunes were featured in that gem. Fact is, every time I hear a Cat Stevens tune I don't think about Osama BL or the El QWeda ... nope ... I think about "Harold and Maude." I think about a young Bud Court banging 80-year-old Ruth Gordon. Here's one of the best scenes:
INT. PRIEST'S OFFICE - DAY
It is the same little old priest we have met earlier.
He sits at his desk and addresses the camera like a TV
audience. A picture of the Pope is over his right
shoulder; a picture of Jesus Christ over his left.
PRIEST
(very reasoned and slow)
Now, Harold, the Church has
nothing against the union of
the old and the young. Each
age has its own beauty. But a
marital union is concerned with
the conjugal rights. And the
procreation of children. I
would be remiss in my duties if
I did not tell you that the
idea of --
(he swallows)
- intercourse - the fact of your young, firm --
(growing disturbed)
-- body commingling with the withered flesh, sagging breasts, and flabby buttocks - makes me --
(falls apart)
- want to vomit.
Tonight - Lone Palm
It's Low-retta's BDay!!! Only white linen tables for her.
Come on down and bestow your BDay wishes!!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, October 06, 2016
Static (REDUX)
10.1.2016 (first posted this week 2002)
I was reading in bed the other night. Finishing up a nice story by one of my fav. writers: A one Neal Barrett, Jr. I had my feet stuffed into the flap of the turned-down covers. After a bit, the totsys started to get hotsy. I pulled a foot out and I noticed I still had my lucky TV-static-colored sox on. These are good sox, even though their elastic done run off some time ago. A time like this, however, that’s a bonus. They easy to kick off.
In a jif, the sox were off. A mere heel to toe with pull and a repeat of said heel to toe with pull and that’s all she wrote. Two sox off and ready for ejectio! As the left side of my bed is against the wall, the only place to kick the sox was to my right, so I raised up my left leg, so as to allow a right-foot scoop-and-kick, and let them lucky sox go. Seems my cat was sitting just down range, most likely admiring the white noise machine (read: Fan). If an Army colonel could have seen Fatty’s reaction under bombardment he would have conscripted the little shit in a minute and sent him to the front. As an artillery “spotter,” as they were formerly known, or as an “F.O.” as they’re known these days. “Forward Observer.” Times I got a different meaning for F.O. for this cat.
Fats didn’t bat an eye. I think the left sock actually grazed him and he could not have cared less. This from a cat that jumps two feet in the air when a bee farts in Florida. I saw his bravery while under the onslaught of flying sox and pictured him calling in Snake and Nape on his own position in some faraway mudhole in an act of supreme selflessness. It’s a Grand Old Flag, Fats. Fats?
Seems Fats had deserted his post during my fantasy-time.
Oh, but here he was up on the bed with me after all. “Hi Old Man,” I said. He looked at me sideways. “Hey,” I said, “you think you can NOT pull that early-AM squawking tomorrow morning like you pulled THIS morning?” “Tell you what,” Fats said, “you don’t pull a ‘forgot to feed and water the cats’ tonight and I’ll see what I can do about the squawking. Deal?” Seemed reasonable. “Arrrrright,” I said.
Tonight - Zeitgeist
(get your Octoberfest on with entertainment by Bayern Maiden)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
I was reading in bed the other night. Finishing up a nice story by one of my fav. writers: A one Neal Barrett, Jr. I had my feet stuffed into the flap of the turned-down covers. After a bit, the totsys started to get hotsy. I pulled a foot out and I noticed I still had my lucky TV-static-colored sox on. These are good sox, even though their elastic done run off some time ago. A time like this, however, that’s a bonus. They easy to kick off.
In a jif, the sox were off. A mere heel to toe with pull and a repeat of said heel to toe with pull and that’s all she wrote. Two sox off and ready for ejectio! As the left side of my bed is against the wall, the only place to kick the sox was to my right, so I raised up my left leg, so as to allow a right-foot scoop-and-kick, and let them lucky sox go. Seems my cat was sitting just down range, most likely admiring the white noise machine (read: Fan). If an Army colonel could have seen Fatty’s reaction under bombardment he would have conscripted the little shit in a minute and sent him to the front. As an artillery “spotter,” as they were formerly known, or as an “F.O.” as they’re known these days. “Forward Observer.” Times I got a different meaning for F.O. for this cat.
Fats didn’t bat an eye. I think the left sock actually grazed him and he could not have cared less. This from a cat that jumps two feet in the air when a bee farts in Florida. I saw his bravery while under the onslaught of flying sox and pictured him calling in Snake and Nape on his own position in some faraway mudhole in an act of supreme selflessness. It’s a Grand Old Flag, Fats. Fats?
Seems Fats had deserted his post during my fantasy-time.
Oh, but here he was up on the bed with me after all. “Hi Old Man,” I said. He looked at me sideways. “Hey,” I said, “you think you can NOT pull that early-AM squawking tomorrow morning like you pulled THIS morning?” “Tell you what,” Fats said, “you don’t pull a ‘forgot to feed and water the cats’ tonight and I’ll see what I can do about the squawking. Deal?” Seemed reasonable. “Arrrrright,” I said.
Tonight - Zeitgeist
(get your Octoberfest on with entertainment by Bayern Maiden)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, September 29, 2016
A farm down in Peru (REDUX)
9.5.2016 (first posted this week 2001 - from back when the robot could WRITE!!)
Mysteries. I sure like reading mysteries. Or seein' them on the big screen. Little screen, laptop screen ... doesn't matter. I like watching mystery movies. Based-on-real-life mysteries are cool too. Hard to believe some of that shit happens. Justice files, Law and Order, anything with Bill Curtis on the Discovery Channel counts. Interesting stuff. I like when the bad guy gets caught and gets the chair. There's a show on the Home BO called Autopsy. If you haven’t seen it, you might be right to guess that it’s about autopsies. These ain’t yer average autopsies, though, these are case studies about how the Medical Examiner done solved the crime with the bag of bones and his or her forensic skills. Normally this kind of stuff – (real) blood and guts and slicing and dicing and bone saws and maggots and such – really turns my stomach. I mean I want to puke. Really. However, I don’t really feel so much like reverse-eating when I watch this show because it’s so frikkin’ cool that some scientist can figger out whodoneit just by analyzing a bathtub full of goo. The bastard doesn’t get away with it. All this fascinates me and I still sorta hate the low-level "real-life" mysteries. For example: The Disappearing Brownie.
Well I was working on my farm ‘round 1982 – or rather – I was on my way to school one day in ’85 or ‘6. My friend Phil (not my best friend Phil … my other friend Phil) had him a car and he was kind enough to slow down on his way past my house so I could jump in. We’re high-tailing it to school because, like usual, we were running late. Knowing that we are usually running late, I took to skipping breakfast but for coffee and some portable something – Pop Tart, toast, cereal bar or on this day, Brownie!
This was the last brownie from the batch. Fresh from the oven, the thing was half-devoured in record time by my brother and sister. I protested the feeding-frenzy but, as she pointed out, my sister did in fact make them. She preheated the oven, opened the box, tore the plastic sac, dumped the mix in the bowl, added the eggs, oil and water, mixed the proto-brownie, greased the pan, dumped the mix in the pan, threw the pan in the oven then sat on her hands for 35 minutes. I guess they were rightly hers.
The gracious person she was then, despite being honked off at me for something, she saw fit to let me have a brownie. I was about to chow down when I thought of what a wonderful breakfast treat it would make. So I wrapped the fucker in foil and hid it.
I dig it out the next morning just before Phil shows up. He honk-honks at me and I haul ass to meet him. Soon enough we're on the way down the street toward school. Our route takes us through this elementary school zone where the speed limit is 15 mph. The cops threw the book at you if you sped through, so everyone took it at 15. Once folks got beyond the zone, however, it was Daytona Speedway. Phil punched it, as did everyone else, and we were making tracks toward our right turn onto Bethany Home Road. Phil slows to make the turn and WHAM! We get popped from behind. All I know is my brownie went flying just as I was about to chomp it. Phil looks at me and says, "What do I do?" I told him to pull over, stupid. Perfect excuse to lay out and smoke cigarettes for an hour before going in. We pull over and the person who hit us is getting out of her car. She is stacked. We just got run over by Famke Janssen. (Well, not quite FJ, but still pretty.)
Phil looks at his car - no damage. Her car - no damage. The girl is saying, "Oh, I'm so sorry. Are you okay?" Phil is in Hound Dog mode: "Oh we're okay, are youuuu okay?" I'm disgusted and figure now's the time for a smoke.
Phil gets the girl's number and we're off. I suddenly realise that my brownie went flying. As the windows were all closed and a search of the car was fruitless (and it didn't fall out of my lap onto the street as I got out of the car or I would have certainly noticed goddamn it), the mystery of the Disappearing Brownie was born. I'm sure stranger things have happened, but where that brownie went ... nobody knows. Haunts me to this day. (Oh, and Phil got an STD from that girl and I've since quit smoking.)
Tonight - The Homestead
Re: Last week: I ain't gonna try to trick anyone ever again. Promise.
Tonight's Contest: Finger the Reference!
Tonight's Singled Out List Member: How 'bout Dee? No Sho Ho.
Porn Title of the Week: Beetlejizum
Tired now. See you at the bar
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Mysteries. I sure like reading mysteries. Or seein' them on the big screen. Little screen, laptop screen ... doesn't matter. I like watching mystery movies. Based-on-real-life mysteries are cool too. Hard to believe some of that shit happens. Justice files, Law and Order, anything with Bill Curtis on the Discovery Channel counts. Interesting stuff. I like when the bad guy gets caught and gets the chair. There's a show on the Home BO called Autopsy. If you haven’t seen it, you might be right to guess that it’s about autopsies. These ain’t yer average autopsies, though, these are case studies about how the Medical Examiner done solved the crime with the bag of bones and his or her forensic skills. Normally this kind of stuff – (real) blood and guts and slicing and dicing and bone saws and maggots and such – really turns my stomach. I mean I want to puke. Really. However, I don’t really feel so much like reverse-eating when I watch this show because it’s so frikkin’ cool that some scientist can figger out whodoneit just by analyzing a bathtub full of goo. The bastard doesn’t get away with it. All this fascinates me and I still sorta hate the low-level "real-life" mysteries. For example: The Disappearing Brownie.
Well I was working on my farm ‘round 1982 – or rather – I was on my way to school one day in ’85 or ‘6. My friend Phil (not my best friend Phil … my other friend Phil) had him a car and he was kind enough to slow down on his way past my house so I could jump in. We’re high-tailing it to school because, like usual, we were running late. Knowing that we are usually running late, I took to skipping breakfast but for coffee and some portable something – Pop Tart, toast, cereal bar or on this day, Brownie!
This was the last brownie from the batch. Fresh from the oven, the thing was half-devoured in record time by my brother and sister. I protested the feeding-frenzy but, as she pointed out, my sister did in fact make them. She preheated the oven, opened the box, tore the plastic sac, dumped the mix in the bowl, added the eggs, oil and water, mixed the proto-brownie, greased the pan, dumped the mix in the pan, threw the pan in the oven then sat on her hands for 35 minutes. I guess they were rightly hers.
The gracious person she was then, despite being honked off at me for something, she saw fit to let me have a brownie. I was about to chow down when I thought of what a wonderful breakfast treat it would make. So I wrapped the fucker in foil and hid it.
I dig it out the next morning just before Phil shows up. He honk-honks at me and I haul ass to meet him. Soon enough we're on the way down the street toward school. Our route takes us through this elementary school zone where the speed limit is 15 mph. The cops threw the book at you if you sped through, so everyone took it at 15. Once folks got beyond the zone, however, it was Daytona Speedway. Phil punched it, as did everyone else, and we were making tracks toward our right turn onto Bethany Home Road. Phil slows to make the turn and WHAM! We get popped from behind. All I know is my brownie went flying just as I was about to chomp it. Phil looks at me and says, "What do I do?" I told him to pull over, stupid. Perfect excuse to lay out and smoke cigarettes for an hour before going in. We pull over and the person who hit us is getting out of her car. She is stacked. We just got run over by Famke Janssen. (Well, not quite FJ, but still pretty.)
Phil looks at his car - no damage. Her car - no damage. The girl is saying, "Oh, I'm so sorry. Are you okay?" Phil is in Hound Dog mode: "Oh we're okay, are youuuu okay?" I'm disgusted and figure now's the time for a smoke.
Phil gets the girl's number and we're off. I suddenly realise that my brownie went flying. As the windows were all closed and a search of the car was fruitless (and it didn't fall out of my lap onto the street as I got out of the car or I would have certainly noticed goddamn it), the mystery of the Disappearing Brownie was born. I'm sure stranger things have happened, but where that brownie went ... nobody knows. Haunts me to this day. (Oh, and Phil got an STD from that girl and I've since quit smoking.)
Tonight - The Homestead
Re: Last week: I ain't gonna try to trick anyone ever again. Promise.
Tonight's Contest: Finger the Reference!
Tonight's Singled Out List Member: How 'bout Dee? No Sho Ho.
Porn Title of the Week: Beetlejizum
Tired now. See you at the bar
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, September 22, 2016
Too Much Choice (REDUX)
9.4.2016 (first posted this week 2007)
I think we as a society have gotten carried away making rules about damn-near everything. There's a rule about where you can walk yr dog, when he has to be leashed; there's a rule for who can buy smokes and where you can smoke 'em; there's a rule that ya have to be this tall to ride this 'coaster. No parking. Tow away. No spitting. Be kind to our neighbors. Keep off the grass. Fok! What happened to freedom???
I seen this sign this morning on the entrance to the garage next to work:
My god. No standing on yr motorcycle in this garage. They're taking away our rights!!
Tonight - Orbit Room
Since it's the Autumnal Equinox, what better place to be?
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
I think we as a society have gotten carried away making rules about damn-near everything. There's a rule about where you can walk yr dog, when he has to be leashed; there's a rule for who can buy smokes and where you can smoke 'em; there's a rule that ya have to be this tall to ride this 'coaster. No parking. Tow away. No spitting. Be kind to our neighbors. Keep off the grass. Fok! What happened to freedom???
I seen this sign this morning on the entrance to the garage next to work:
My god. No standing on yr motorcycle in this garage. They're taking away our rights!!
Tonight - Orbit Room
Since it's the Autumnal Equinox, what better place to be?
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, September 15, 2016
Two-fer
9.3.2016
That's all.
Tonight
(early stop) - The Lark Bar (Formerly Dave's. Kinda still is.)
(11pm on) - House of Shelds
Double your fun.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
That's all.
Tonight
(early stop) - The Lark Bar (Formerly Dave's. Kinda still is.)
(11pm on) - House of Shelds
Double your fun.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, September 08, 2016
Titliest (REDUX)
9.2.2016 (originally posted this week 2006)
The following is a partial transcript from a telephone conversation I had with my brother on September 7, 2001. (Thanks to Mrs. Pepper Sweetchunks for the transcription service.)
"Do you remember when we were children and we sponsored those neighborhood races?"
"We did a lot of races. We had the kids racing kids; the dogs racing dogs; the dogs racing kids; bikes against cars; bikes against skateboards; OH! and the swimming races. And remember the "Little People" races? Where we would take the Fisher Price wooden "Little People" down to the bottom of the deep end and let'm go and race to the surface?"
"Yeh but this one was between the snake and the spider?"
"I do remember that. What kinda spider was that?"
"I don't know."
"That was a good one. Why do you ask?"
"Something I never told anyone, and I'd forgotten about it until the other day. I spotted a small, cloth, draw-string bag washing down the gutter during a monster thunderstorm soon after the race. I picked it out of the gutter just before it washed into the sewer. I untied its strings and the snake and the spider fell out, dead. I'm sure it was the same ones we had raced."
Tonight - Wooden Nickel (by request)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
The following is a partial transcript from a telephone conversation I had with my brother on September 7, 2001. (Thanks to Mrs. Pepper Sweetchunks for the transcription service.)
"Do you remember when we were children and we sponsored those neighborhood races?"
"We did a lot of races. We had the kids racing kids; the dogs racing dogs; the dogs racing kids; bikes against cars; bikes against skateboards; OH! and the swimming races. And remember the "Little People" races? Where we would take the Fisher Price wooden "Little People" down to the bottom of the deep end and let'm go and race to the surface?"
"Yeh but this one was between the snake and the spider?"
"I do remember that. What kinda spider was that?"
"I don't know."
"That was a good one. Why do you ask?"
"Something I never told anyone, and I'd forgotten about it until the other day. I spotted a small, cloth, draw-string bag washing down the gutter during a monster thunderstorm soon after the race. I picked it out of the gutter just before it washed into the sewer. I untied its strings and the snake and the spider fell out, dead. I'm sure it was the same ones we had raced."
Tonight - Wooden Nickel (by request)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, September 01, 2016
One-half back!! (REDUX)
9.1.2016 (first posted this week 2004)
**Editor's Note - What a difference 12 years make for both teams vying for playoff spots**
I know all you Giants fans out there are very familiar with dumping them when they're losing. You understand the feeling that, hey, they suck, why should I like them? You understand for two reasons: 1. You'll like them again when they're better, and, 2. They're not often bad in the first place.
I've had the band-wagon and the on-again, off-again of such a vehicle on my mind for a few days because it's that magic time of the year when we who are REAL fans - read: Cubs fans - can turn our attention from the dismal, embarassing and otherwise shitty play of our Professional Losers for a moment and in the very same breath, hope for a better year next year for the Cubbies and root this Sunday and for the next 16 Sundays for the BEARS!
I should stress that we're not giving up on the Cubs, but after getting our asses kicked by the bottom-feeding Expos while clinging tenuously to a Wild-Card Berth, Cubs/Bears fans will have more on their mind than "Cubs lose-Giants/Marlins/Padres/Astros win." We'll have "Goddamn the Bears play like Grrrrrl Scouts." Such is the life.
Tonight - Kickin' it Mission w/ Jesus: Phone Booth
Enter like a human. Exit like a superhero.
bye-ee! whrr ... clik!
**Editor's Note - What a difference 12 years make for both teams vying for playoff spots**
I know all you Giants fans out there are very familiar with dumping them when they're losing. You understand the feeling that, hey, they suck, why should I like them? You understand for two reasons: 1. You'll like them again when they're better, and, 2. They're not often bad in the first place.
I've had the band-wagon and the on-again, off-again of such a vehicle on my mind for a few days because it's that magic time of the year when we who are REAL fans - read: Cubs fans - can turn our attention from the dismal, embarassing and otherwise shitty play of our Professional Losers for a moment and in the very same breath, hope for a better year next year for the Cubbies and root this Sunday and for the next 16 Sundays for the BEARS!
I should stress that we're not giving up on the Cubs, but after getting our asses kicked by the bottom-feeding Expos while clinging tenuously to a Wild-Card Berth, Cubs/Bears fans will have more on their mind than "Cubs lose-Giants/Marlins/Padres/Astros win." We'll have "Goddamn the Bears play like Grrrrrl Scouts." Such is the life.
Tonight - Kickin' it Mission w/ Jesus: Phone Booth
Enter like a human. Exit like a superhero.
bye-ee! whrr ... clik!
Thursday, August 25, 2016
What is Hip?
8.4.2016
Linkey-Loo Robot and I were chatting about things and it came up that he tried to swing a dead cat and not hit a hipster and he could not. He's in SF and with that data, your conclusion should be, "no shit."
Tonight - The Homestead
Bring your pals!!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Linkey-Loo Robot and I were chatting about things and it came up that he tried to swing a dead cat and not hit a hipster and he could not. He's in SF and with that data, your conclusion should be, "no shit."
I was about to say that I, too, could not swing a dead cat and not hit a hipster, but stopped when I realized that down here in LA there were things blocking the hipster from the impact of the swinging dead cat.
Before the swinging dead cat hit the hipster, it would hit:
A grey Prius
A dumpster diver
A food truck
A red traffic light
A white Prius
A bike with a surfboard
A crowd of Pokemon Go players
Four million texting drivers
17 strip malls
The crowd of people in front of Tito's (disgusting) Tacos
A Prius with a fakey throw-back yellow on black California license plate
A FedEx™, UPS™ or USPS™ truck
A door advertisement distributor
A block house under construction
and
A charter school
The LA hipster has a chance of not getting hit by a swinging dead cat.
Tonight - The Homestead
Bring your pals!!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, August 18, 2016
Lemon Wedge (REDUX)
8.3.2016 (first posted this week 2002)
When I die I hope I get reincarnated as a calamari and go back in time so I can piss off this guy at work that hates calamari 'cause he's a weirdo and he thinks god hates calamari and by him hating calamari too it makes him more godlike than the rest of us who like calamari and don't believe in god anyway. I like the tentacles and the rubberbands too, since we're talkin' about calamari here and I think believing in god is a little weird 'cause lots of people do and lots of people also like Cher as a singer and I think she sux. If yr wondering if I wonder if Cher likes calamari well stop because I don't give a shit. I prefer the little suckers deep fried w/ some cocktail sauce and mebbe a little tartar but a dredge through some Tabasco dipping pond is right good too.
Tonight - Smuggler's Cove
(Rum done right - in the "Crow's Nest" bar - aka "upstairs")
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
When I die I hope I get reincarnated as a calamari and go back in time so I can piss off this guy at work that hates calamari 'cause he's a weirdo and he thinks god hates calamari and by him hating calamari too it makes him more godlike than the rest of us who like calamari and don't believe in god anyway. I like the tentacles and the rubberbands too, since we're talkin' about calamari here and I think believing in god is a little weird 'cause lots of people do and lots of people also like Cher as a singer and I think she sux. If yr wondering if I wonder if Cher likes calamari well stop because I don't give a shit. I prefer the little suckers deep fried w/ some cocktail sauce and mebbe a little tartar but a dredge through some Tabasco dipping pond is right good too.
Tonight - Smuggler's Cove
(Rum done right - in the "Crow's Nest" bar - aka "upstairs")
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, August 11, 2016
I Ain't Got Nobody...
8.2.2016
That's what Louie Prima once sang.
But you guys do!! You have TNSC!!
Tonight - The Residence
UMBRZ - (Upper Market Beverage Refreshment Zone) would approve.
**CASH ONLY**
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
That's what Louie Prima once sang.
But you guys do!! You have TNSC!!
Tonight - The Residence
UMBRZ - (Upper Market Beverage Refreshment Zone) would approve.
**CASH ONLY**
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, August 04, 2016
Walter Said...
8.1.2016
----- Original Message -----
To:
Subject: Ordering Help (Thread:203422)
I bought a Soulra and if I place it in the direct Southern California sunlight, it overheats the iPhone so much the phone shuts off. Will I get the same charge placing it in indirect sunlight? I've rigged up a white piece of cardboard to shield the thing in the meantime. Thanks. (Maybe make the thing white or silver or something?)
Walter replied:
Thanks for your email.The Soulra is designed to be in direct sunlight, but your iPhone must be protected. You'll also get a charge in indirect sunlight, but the charging will take longer. The white cardboard shielding should work quite well; even silver should work. Just keep your iPhone out of direct sunlight.
Walter | Technical Support Manager
To: Walter
Subject: Re: ETONCORP REPLY - SOULRA
Is it up to the consumer to construct a shield? Perhaps you should manufacture one that isn't makeshift. This is clearly a design flaw.
Walter replied:
Yes, it's up to the consumer to keep the iPod or iPhone at the temperature specifications provided by its manufacturer.
Walter | Technical Support Manager
Tonight - Make Out Room
Big night out!! Entertainment courtesy of the "fabulous"
Bud E. Luv. Doors 7 / Show 8 - $10 cover.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
----- Original Message -----
To:
Subject: Ordering Help (Thread:203422)
I bought a Soulra and if I place it in the direct Southern California sunlight, it overheats the iPhone so much the phone shuts off. Will I get the same charge placing it in indirect sunlight? I've rigged up a white piece of cardboard to shield the thing in the meantime. Thanks. (Maybe make the thing white or silver or something?)
Walter replied:
Thanks for your email.The Soulra is designed to be in direct sunlight, but your iPhone must be protected. You'll also get a charge in indirect sunlight, but the charging will take longer. The white cardboard shielding should work quite well; even silver should work. Just keep your iPhone out of direct sunlight.
Walter | Technical Support Manager
To: Walter
Subject: Re: ETONCORP REPLY - SOULRA
Is it up to the consumer to construct a shield? Perhaps you should manufacture one that isn't makeshift. This is clearly a design flaw.
Walter replied:
Yes, it's up to the consumer to keep the iPod or iPhone at the temperature specifications provided by its manufacturer.
Walter | Technical Support Manager
Tonight - Make Out Room
Big night out!! Entertainment courtesy of the "fabulous"
Bud E. Luv. Doors 7 / Show 8 - $10 cover.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, July 28, 2016
Snowed In
7.4.2016
I made an ill-advised call to a pal the other night after several beers. My pal was still up and was in a jovial mood. We cracked a bunch of jokes and made each other howl.
The next morning I remembered the conversation, but didn't remember anything of what we talked about. I rang my pal and asked her if she remembered what we talked about. She said she remembered laughing her head off, but not about what was so funny.
Then I realized something: Since we are all under surveillance and there are departments of the government that listen to and record our cell conversations, then someone in the government heard us and recorded our conversation! We're saved!
So yesterday I filed a Freedom of Information request to get a transcript of that late-night hilarious phone conversation. I'll post it here when it comes in!
Tonight - The Homestead (but you already knew that... and so did the Feds)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
I made an ill-advised call to a pal the other night after several beers. My pal was still up and was in a jovial mood. We cracked a bunch of jokes and made each other howl.
The next morning I remembered the conversation, but didn't remember anything of what we talked about. I rang my pal and asked her if she remembered what we talked about. She said she remembered laughing her head off, but not about what was so funny.
Then I realized something: Since we are all under surveillance and there are departments of the government that listen to and record our cell conversations, then someone in the government heard us and recorded our conversation! We're saved!
So yesterday I filed a Freedom of Information request to get a transcript of that late-night hilarious phone conversation. I'll post it here when it comes in!
Tonight - The Homestead (but you already knew that... and so did the Feds)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, July 21, 2016
Women and Children First
7.3.2016
There are warning signs on the trash and recycling bins we get in LA stating, "Private property. Scavenging and removing items from this container is forbidden by law. Violators may be prosecuted." And if you're thinking this discourages the legion of dumpster divers that harvest their livelihoods from them, you are mistaken.
Tonight - Dovre Club (get your Irish on!!!)
**CASH ONLY**
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
There are warning signs on the trash and recycling bins we get in LA stating, "Private property. Scavenging and removing items from this container is forbidden by law. Violators may be prosecuted." And if you're thinking this discourages the legion of dumpster divers that harvest their livelihoods from them, you are mistaken.
A recent news story made me think about how diving is outlawed: Police found a body in a dumpster in North Hollywood. I'm guessing that the police didn't actually FIND the body because they weren't opening up dumpsters to look for contraband or illegal immigrants or dead bodies while on routine patrol. I imagine the garbage man didn't find the body either. I figure the garbage man sits in the cab of his garbage truck and maneuvers it into position and snags it with his forks or claw. He didn't find the body. The dumpster diver - opening dumpster lids, looking for cans or bottles or whatever they deem "loot" - found the body.
So why is dumpster diving prohibited by law? They clearly serve a purpose in law enforcement. They detect and report dead bodies dumped in dumpsters. The investigation's first step is finding a crime has been committed!
For this reason, I find it logical that dumpster divers should not be forbidden from this important community service. We can't have dumped bodies going unnoticed! No, I think instead of being sanctioned, I think they should be deputized.
Tonight - Dovre Club (get your Irish on!!!)
**CASH ONLY**
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, July 14, 2016
Hyphen Central (REDUX)
7.2.2016 (first posted this week 2002)
Hello peas and carrots! It's your pal Old Captain Walnut here. I wonder how you all are doing these days, as I haven't seen many of you for weeks! Good, bad? Happy, sad?
How are those habits going? Those compulsio s? Those hard-to-wrangle emotional states? Isolated? Together?
So many questio s.
Let's have the groop play space-age bachelor-pad catch-up tonight. I've got an idea where:
Tonight - House of Shields
Mix up them puzzle pieces, we'll sort 'em as a groop, a family if you will, then put 'em together again.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Hello peas and carrots! It's your pal Old Captain Walnut here. I wonder how you all are doing these days, as I haven't seen many of you for weeks! Good, bad? Happy, sad?
How are those habits going? Those compulsio s? Those hard-to-wrangle emotional states? Isolated? Together?
So many questio s.
Let's have the groop play space-age bachelor-pad catch-up tonight. I've got an idea where:
Tonight - House of Shields
Mix up them puzzle pieces, we'll sort 'em as a groop, a family if you will, then put 'em together again.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, July 07, 2016
Lenny (REDUX)
7.1.2016 (first posted this day 2003)
Your mama called and mama said to go to your room. Good thing your room is The Orbit Room.
Who's going to their room? I am!
See you there!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Your mama called and mama said to go to your room. Good thing your room is The Orbit Room.
Who's going to their room? I am!
See you there!
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, June 30, 2016
Revelle
6.5.2016
Often random, unsolicited emails arrive in the robot's inbox. Often they're personal pictures of people and their friends from around the world. Sometimes they're text-based. Like this one:
Driving has always been a passion of mine. My favorite ride at Disneyland had always been Autopia. Bumper cars at carnivals were my go-to ride, and I loved going boating with my uncle just for the possibility of getting the chance to steer the wheel. Anytime I was able to take control of a wheel, I was happy. Being able to drive a car means freedom. Freedom to go where you want to go whenever you want to go. I could not wait for freedom. When I turned fifteen and a half, I was able to take the test to get my driver’s permit. I had studied the entire week before the test and wasn’t surprised when I passed. I just wanted to start driving (legally). That weekend, I was signed up to start driving school.
Bright and early on a Saturday morning in December, I had my first driving lesson. I waited outside of my house for the driving instructor to pick me up. At 7:04 (four minutes late), he arrived, driving a Mini Cooper with red, white, and blue American flags covering every surface. He introduced himself as Mike , and I got in the driver’s seat. Despite the setback of the utterly patriotic exterior of the car that made me feel somewhat humiliated to be driving in, I was excited and nervous for my first lesson. Mike was an interesting person. Being a driving instructor seemed like a second career for him. Mike smelled like he had just ate a tuna sandwich and had smoked a bunch of cigars. The first hour felt pretty good. My left hand turns were impeccable, changing lanes was a breeze, and, although they were jerky in the beginning, my stops were the perfect distance from the white line. I felt like I could do anything. “How about we start driving on the freeway?”
Except for that.
The freeway was something that had completely slipped my mind. I was perfectly content driving in the school parking lot of Westchester High for the rest of my life. The fear of missing an exit and being stuck on the freeway forever, like some sort of Twilight Zone episode, started to build up in my mind. After a few minutes of back and forth with my instructor, I reluctantly agreed, and we made our way to the 405.
We were on the freeway for about ten minutes and everything seemed to be going fine. The increase of speed from 25 to 65 miles per hour felt like nothing, and I was proud of myself for doing something I wasn’t too excited to do in the first place. I was actually starting to enjoy the speed and the challenge of navigating my way around Los Angeles. Mike seemed to be enjoying the rest of his lunch while I was going 65 miles and hour on a very busy freeway that goes by just a number. My hands were starting to hurt from holding on so tightly to the steering wheel. But, I was maintaining my composure and doing ok. An instant later, all of that changed. Suddenly, the car started to shake and was sliding towards the edge of the freeway.
As all of this was happening, I looked to my left and saw the culprit. A woman who looked to be about 90 years old was calmly pushing me off the road. She was wearing a black leather jacket, probably because she was in a motorcycle gang and decided that today she wanted to drive without any prior car-driving experience. I was terrified.
My instructor was calm, too. Was I the only person who was concerned about the crash? When we pulled over, Mike and the elderly Motorcycle Gang Lady argued for twenty minutes about insurance and not calling the police, as I waited in the car, shaken and a little concerned for the lack of concern. The elderly lady was using up my two hour driving lesson negotiating with Mike not to call police because she didn't want to loose her license. She spent a lot of time saying that the major body damage could be fixed without too much expense and she was willing to pay for it all.
Mike, still cool as a cucumber, got back into the car, and asked me if I wanted to go to a lighthouse. Was this the standard protocol for car accidents? I said okay, and I had to drive us all the way to the Point Fermin Lighthouse in Palos Verdes. I was very shaken up and had to hold it together for the rest of the day.
I empathized with the lady that hit us; she was really shaken up and very upset, too. It was clear to me that being able to drive a car meant freedom to her, too. In that first driving lesson I learned that my freedom is dependent on the freedom of others. What I wanted to earn so badly at 15 years old is what the elderly women was holding in to at age 90, the freedom, independence, excitement and thrill of driving a car in Los Angeles.
Tonight - The Homestead
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Often random, unsolicited emails arrive in the robot's inbox. Often they're personal pictures of people and their friends from around the world. Sometimes they're text-based. Like this one:
Driving has always been a passion of mine. My favorite ride at Disneyland had always been Autopia. Bumper cars at carnivals were my go-to ride, and I loved going boating with my uncle just for the possibility of getting the chance to steer the wheel. Anytime I was able to take control of a wheel, I was happy. Being able to drive a car means freedom. Freedom to go where you want to go whenever you want to go. I could not wait for freedom. When I turned fifteen and a half, I was able to take the test to get my driver’s permit. I had studied the entire week before the test and wasn’t surprised when I passed. I just wanted to start driving (legally). That weekend, I was signed up to start driving school.
Bright and early on a Saturday morning in December, I had my first driving lesson. I waited outside of my house for the driving instructor to pick me up. At 7:04 (four minutes late), he arrived, driving a Mini Cooper with red, white, and blue American flags covering every surface. He introduced himself as Mike , and I got in the driver’s seat. Despite the setback of the utterly patriotic exterior of the car that made me feel somewhat humiliated to be driving in, I was excited and nervous for my first lesson. Mike was an interesting person. Being a driving instructor seemed like a second career for him. Mike smelled like he had just ate a tuna sandwich and had smoked a bunch of cigars. The first hour felt pretty good. My left hand turns were impeccable, changing lanes was a breeze, and, although they were jerky in the beginning, my stops were the perfect distance from the white line. I felt like I could do anything. “How about we start driving on the freeway?”
Except for that.
The freeway was something that had completely slipped my mind. I was perfectly content driving in the school parking lot of Westchester High for the rest of my life. The fear of missing an exit and being stuck on the freeway forever, like some sort of Twilight Zone episode, started to build up in my mind. After a few minutes of back and forth with my instructor, I reluctantly agreed, and we made our way to the 405.
We were on the freeway for about ten minutes and everything seemed to be going fine. The increase of speed from 25 to 65 miles per hour felt like nothing, and I was proud of myself for doing something I wasn’t too excited to do in the first place. I was actually starting to enjoy the speed and the challenge of navigating my way around Los Angeles. Mike seemed to be enjoying the rest of his lunch while I was going 65 miles and hour on a very busy freeway that goes by just a number. My hands were starting to hurt from holding on so tightly to the steering wheel. But, I was maintaining my composure and doing ok. An instant later, all of that changed. Suddenly, the car started to shake and was sliding towards the edge of the freeway.
As all of this was happening, I looked to my left and saw the culprit. A woman who looked to be about 90 years old was calmly pushing me off the road. She was wearing a black leather jacket, probably because she was in a motorcycle gang and decided that today she wanted to drive without any prior car-driving experience. I was terrified.
My instructor was calm, too. Was I the only person who was concerned about the crash? When we pulled over, Mike and the elderly Motorcycle Gang Lady argued for twenty minutes about insurance and not calling the police, as I waited in the car, shaken and a little concerned for the lack of concern. The elderly lady was using up my two hour driving lesson negotiating with Mike not to call police because she didn't want to loose her license. She spent a lot of time saying that the major body damage could be fixed without too much expense and she was willing to pay for it all.
Mike, still cool as a cucumber, got back into the car, and asked me if I wanted to go to a lighthouse. Was this the standard protocol for car accidents? I said okay, and I had to drive us all the way to the Point Fermin Lighthouse in Palos Verdes. I was very shaken up and had to hold it together for the rest of the day.
I empathized with the lady that hit us; she was really shaken up and very upset, too. It was clear to me that being able to drive a car meant freedom to her, too. In that first driving lesson I learned that my freedom is dependent on the freedom of others. What I wanted to earn so badly at 15 years old is what the elderly women was holding in to at age 90, the freedom, independence, excitement and thrill of driving a car in Los Angeles.
Tonight - The Homestead
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, June 23, 2016
Pinholes Through Cardboard
6.4.2016
We were leaving the bar one Thursday night some years ago. We were Lee Lee the Musical Bee, Linkey-Loo Robot and me. Linkey was driving a Chrysler 300 (his choice of rentals) and we encountered highway construction - or rather highway access (ramp) road work and we had to find a different way to get on the 110 freeway.
We found the ramp and trucked to the 110 / I-10 West exchange. Linkey nearly missed the turn, as his circuits were scrambled by the previously encountered road work, but he used his one-and-only radical lane change and we were on our way west.
We stayed on the "Santa Monica Freeway" until the I-10 / 405 South split. Linkey expertly white-knuckled the Chrysler 300 onto the southbound ramp and we were heading directly to LLMB's home. We passed the exit we needed. No prob! We can take the next one and turn around. We passed that one too. Then we missed the next one, the one after that ... LAX airport passed away on our right ... and in desperation mode - desperate to get the fuck off the 405 South - we merged onto the 105 East. East to Norwalk!
FUCK NORWALK!!!
Tonight - Specs' 12 Adler Museum Cafe
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
We were leaving the bar one Thursday night some years ago. We were Lee Lee the Musical Bee, Linkey-Loo Robot and me. Linkey was driving a Chrysler 300 (his choice of rentals) and we encountered highway construction - or rather highway access (ramp) road work and we had to find a different way to get on the 110 freeway.
We found the ramp and trucked to the 110 / I-10 West exchange. Linkey nearly missed the turn, as his circuits were scrambled by the previously encountered road work, but he used his one-and-only radical lane change and we were on our way west.
We stayed on the "Santa Monica Freeway" until the I-10 / 405 South split. Linkey expertly white-knuckled the Chrysler 300 onto the southbound ramp and we were heading directly to LLMB's home. We passed the exit we needed. No prob! We can take the next one and turn around. We passed that one too. Then we missed the next one, the one after that ... LAX airport passed away on our right ... and in desperation mode - desperate to get the fuck off the 405 South - we merged onto the 105 East. East to Norwalk!
FUCK NORWALK!!!
Tonight - Specs' 12 Adler Museum Cafe
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, June 16, 2016
The Midas Touch
6.3.2016
I took the Jeep over to the rip-off artist ... er ... the garage for an oil change and regular maintenance and ended up leaving it overnight, because they were busy ripping off other customers and I wasn't in a big hurry to get my not-leaking power steering hose swapped out.
So when I went back to pay and pick up my Jeep I noticed another customer also waiting. He was hovering over his piece-of-shit van while a mechanic was tearing something out of it. He had dirty blond, shoulder-length hair tied in a ponytail, a stained T shirt, gym shoes and tube socks and most notably, sky blue terrycloth shorts. He was jabbering away on his cell, presumably with someone who knew about his van's problems and was collaborating on the teardown/repair. He was not quiet.
I stepped into the office, paid for my unnecessary parts and labor and the attendant went to retrieve my keys. I overheard the guy on his phone screaming into it: "The serial number is WHERE? Did you say on the hose? We didn't remove the hose!! What? I should be able to see it? Okay! Hang on!"
The attendant handed me my keys and I left the office. I glanced over to the guy on the phone and he was in a very awkward pose: His knees were bent and he was squatting not unlike a quarterback under center. His right elbow was jutting out as he held his phone tightly to his head. With his left hand he held a flashlight as he peered into the engine compartment.
He said, "Three-five-zero-A as in ... apple! One-seven-J as in ... " a second or two went by before he came up with, "Jerk!"
350A17J as in "jerk." I laughed.
Tonight - Iron & Gold
(Go Dubs!!)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
I took the Jeep over to the rip-off artist ... er ... the garage for an oil change and regular maintenance and ended up leaving it overnight, because they were busy ripping off other customers and I wasn't in a big hurry to get my not-leaking power steering hose swapped out.
So when I went back to pay and pick up my Jeep I noticed another customer also waiting. He was hovering over his piece-of-shit van while a mechanic was tearing something out of it. He had dirty blond, shoulder-length hair tied in a ponytail, a stained T shirt, gym shoes and tube socks and most notably, sky blue terrycloth shorts. He was jabbering away on his cell, presumably with someone who knew about his van's problems and was collaborating on the teardown/repair. He was not quiet.
I stepped into the office, paid for my unnecessary parts and labor and the attendant went to retrieve my keys. I overheard the guy on his phone screaming into it: "The serial number is WHERE? Did you say on the hose? We didn't remove the hose!! What? I should be able to see it? Okay! Hang on!"
The attendant handed me my keys and I left the office. I glanced over to the guy on the phone and he was in a very awkward pose: His knees were bent and he was squatting not unlike a quarterback under center. His right elbow was jutting out as he held his phone tightly to his head. With his left hand he held a flashlight as he peered into the engine compartment.
He said, "Three-five-zero-A as in ... apple! One-seven-J as in ... " a second or two went by before he came up with, "Jerk!"
350A17J as in "jerk." I laughed.
Tonight - Iron & Gold
(Go Dubs!!)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, June 09, 2016
Bad Brains (REDUX)
6.2.2016 (first posted this week 2009)
I was recently commissioned to make a list of things I hate. That got me thinking about hate, because my first thought was, "easy! I hate a ton of things!!" Green Bay Packers. Hate them!! ... or ... do I? I hate losing to them, I hate when they succeed in my division (NFC North), but do I hate them? I strongly dislike them, but I don't think I hate them. I'll never, EVER root for them, but I don't think I hate them. If other things that "I fuckin' HATE" also ended up instead as "strong dislikes," this gig would be harder than I thought.
Then? A Cubs bullpen meltdown. Hate that. THEN! Chipper Jones game-winning RBI! Aaugh! Hate that!
I started to roll with it. I hate traffic. I hate warm beer. I hate Republicans. I hate thieves. I really hate liars! Yes ... the Packers might be spared of my hateful wrath, but there's a lot to hate.
I think it boils down to: I hate things that suck.
Tonight - The Wooden Nickel (by request)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
I was recently commissioned to make a list of things I hate. That got me thinking about hate, because my first thought was, "easy! I hate a ton of things!!" Green Bay Packers. Hate them!! ... or ... do I? I hate losing to them, I hate when they succeed in my division (NFC North), but do I hate them? I strongly dislike them, but I don't think I hate them. I'll never, EVER root for them, but I don't think I hate them. If other things that "I fuckin' HATE" also ended up instead as "strong dislikes," this gig would be harder than I thought.
Then? A Cubs bullpen meltdown. Hate that. THEN! Chipper Jones game-winning RBI! Aaugh! Hate that!
I started to roll with it. I hate traffic. I hate warm beer. I hate Republicans. I hate thieves. I really hate liars! Yes ... the Packers might be spared of my hateful wrath, but there's a lot to hate.
I think it boils down to: I hate things that suck.
Tonight - The Wooden Nickel (by request)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, June 02, 2016
Live Deliciously
6.1.2016
I sure do love scary movies, and I saw a good one a few weeks back. "The VVitch" is a movie about a - wait for it - family in the times of the Puritans in 17th century New England that leave their plantation, move to the country and one way or another encounter - wait for it - a witch.
The movie is good and spooky but doesn't have any bumps or gotchas that are the trademark of other scary movies. I highly recommend it.
Despite my love of scary movies, horror novels and comics and the like, I don't believe in monsters, ghosts, demons or creatures from black lagoons. If I did, though, I would have been spooked the other day. I was alone in a big wooden building.
In its past life, people built boats in this building. It's got an open interior with a 30' ceiling not unlike an airplane hanger, but with vertical beams, joists and an interior framework. It's all made of wood but retrofitted with steel supports for this area's notorious seismic activity.
Anyway, if you've ever walked across a wood floor, some of the slats creak and squeak when you step on them. When a wood building goes from the coolness of the night into the warm, sunlit hours of the morning, the roof planks creak, squeak and make loud pops and cracks as they heat. And since this is a rather large building, the cracks and pops come from all over the place. If one was trepidacious of the origin of such noise while alone in a big building, the shift would have been unnerving.
But it wasn't! I love the sounds the building makes. Sometimes there are cracks so loud the resemble gunshots. The roofs pops and snaps and eventually settles down. In the early afternoon of my solo shift, I heard a clunk. Then a bunch of beeping and a squealing of some electronic doodad. Along with the clunk, my computer and its monitors died. Power failure.
Power failures are surprisingly not uncommon in beautiful, sunny Southern California, if not hard to explain sometimes. Bad weather usually brings power failures. Hot days often tax the grid to the point of failure. This hit has caused by neither. But as I resolved to wait it out because I was suddenly gripped with primal fear: Since power was out, so was the CoffeeBot! I'd have to wait for the power to come back without any coffee!!
Tonight - Thieves Tavern (cash only)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
I sure do love scary movies, and I saw a good one a few weeks back. "The VVitch" is a movie about a - wait for it - family in the times of the Puritans in 17th century New England that leave their plantation, move to the country and one way or another encounter - wait for it - a witch.
The movie is good and spooky but doesn't have any bumps or gotchas that are the trademark of other scary movies. I highly recommend it.
Despite my love of scary movies, horror novels and comics and the like, I don't believe in monsters, ghosts, demons or creatures from black lagoons. If I did, though, I would have been spooked the other day. I was alone in a big wooden building.
In its past life, people built boats in this building. It's got an open interior with a 30' ceiling not unlike an airplane hanger, but with vertical beams, joists and an interior framework. It's all made of wood but retrofitted with steel supports for this area's notorious seismic activity.
Anyway, if you've ever walked across a wood floor, some of the slats creak and squeak when you step on them. When a wood building goes from the coolness of the night into the warm, sunlit hours of the morning, the roof planks creak, squeak and make loud pops and cracks as they heat. And since this is a rather large building, the cracks and pops come from all over the place. If one was trepidacious of the origin of such noise while alone in a big building, the shift would have been unnerving.
But it wasn't! I love the sounds the building makes. Sometimes there are cracks so loud the resemble gunshots. The roofs pops and snaps and eventually settles down. In the early afternoon of my solo shift, I heard a clunk. Then a bunch of beeping and a squealing of some electronic doodad. Along with the clunk, my computer and its monitors died. Power failure.
Power failures are surprisingly not uncommon in beautiful, sunny Southern California, if not hard to explain sometimes. Bad weather usually brings power failures. Hot days often tax the grid to the point of failure. This hit has caused by neither. But as I resolved to wait it out because I was suddenly gripped with primal fear: Since power was out, so was the CoffeeBot! I'd have to wait for the power to come back without any coffee!!
Tonight - Thieves Tavern (cash only)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, May 26, 2016
Children's leather shoes
5.4.2016
Over the last Holiday Season, my in-laws were in town. Come to think of it, they were here the one before that. And the one before that. I think they've been in town since the little robot came home from the factory the first time. And that's what makes it make sense.
Anyway, during their last visit, several of us took a walk to the coffee shop / bakery a few blocks away. They have good coffee drinks and good-to-really-good baked goods. I got a cafe Americano and a bachelor loaf of their very sour sourdough bread. My mother in-law, after much deliberation, got an iced vanilla latte. I am a meat-and-taters robot. A cup-of-coffee robot. A nothing fancy robot. I don't fuck around with soy lattes, half-caf cappuccinos, decaf or anything with flavor crystals added to it. I don't order iced vanilla lattes.
On our walk home, my mother in-law's yellowish brown drink caught my eye. It was a weird color and the ice clinked weirdly in the transparent plastic cup. It apparently held my eye long enough to catch her eye and she held it out for a better view.
I asked her how it was. She said it was good and did I want to try it. I shrugged and tried it after shaking it around to make it really cold. It was good. It tasted like a vanilla Carnation Instant Breakfast.
"Thanks. It's good. It tastes like a Carnation Instant Breakfast," I said.
"No it doesn't." She said.
"Ice cold milk and vanilla powder? It tastes just like Carnation Instant Breakfast," I repeated.
Again she said, "No it doesn't."
Because I couldn't fathom a way it didn't taste like Carnation Instant Breakfast, I asked her, "Have you ever had a Carnation Instant Breakfast?"
"No," she said.
I was about to say something, then decided not to.
Since then, I have ordered and enjoyed exactly two iced vanilla lattes. And they both tasted like Carnation Instant Breakfast.
Tonight - The Homestead
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Over the last Holiday Season, my in-laws were in town. Come to think of it, they were here the one before that. And the one before that. I think they've been in town since the little robot came home from the factory the first time. And that's what makes it make sense.
Anyway, during their last visit, several of us took a walk to the coffee shop / bakery a few blocks away. They have good coffee drinks and good-to-really-good baked goods. I got a cafe Americano and a bachelor loaf of their very sour sourdough bread. My mother in-law, after much deliberation, got an iced vanilla latte. I am a meat-and-taters robot. A cup-of-coffee robot. A nothing fancy robot. I don't fuck around with soy lattes, half-caf cappuccinos, decaf or anything with flavor crystals added to it. I don't order iced vanilla lattes.
On our walk home, my mother in-law's yellowish brown drink caught my eye. It was a weird color and the ice clinked weirdly in the transparent plastic cup. It apparently held my eye long enough to catch her eye and she held it out for a better view.
I asked her how it was. She said it was good and did I want to try it. I shrugged and tried it after shaking it around to make it really cold. It was good. It tasted like a vanilla Carnation Instant Breakfast.
"Thanks. It's good. It tastes like a Carnation Instant Breakfast," I said.
"No it doesn't." She said.
"Ice cold milk and vanilla powder? It tastes just like Carnation Instant Breakfast," I repeated.
Again she said, "No it doesn't."
Because I couldn't fathom a way it didn't taste like Carnation Instant Breakfast, I asked her, "Have you ever had a Carnation Instant Breakfast?"
"No," she said.
I was about to say something, then decided not to.
Since then, I have ordered and enjoyed exactly two iced vanilla lattes. And they both tasted like Carnation Instant Breakfast.
Tonight - The Homestead
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, May 19, 2016
May is National Bike to Work Month
5.3.2016
And if it's National Bike to Work Month, and National Tavern Month, who has a better idea than to combine both!
That's right ... go get a job at a bar and bike to it!
Or ... just bike to a bar.
Or ... just get to a bar however you can.
These days the bar I bike to is the one in my little house. I'll take a picture of it for you some day.
I'll mount four GoPro cameras to my bike helmet and snap some footage for you. I got the idea to mount four GoPro cameras to my bike helmet from a guy who blew past me while I waited for a red light. He had all those cameras pointing fore, aft and to both is left and right somehow affixed to his helmet. I have a feeling that the one pointing forward and the one pointing rearward are the most useful for whatever purpose footage of a bike ride through Venice has. Not sure about the left- and right-facing cameras, though. Perhaps they were dummy cameras or maybe the guy has been T-boned before. If you blow though red lights, you indeed have a good chance of being T-boned. And this guy will have footage of it that his family can play at his funeral.
Tonight - Mission Bar
Putting the "fun" into TNSC fundamentals.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
And if it's National Bike to Work Month, and National Tavern Month, who has a better idea than to combine both!
That's right ... go get a job at a bar and bike to it!
Or ... just bike to a bar.
Or ... just get to a bar however you can.
These days the bar I bike to is the one in my little house. I'll take a picture of it for you some day.
I'll mount four GoPro cameras to my bike helmet and snap some footage for you. I got the idea to mount four GoPro cameras to my bike helmet from a guy who blew past me while I waited for a red light. He had all those cameras pointing fore, aft and to both is left and right somehow affixed to his helmet. I have a feeling that the one pointing forward and the one pointing rearward are the most useful for whatever purpose footage of a bike ride through Venice has. Not sure about the left- and right-facing cameras, though. Perhaps they were dummy cameras or maybe the guy has been T-boned before. If you blow though red lights, you indeed have a good chance of being T-boned. And this guy will have footage of it that his family can play at his funeral.
Tonight - Mission Bar
Putting the "fun" into TNSC fundamentals.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, May 12, 2016
May is National Tavern Month (REDUX)
5.2.2016 (first posted this month 10 years ago)
That’s what it says on a red necktie from the 50’s that the Linkey-Loo Robot owns.
It also says “Support Your Local Tavern” (which I did, by the way, with vigor.)
In honor of National Tavern Month, tonight we will be visiting not one, but TWO taverns!!
The first one up is being hosted by long-time TNSC Member Tim Pries and his roving band of hooligans:
Stop #1 - Grumpy's American Pub
An Advertising Agency favorite (6pm - 9ish)
Stop #2 - Comstock Saloon
A TNSC favorite, and short walk from Stop #1 (9:30pm - ???)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
That’s what it says on a red necktie from the 50’s that the Linkey-Loo Robot owns.
It also says “Support Your Local Tavern” (which I did, by the way, with vigor.)
In honor of National Tavern Month, tonight we will be visiting not one, but TWO taverns!!
The first one up is being hosted by long-time TNSC Member Tim Pries and his roving band of hooligans:
Stop #1 - Grumpy's American Pub
An Advertising Agency favorite (6pm - 9ish)
Stop #2 - Comstock Saloon
A TNSC favorite, and short walk from Stop #1 (9:30pm - ???)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, May 05, 2016
I'm a Janitor, Oh My Genitals
5.1.2016
For the first time in a few years I can bike to work again and I really love it. For a lot of reasons: It's a good workout, it keeps you sharp, it shows you just how shitty drivers drive, and you can chat with and be friendly with other bicyclists - and some car drivers, if their windows are open and if they, too, are friendly and chatty.
Most of the time, though, the discourse between a bike rider and a car driver involves one or the other cussing the b-Jesus out of the other for something one of them did and the other did not care at all for. I gave up on yelling at cars from my bike many years ago when I decided that they would win any altercation whether they were right or wrong because they had twice as many wheels as me and literally tons of metal they could weaponize.
There are lots and lots of dedicated, striped bike lanes these days. I don't remember a single one in Chicago or San Francisco and I rode for many years in both of those Championship Cities. My route to work has a couple, and one of them ... well ... "ends" for a bit, then picks up a lane over to the left of where it was. This is to let those turning right at the approaching cross street enter the right turn lane that takes over for the parking and bike lanes. You gotta dodge some cars and Frogger over to the bike lane, and this leads to some driver anger and biker angst, but since the signal is usually red, and because there's no turn on red, and that there are a quarter-million cars already stopped at the red, nobody but the bikes are moving.
Some days there are lots of bikes in the bike lane. It's nice to see the variety of people that ride in them. Some, like me, are clearly off to work or school. A backpack and some safety gear reveal their purpose. Some are headed to the beach. An attached surf board, wet suit or bathing trunks, bikini or whatever give them away. That and no safety gear whatsoever. Some are in full kit as if on a team - and many likely are - and are warming up, warming down or already cookin'.
I spied the latter a few blocks ahead of me a day or two back. He was on a skinny bike (12-speed road bike with skinny tires) and had tight-fitting spandex clothes, bike shorts, a team shirt festooned with logos, SPD shoes and such. I saw all of this when I got closer, and I got closer in part because I go fast and in part because he was doing a lot of screaming and gesturing to a car. I caught up to him at a red light, and noticed that he was wearing star-spangled socks, was grey-bearded and was yelling obscenities at and making lewd and obscene gestures at a car. In a moment I realized he wasn't yelling at "a" car, because he then cussed-out the cars going through the intersection.
"Fuck you, Gasoline! Gas KILLS! Fuck you all!"
A car tried a left turn and oncoming traffiic honked.
"SEE? SEE? FUCK YOU CARS! FUCK YOU ALL!"
Whoa. This guy was raging against the whole burrito. I noticed a small child in the car that - when I pulled up - he was originally swearing and gesturing at. Ugh.
The light turned green and I let skinny angry man go first. He started out and flipped-off the cars that had stopped for the light. He really didn't hold back from giving the finger to any car. We went along for a while and I decided he was going too slow (and he was a liability), so I decided to put on the jets and leave him to his rage.
I pushed the big ring, and as I passed him, he ...
... held his hand on my side down in an inverted, two-fingered "peace sign," signalling solidarity with two-wheeled brothers and sisters, and said, in a low voice, "have a good ride."
Tonight - Pop's
(by request - SF's only 13 hr Happy Hour)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
For the first time in a few years I can bike to work again and I really love it. For a lot of reasons: It's a good workout, it keeps you sharp, it shows you just how shitty drivers drive, and you can chat with and be friendly with other bicyclists - and some car drivers, if their windows are open and if they, too, are friendly and chatty.
Most of the time, though, the discourse between a bike rider and a car driver involves one or the other cussing the b-Jesus out of the other for something one of them did and the other did not care at all for. I gave up on yelling at cars from my bike many years ago when I decided that they would win any altercation whether they were right or wrong because they had twice as many wheels as me and literally tons of metal they could weaponize.
There are lots and lots of dedicated, striped bike lanes these days. I don't remember a single one in Chicago or San Francisco and I rode for many years in both of those Championship Cities. My route to work has a couple, and one of them ... well ... "ends" for a bit, then picks up a lane over to the left of where it was. This is to let those turning right at the approaching cross street enter the right turn lane that takes over for the parking and bike lanes. You gotta dodge some cars and Frogger over to the bike lane, and this leads to some driver anger and biker angst, but since the signal is usually red, and because there's no turn on red, and that there are a quarter-million cars already stopped at the red, nobody but the bikes are moving.
Some days there are lots of bikes in the bike lane. It's nice to see the variety of people that ride in them. Some, like me, are clearly off to work or school. A backpack and some safety gear reveal their purpose. Some are headed to the beach. An attached surf board, wet suit or bathing trunks, bikini or whatever give them away. That and no safety gear whatsoever. Some are in full kit as if on a team - and many likely are - and are warming up, warming down or already cookin'.
I spied the latter a few blocks ahead of me a day or two back. He was on a skinny bike (12-speed road bike with skinny tires) and had tight-fitting spandex clothes, bike shorts, a team shirt festooned with logos, SPD shoes and such. I saw all of this when I got closer, and I got closer in part because I go fast and in part because he was doing a lot of screaming and gesturing to a car. I caught up to him at a red light, and noticed that he was wearing star-spangled socks, was grey-bearded and was yelling obscenities at and making lewd and obscene gestures at a car. In a moment I realized he wasn't yelling at "a" car, because he then cussed-out the cars going through the intersection.
"Fuck you, Gasoline! Gas KILLS! Fuck you all!"
A car tried a left turn and oncoming traffiic honked.
"SEE? SEE? FUCK YOU CARS! FUCK YOU ALL!"
Whoa. This guy was raging against the whole burrito. I noticed a small child in the car that - when I pulled up - he was originally swearing and gesturing at. Ugh.
The light turned green and I let skinny angry man go first. He started out and flipped-off the cars that had stopped for the light. He really didn't hold back from giving the finger to any car. We went along for a while and I decided he was going too slow (and he was a liability), so I decided to put on the jets and leave him to his rage.
I pushed the big ring, and as I passed him, he ...
... held his hand on my side down in an inverted, two-fingered "peace sign," signalling solidarity with two-wheeled brothers and sisters, and said, in a low voice, "have a good ride."
Tonight - Pop's
(by request - SF's only 13 hr Happy Hour)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, April 28, 2016
Megastore (REDUX)
4.4.2016 (first published this week 2006)
Ya like the sound of a diesel engine churnin' away? I sure do. Seems the crazy old aged hippy at the
street end of my courtyard don't. When we were movin' in she asked the mover-boys if they would shut down the diesel engine on their mover truck. They said no fucking way: The lift needs the engine to be on to operate. She made a stink. I told her to go to the movies and come back later, as them movers - if left to MOVE - would finish up and scoot. She a idiot.
She's the one who tried to get the corner liquor store shut down. I think I mentioned her before.
She bugs the shit out of me.
Tonight - Homestead
I love the word "Beverage."
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Ya like the sound of a diesel engine churnin' away? I sure do. Seems the crazy old aged hippy at the
street end of my courtyard don't. When we were movin' in she asked the mover-boys if they would shut down the diesel engine on their mover truck. They said no fucking way: The lift needs the engine to be on to operate. She made a stink. I told her to go to the movies and come back later, as them movers - if left to MOVE - would finish up and scoot. She a idiot.
She's the one who tried to get the corner liquor store shut down. I think I mentioned her before.
She bugs the shit out of me.
Tonight - Homestead
I love the word "Beverage."
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, April 21, 2016
Blue Hairs & Brass Knuckles
4.3.2016
One of the all-time best parental robotic emails: (to be read in a soft, Mississippi male accent)
If you don't want more attention (a nice word for ass chewings) than you ever had in your entire life combined at once, do not ever, walk your dog to a US Post Office full of seniors on a hot afternoon in So. Fla. and leave the dog panting outside the front door. I had to mail a document to Capt Rongaus, "Mam", guarding our country for the next 2 weeks out at Langley AFB, Va. I heard the dog breathing before I walked around the corner but I couldn't tell what the noise was. Well, it was a small to medium sized black pug/bulldog mix on a leash, in the shade. Those dogs naturally snort when breathing and "Buddy" was snorting like a freight train and panting. Buddy's human was a
decent looking young man, late 30's I'd guess, standing in line inside. Big judgmental error for that lad to leave Buddy outside the front door. The senior women were on him, each and every one of them. "Why would you do that to your dog? Mam, we just walked 2 miles - walked to the P.O., he's OK" That answer got him nowhere. "I want to see the Post Master" demanded one lady. "It isn't in my jurisdiction and as far as I can tell, the dog's OK and it isn't against the law" the PM said. She should have known better. (How many times have we heard "If it isn't in your jurisdiction, or against
the law, it should be.")
The ole crapola really hit the fan when a late arriving protagonist pointed out that Buddy had a bloody left front paw. Meanwhile Madam PM is pointing out that only seeing eye dogs are allowed inside the PO (that answer got her no where, but she should have learned a lesson from corporate America and sent out the public relations officer to catch the spears) and Buddy's human is still getting more attention than he every wanted. "The ASPCA will hear about this!"
One senior male, big guy, alleged that he had raised champion dogs all his life and he'd never seen anything like this. Mind you, these folks were not whispering. Me, I'm number 3 in the express line and praying that the clerks keep working and don't get embroiled in the fracas. The male senior was prepared to challenge the owner guy to a duel. I really start praying real hard now that I get out of Dodge before really serious stuff happens.
I got to the window, had the exact change ready and conducted my business in a split second. However, in that short time a miracle not unlike the fishes and the loaves had occurred. Out of nowhere Buddy's paw had been professionally bandaged and more ice and bottled water had appeared out of Lincoln Towncars and Cadillacs than Safeway stores carry.
As I burned rubber out of the parking lot the crowd was still gathered, accusations about the guy's ancestors were being hurled by the seniors - some of the seniors allowed as how the guy was related to Buddy's mother. I'll let you know if more serious mayhem happened.
LESSON LEARNED: If you've got to go to the Post Office, leave your dog at home.
Tonight - Latin American Club (Piñata enjoyment, at it's finest!!)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
One of the all-time best parental robotic emails: (to be read in a soft, Mississippi male accent)
If you don't want more attention (a nice word for ass chewings) than you ever had in your entire life combined at once, do not ever, walk your dog to a US Post Office full of seniors on a hot afternoon in So. Fla. and leave the dog panting outside the front door. I had to mail a document to Capt Rongaus, "Mam", guarding our country for the next 2 weeks out at Langley AFB, Va. I heard the dog breathing before I walked around the corner but I couldn't tell what the noise was. Well, it was a small to medium sized black pug/bulldog mix on a leash, in the shade. Those dogs naturally snort when breathing and "Buddy" was snorting like a freight train and panting. Buddy's human was a
decent looking young man, late 30's I'd guess, standing in line inside. Big judgmental error for that lad to leave Buddy outside the front door. The senior women were on him, each and every one of them. "Why would you do that to your dog? Mam, we just walked 2 miles - walked to the P.O., he's OK" That answer got him nowhere. "I want to see the Post Master" demanded one lady. "It isn't in my jurisdiction and as far as I can tell, the dog's OK and it isn't against the law" the PM said. She should have known better. (How many times have we heard "If it isn't in your jurisdiction, or against
the law, it should be.")
The ole crapola really hit the fan when a late arriving protagonist pointed out that Buddy had a bloody left front paw. Meanwhile Madam PM is pointing out that only seeing eye dogs are allowed inside the PO (that answer got her no where, but she should have learned a lesson from corporate America and sent out the public relations officer to catch the spears) and Buddy's human is still getting more attention than he every wanted. "The ASPCA will hear about this!"
One senior male, big guy, alleged that he had raised champion dogs all his life and he'd never seen anything like this. Mind you, these folks were not whispering. Me, I'm number 3 in the express line and praying that the clerks keep working and don't get embroiled in the fracas. The male senior was prepared to challenge the owner guy to a duel. I really start praying real hard now that I get out of Dodge before really serious stuff happens.
I got to the window, had the exact change ready and conducted my business in a split second. However, in that short time a miracle not unlike the fishes and the loaves had occurred. Out of nowhere Buddy's paw had been professionally bandaged and more ice and bottled water had appeared out of Lincoln Towncars and Cadillacs than Safeway stores carry.
As I burned rubber out of the parking lot the crowd was still gathered, accusations about the guy's ancestors were being hurled by the seniors - some of the seniors allowed as how the guy was related to Buddy's mother. I'll let you know if more serious mayhem happened.
LESSON LEARNED: If you've got to go to the Post Office, leave your dog at home.
Tonight - Latin American Club (Piñata enjoyment, at it's finest!!)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, April 14, 2016
Skeezix (REDUX)
4.2.2016 (first published this week 2002)
What the hell is the deal with the Calvin and Hobbes? Why is it the artist couldn’t draw Hobbes to look the same from panel to panel? One minute he’s going nuts and jawing away with that little scoundrel Calvin, then the next he’s kinda lifeless: Mute and well, stuffed-looking. Like a taxidermist just got through with him. And what the hell kinda dog is he supposed to be anyway? He’s the wackiest looking dog I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen plenty.
The thing that’s got me thinking about Calvin and Hobbes in the first place is that I’ve been seeing that Calvin all over the place these days. Of course he’s all over the place doing the same thing: Peeing on things. Mostly he’s a stencil on some fella’s Ford, peeing on a Chevy logo. Fine. Calvin has a healthy disdain for Chevys. He chooses to show his contempt in a way befitting his rapscallionish nature, you ask me. That’s fine, Cal peeing on a Chevy logo, but down the block I see a Chevy truck, and who’s stenciled on the back window, peeing on a Ford logo? Cal! Has Cal jumped ship to the enemy, a la Jason Giambi? Maybe, maybe not. Later Cal is observed taking a whizz on a Honda logo, a Subaru logo, and a Toyota logo. He’s draining the main vein on a Dodge, letting fly on a Peterbuilt and watering a GMC. Okay, so the little scalawag hates all cars. Fine. So do I.
I’ve seen the Cal showing his feelings for more than just cars and trucks lately too. Cal doesn’t like the bin Laden, the Detroit RockCity Redwings or Kodak. Kodak? What the hell is that about? Someone got stock in FujiFilm? I haven’t, however, seen Cal peeing on a Chicago Cubs logo, or tonight’s venue:
Tempest (by request - we've never visited there as a group)
Last Week’s Contest Results: Alan correctly identified the reference as the SF PD’s non-emergency number. Mr. D. Hindley also found the reference and noted how “expletively easy” the contest was. As you can see, Mr. Hindley, the contest must be made easy at times for some contestants (think “A.C.”) to win.
Tonight’s Dramatic Reenactment: Coppertone. Suntan glop. You know it, I’m sure, if you’ve ever been anywhere outside SF where you can get some sun. Well there’s a little picture on the bottle of a little girl sunbather holding a bottle of Coppertone. She’s in some distress because there’s a mangy dog about to tear here swim trunk bottoms off for her. Scandal on the Beach!! Our players: Ced plays the little girl; Tama plays the bottle of Coppertone, Alan plays the bad dog and (nameless) plays the swimt runks.
Porn Title of the Week: The Slutty Professor
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
What the hell is the deal with the Calvin and Hobbes? Why is it the artist couldn’t draw Hobbes to look the same from panel to panel? One minute he’s going nuts and jawing away with that little scoundrel Calvin, then the next he’s kinda lifeless: Mute and well, stuffed-looking. Like a taxidermist just got through with him. And what the hell kinda dog is he supposed to be anyway? He’s the wackiest looking dog I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen plenty.
The thing that’s got me thinking about Calvin and Hobbes in the first place is that I’ve been seeing that Calvin all over the place these days. Of course he’s all over the place doing the same thing: Peeing on things. Mostly he’s a stencil on some fella’s Ford, peeing on a Chevy logo. Fine. Calvin has a healthy disdain for Chevys. He chooses to show his contempt in a way befitting his rapscallionish nature, you ask me. That’s fine, Cal peeing on a Chevy logo, but down the block I see a Chevy truck, and who’s stenciled on the back window, peeing on a Ford logo? Cal! Has Cal jumped ship to the enemy, a la Jason Giambi? Maybe, maybe not. Later Cal is observed taking a whizz on a Honda logo, a Subaru logo, and a Toyota logo. He’s draining the main vein on a Dodge, letting fly on a Peterbuilt and watering a GMC. Okay, so the little scalawag hates all cars. Fine. So do I.
I’ve seen the Cal showing his feelings for more than just cars and trucks lately too. Cal doesn’t like the bin Laden, the Detroit RockCity Redwings or Kodak. Kodak? What the hell is that about? Someone got stock in FujiFilm? I haven’t, however, seen Cal peeing on a Chicago Cubs logo, or tonight’s venue:
Tempest (by request - we've never visited there as a group)
Last Week’s Contest Results: Alan correctly identified the reference as the SF PD’s non-emergency number. Mr. D. Hindley also found the reference and noted how “expletively easy” the contest was. As you can see, Mr. Hindley, the contest must be made easy at times for some contestants (think “A.C.”) to win.
Tonight’s Dramatic Reenactment: Coppertone. Suntan glop. You know it, I’m sure, if you’ve ever been anywhere outside SF where you can get some sun. Well there’s a little picture on the bottle of a little girl sunbather holding a bottle of Coppertone. She’s in some distress because there’s a mangy dog about to tear here swim trunk bottoms off for her. Scandal on the Beach!! Our players: Ced plays the little girl; Tama plays the bottle of Coppertone, Alan plays the bad dog and (nameless) plays the swimt runks.
Porn Title of the Week: The Slutty Professor
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, April 07, 2016
Bluejay Way
4.1.2016
My kid loves to watch movie trailers. The Apple TV dingus has a channel ... or app or whatever ... called "Trailers." At least it did before the Apple TV 2 came out and shit all over what we were used to and started over. Anyway, we used to spin up the Trailers channel and watch Disney movie trailers, Pixar trailers, Dreamworks trailers ... everything new and old and kid-friendly.
Ez (my kid, duh) loves ninjas. I showed him the trailer for "You Only Live Twice," the 007 James Bond film that has a boatload of ninjas in it. We then watched a compilation of Bond trailers. Good machine-gunning, stunt-driving, Bond girl-kissing (Ez said, "ew") and general fun and mayhem.
Early the next morning we woke to find a fog upon LA. Ez was fascinated by it and so I spun up the Trailers channel on the Apple TV and I showed him the trailer for The Fog. It wasn't the best idea I've had. Ez got scared of the killer ghost lepers that killed people with gaffing hooks. He didn't watch much, cuz I turned it off as soon as I saw that he didn't dig it.
Later I found my wife was not happy when she found out. She found out at bedtime a few nights later when Mr. Memory said he was scared of the fog and ratted me out for showing him the trailer. I said I'd take care of it.
I said I was sorry to him over cereal the next morning. Then I told him that most movies - especially scary movies - had a lesson to teach the audience. I then told him the lesson of the fog in two ways.
1. Don't trick a boatload of diseased people to their doom with a fake lighthouse or their ghosts might fuck your descendants up.
2. Lesson 1 distilled is: Be kind and generous to people who need help.
Tonight - Orbit Room (by divine intervention)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
My kid loves to watch movie trailers. The Apple TV dingus has a channel ... or app or whatever ... called "Trailers." At least it did before the Apple TV 2 came out and shit all over what we were used to and started over. Anyway, we used to spin up the Trailers channel and watch Disney movie trailers, Pixar trailers, Dreamworks trailers ... everything new and old and kid-friendly.
Ez (my kid, duh) loves ninjas. I showed him the trailer for "You Only Live Twice," the 007 James Bond film that has a boatload of ninjas in it. We then watched a compilation of Bond trailers. Good machine-gunning, stunt-driving, Bond girl-kissing (Ez said, "ew") and general fun and mayhem.
Early the next morning we woke to find a fog upon LA. Ez was fascinated by it and so I spun up the Trailers channel on the Apple TV and I showed him the trailer for The Fog. It wasn't the best idea I've had. Ez got scared of the killer ghost lepers that killed people with gaffing hooks. He didn't watch much, cuz I turned it off as soon as I saw that he didn't dig it.
Later I found my wife was not happy when she found out. She found out at bedtime a few nights later when Mr. Memory said he was scared of the fog and ratted me out for showing him the trailer. I said I'd take care of it.
I said I was sorry to him over cereal the next morning. Then I told him that most movies - especially scary movies - had a lesson to teach the audience. I then told him the lesson of the fog in two ways.
1. Don't trick a boatload of diseased people to their doom with a fake lighthouse or their ghosts might fuck your descendants up.
2. Lesson 1 distilled is: Be kind and generous to people who need help.
Tonight - Orbit Room (by divine intervention)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, March 31, 2016
Mexicali Beer Run
3.5.2016
I was chatting with a work pal about the breadcrumbs in the shared butter tub. I found her buttering toast as I had a half-hour before and asked her if she dodged the already-there crumbs as I just done. She said she was dodging them, and while we agreed that it was kinda rude to leave a bunch of bread crumbs in the butter tub, it wasn't that big of a deal. It wasn't that icky. It was just toast.
She's a clever gal and she said that her next emo band's name was going to be "Bread Crumbs in the Butter Tub." I thought that was a great name and I told her the name of my future punk band (which you've heard before): "The Mexicali Beer Run Teens."
I asked her if she had ever done a teenage beer run and she hadn't. I told her the story of my most memorable one.
Sherri, Veronica and Rebecca and I were out late one Arizona night some time in the late 80s. Why it was just the four of us and not the two dozen or so of our other pals I don't know, but we were having a great time going from office park to office park and swimming in their courtyard fountains. (It wasn't really swimming per se, rather, "splashing about like idiots.") It was spontaneous fountain-hopping that night, and none of the gals or I had swim trunks, but no matter. I had shorts that did the trick and they had bras under their T shirts.
Some time later, one of us suggested a beer run. In these days of yore, a beer run meant walking into a mini-mart, grabbing a 12-pack or two and running out as fast as one could. Three soaking wet teenage girls in bras and shorts - one behind the wheel - and I pulled in to a Circle K parking lot. Sherri and Veronica got out and went in. Rebecca pointed the car toward the exit and was jittery and ready to go. Sherri and Veronica calmly walked out of the mart with two or three 12 packs in hand and Rebecca hardly waited for them to get in before she gunned the motor and blew wheels out of there. Sherri and Veronica (Veronica being partially dragged before getting all the way in) were yelling, "He let us! He let us! Don't worry!" But Rebecca didn't clearly hear it until we were a few blocks away.
When Rebecca calmed down and said, "What did you say?" Sherri said, "we walked in and the geek behind the counter stared at us. Two soaking wet teenage girls with only bras on. We sorted him out and said, 'We're taking this beer,' and he said, 'uh, oh-okay' and gaped." We just took it and walked!"
We weren't in Mexicali, but we were beer run teens, for sure.
Tonight - The Homestead
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
I was chatting with a work pal about the breadcrumbs in the shared butter tub. I found her buttering toast as I had a half-hour before and asked her if she dodged the already-there crumbs as I just done. She said she was dodging them, and while we agreed that it was kinda rude to leave a bunch of bread crumbs in the butter tub, it wasn't that big of a deal. It wasn't that icky. It was just toast.
She's a clever gal and she said that her next emo band's name was going to be "Bread Crumbs in the Butter Tub." I thought that was a great name and I told her the name of my future punk band (which you've heard before): "The Mexicali Beer Run Teens."
I asked her if she had ever done a teenage beer run and she hadn't. I told her the story of my most memorable one.
Sherri, Veronica and Rebecca and I were out late one Arizona night some time in the late 80s. Why it was just the four of us and not the two dozen or so of our other pals I don't know, but we were having a great time going from office park to office park and swimming in their courtyard fountains. (It wasn't really swimming per se, rather, "splashing about like idiots.") It was spontaneous fountain-hopping that night, and none of the gals or I had swim trunks, but no matter. I had shorts that did the trick and they had bras under their T shirts.
Some time later, one of us suggested a beer run. In these days of yore, a beer run meant walking into a mini-mart, grabbing a 12-pack or two and running out as fast as one could. Three soaking wet teenage girls in bras and shorts - one behind the wheel - and I pulled in to a Circle K parking lot. Sherri and Veronica got out and went in. Rebecca pointed the car toward the exit and was jittery and ready to go. Sherri and Veronica calmly walked out of the mart with two or three 12 packs in hand and Rebecca hardly waited for them to get in before she gunned the motor and blew wheels out of there. Sherri and Veronica (Veronica being partially dragged before getting all the way in) were yelling, "He let us! He let us! Don't worry!" But Rebecca didn't clearly hear it until we were a few blocks away.
When Rebecca calmed down and said, "What did you say?" Sherri said, "we walked in and the geek behind the counter stared at us. Two soaking wet teenage girls with only bras on. We sorted him out and said, 'We're taking this beer,' and he said, 'uh, oh-okay' and gaped." We just took it and walked!"
We weren't in Mexicali, but we were beer run teens, for sure.
Tonight - The Homestead
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, March 24, 2016
Raglan to Riches
3.4.2016
This is a transcriptio of an actual conversatio :
Stooge: Hi TNSC Robot! Thank you for chatting with Pussy OctoPussy T shirt Pussy. I'm quickly reviewing the survey you've filled out to see what I can personally help you with today.
Stooge: Thanks for waiting, TNSC Robot!
Stooge: I'm happy to assist you with your order.
Stooge: Let me take a look here...
TNSC Robot: okay
Stooge: Looks like the questions we had were for the back design. When it was purchased online, the design on back was set to print in 4 colors but there are actually more colors. To print in full color as you see now, the new total would be $592.75 leaving a difference of $34.75. Would you want to print in full color for an additional $34.75? I could charge it to the same card if so. Otherwise we could have our artists redraw the back image in 4 colors for you at no extra cost. You would get final proofs to approve before we print your order.
TNSC Robot: Nah, charge it. The artwork is already custom.
Stooge: Ok will do! The other issue that came up is that the CL on back appears to refer to MLB's Cactus League. Do to the context of the text in this design, we'd need their permission to print the design. Or we could remove the CL or maybe have our artists replace it with something more personalized to your group. I'm sorry about that, but would one of those options work perhaps?
TNSC Robot: It doesn't mean anything but Chicken Laughing.
TNSC Robot: Chicken Laughing Seals Talking
TNSC Robot: That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Stooge: Oh nice haha! OK cool I think it was the cactuses and baseball bats that made us think it was MLB related.
TNSC Robot: They don't own the alphabet.
TNSC Robot: They don't own CL.
TNSC Robot: Coors has a better chance at owning CL.
TNSC Robot: Ya know?
Stooge: Well I will pass that along for you and if we still have concerns we will contact you with other options to proceed. I definitely understand where you're coming from, seems pretty general to me. However I'm not the expert on this stuff so I'll send it back for review.
Stooge: Thanks for contacting us TNSC Robot! Is there anything else I can help you with today?
TNSC Robot: Nope. I sure hope this works.
Stooge: Ok me too! Have fun at Spring Training by the way! My parents are going too, I'm pretty jealous.
Stooge: Thanks again!
TNSC Robot: You mean Seals Talking.
TNSC Robot: Right?
Stooge: Yeah sure! Exactly.
Tonight - The Wooden Nickel (by request)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
This is a transcriptio of an actual conversatio :
Stooge: Hi TNSC Robot! Thank you for chatting with Pussy OctoPussy T shirt Pussy. I'm quickly reviewing the survey you've filled out to see what I can personally help you with today.
Stooge: Thanks for waiting, TNSC Robot!
Stooge: I'm happy to assist you with your order.
Stooge: Let me take a look here...
TNSC Robot: okay
Stooge: Looks like the questions we had were for the back design. When it was purchased online, the design on back was set to print in 4 colors but there are actually more colors. To print in full color as you see now, the new total would be $592.75 leaving a difference of $34.75. Would you want to print in full color for an additional $34.75? I could charge it to the same card if so. Otherwise we could have our artists redraw the back image in 4 colors for you at no extra cost. You would get final proofs to approve before we print your order.
TNSC Robot: Nah, charge it. The artwork is already custom.
Stooge: Ok will do! The other issue that came up is that the CL on back appears to refer to MLB's Cactus League. Do to the context of the text in this design, we'd need their permission to print the design. Or we could remove the CL or maybe have our artists replace it with something more personalized to your group. I'm sorry about that, but would one of those options work perhaps?
TNSC Robot: It doesn't mean anything but Chicken Laughing.
TNSC Robot: Chicken Laughing Seals Talking
TNSC Robot: That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Stooge: Oh nice haha! OK cool I think it was the cactuses and baseball bats that made us think it was MLB related.
TNSC Robot: They don't own the alphabet.
TNSC Robot: They don't own CL.
TNSC Robot: Coors has a better chance at owning CL.
TNSC Robot: Ya know?
Stooge: Well I will pass that along for you and if we still have concerns we will contact you with other options to proceed. I definitely understand where you're coming from, seems pretty general to me. However I'm not the expert on this stuff so I'll send it back for review.
Stooge: Thanks for contacting us TNSC Robot! Is there anything else I can help you with today?
TNSC Robot: Nope. I sure hope this works.
Stooge: Ok me too! Have fun at Spring Training by the way! My parents are going too, I'm pretty jealous.
Stooge: Thanks again!
TNSC Robot: You mean Seals Talking.
TNSC Robot: Right?
Stooge: Yeah sure! Exactly.
Tonight - The Wooden Nickel (by request)
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, March 17, 2016
Phoenix, AZ (REDUX)
3.2.2016 (first published this week 2002)
ISP stories.
I got a letter the other day from Goober and Grape Bankruptcy Services. I normally shred junkmail without a second thought, but I was curious as to what all this bankruptcy was about. It seems that the bigshot ISP 1st World dot com, which acquired my old internet service provider, Sirius dot com, filed for chapter 11 and is going down. Or has gone down. I’ll tell you this, people: The fact that that company is belly-up comes as no surprise to this former customer. Sirius dot com’s service was a steamin’ pile and it only got worse when the big boy gobbled it up. It became a GIANT steamin’ pile with peanuts. Their ho-hum technical support, various service outages and assorted billing fiascos prompted the move to host my own site. That brings us to the recent events.
I’ve seen TV commercials for the telecom giant that acquired my current ISP. The spots go like this: A chic-looking lady walks into a bookstore somewhere in the Nevada desert and asks for an obscure book on philosophy. The scruffy-lookin’, MadMax-esque shopkeeper doesn’t miss a beat and asks what dialect she wants the text in. Dumbfounded she asks how it’s possible for this itty-bitty shop in the middle of nowhere has “every work ever published by anyone anywhere anytime.” Then the VO says’ “You want yer company to have this kinda bandwidth?” That’s about the time that I start puking. That’s a pretty tall claim? Isn’t it? They have another spot where a smartass guy is asking his Bates Motel clerk for a rare movie and the smarter-ass Norman Bates asks if he wants the TV edit or the director’s cut or the Soviet Government’s censored version. Again, Norm has every version of every movie ever bla bla bla. Picture me spewing forth beef-like chunks about now.
This makes me sick because it just ain’t possible. How they can advertise services that just ain’t possible is a mystery to me. Remember that one where a dude forgets his speech and his secretary across the country reads it to him as he’s at the podium? The secretary is in full-color 30fps video? On a plam pilot? BULLSHIT! How are they allowed to make these claims? With the disclaimer: All this shit you just seen ain’t really available now but we anticipate it will be some time in the future with the way our tech is kicking ass. Ugh. Chevy starts advertising flying cars and I’m burning down my TV.
Back to the subject: My ISP. If you guessed that one of the companies that makes those grandiose claims just merged with my ISP, resulting in much confusion, lost data and inaccessible accounts in recent weeks, you’re right. It makes me wonder how they think they’ll be able to serve up “any movie ever produced” if they can’t move its users’ data around without major problems. The real kick in the nuts is that I’m paying for all this “service.”
Tonight: Dogpatch Saloon.
News: Yeh, well the TNSC site is running on upgraded hardware, software and service. You can tell right away, can’t ya? Being offline for a week kinda tells you something, right? Aw, hell. Another note: Founding members are wondering why only male list members are choosing to go to meetings lately. Aside from Smith, Kay, Alaina and (nameless) no women have been attending lately. What gives? Better offers?
Tonight’s Singled-Out List Members: (your name here)
Porn Title of the Week: Mechanic on Booty (Thanks T!)
See you there! bye-ee!
ISP stories.
I got a letter the other day from Goober and Grape Bankruptcy Services. I normally shred junkmail without a second thought, but I was curious as to what all this bankruptcy was about. It seems that the bigshot ISP 1st World dot com, which acquired my old internet service provider, Sirius dot com, filed for chapter 11 and is going down. Or has gone down. I’ll tell you this, people: The fact that that company is belly-up comes as no surprise to this former customer. Sirius dot com’s service was a steamin’ pile and it only got worse when the big boy gobbled it up. It became a GIANT steamin’ pile with peanuts. Their ho-hum technical support, various service outages and assorted billing fiascos prompted the move to host my own site. That brings us to the recent events.
I’ve seen TV commercials for the telecom giant that acquired my current ISP. The spots go like this: A chic-looking lady walks into a bookstore somewhere in the Nevada desert and asks for an obscure book on philosophy. The scruffy-lookin’, MadMax-esque shopkeeper doesn’t miss a beat and asks what dialect she wants the text in. Dumbfounded she asks how it’s possible for this itty-bitty shop in the middle of nowhere has “every work ever published by anyone anywhere anytime.” Then the VO says’ “You want yer company to have this kinda bandwidth?” That’s about the time that I start puking. That’s a pretty tall claim? Isn’t it? They have another spot where a smartass guy is asking his Bates Motel clerk for a rare movie and the smarter-ass Norman Bates asks if he wants the TV edit or the director’s cut or the Soviet Government’s censored version. Again, Norm has every version of every movie ever bla bla bla. Picture me spewing forth beef-like chunks about now.
This makes me sick because it just ain’t possible. How they can advertise services that just ain’t possible is a mystery to me. Remember that one where a dude forgets his speech and his secretary across the country reads it to him as he’s at the podium? The secretary is in full-color 30fps video? On a plam pilot? BULLSHIT! How are they allowed to make these claims? With the disclaimer: All this shit you just seen ain’t really available now but we anticipate it will be some time in the future with the way our tech is kicking ass. Ugh. Chevy starts advertising flying cars and I’m burning down my TV.
Back to the subject: My ISP. If you guessed that one of the companies that makes those grandiose claims just merged with my ISP, resulting in much confusion, lost data and inaccessible accounts in recent weeks, you’re right. It makes me wonder how they think they’ll be able to serve up “any movie ever produced” if they can’t move its users’ data around without major problems. The real kick in the nuts is that I’m paying for all this “service.”
Tonight: Dogpatch Saloon.
News: Yeh, well the TNSC site is running on upgraded hardware, software and service. You can tell right away, can’t ya? Being offline for a week kinda tells you something, right? Aw, hell. Another note: Founding members are wondering why only male list members are choosing to go to meetings lately. Aside from Smith, Kay, Alaina and (nameless) no women have been attending lately. What gives? Better offers?
Tonight’s Singled-Out List Members: (your name here)
Porn Title of the Week: Mechanic on Booty (Thanks T!)
See you there! bye-ee!
Thursday, March 10, 2016
And Then? (REDUX)
3.2.2016 (first published this week 2005)
Everyone says how much they hate Southwest Airlines: The long lines; the cattle-call free-for-all for seats; the unwashed masses. These are but a few of the things that make people hate it. I got no problem with SWA. They have planes that can go nonstop from the West Coast to Chicago. If ya book early enough, the flight is dirt cheap. The free flights come quickly, and they give you free drink tickets with every free flight. What's not to like.
People still say they hate it, though. I guess they hate it but fly it anyway, because for my annual trip to Spring Training baseball in Arizona I had to fly America West Airlines cuz all the cheap seats on SWA were gone and I was not gonna pay $1000 to fry OAK to PHX.
Oh and Am. West was SUCH a step up. Wow. It had, um ... unbelievable advantages over SW. Uh ... oh yeh! They had seat assignments! I got 12C (aisle) and my wife got 12B (middle). Fantastic! Only thing is we had different boarding grooooops. Stupid! And they boarded folks from all over the plane at the same time. Not first seats first, last last, last first, or whatever. Nope. I mean jeez. They might well have had Southwest's so-called "open seating."
And the class of people were such a welcome change from the mangy fucks from the budget airline. Some of these people had t-shirts without big johnson's or Cabo Wabo logos on them. Upper-upper crust, I'm tellin' ya. And the kicker - the thing that smacked me and said, "this here's some sophisticated folks," is the comments made by a beautiful couple of people making their way to row 16 or something. Passing me while looking for bin space for their luggage, the lady turned to the man trailing her and said, "Wow. Somebody actually put a BACKPACK in the overhead bin." To which the man said, "Huh. Sure looks that way."
I put the fucking backpack up there. I didn't see the sign that said, NO BACKPACKS. HERMES, COACH OR BETTER LUGGAGE ONLY. I suggested aloud to the people that they might charter their next flight so as not to be burdened with people putting backpacks in the place to put backpacks. The man opened his mouth to say something and I vomited on him. I excused myself and said I have a condition called Tarmac Airsickness and offered him my handkerchief. He declined.
OH! And the beers cost five bucks! SWA's beers are only four!
Tonight - House of Shields
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Everyone says how much they hate Southwest Airlines: The long lines; the cattle-call free-for-all for seats; the unwashed masses. These are but a few of the things that make people hate it. I got no problem with SWA. They have planes that can go nonstop from the West Coast to Chicago. If ya book early enough, the flight is dirt cheap. The free flights come quickly, and they give you free drink tickets with every free flight. What's not to like.
People still say they hate it, though. I guess they hate it but fly it anyway, because for my annual trip to Spring Training baseball in Arizona I had to fly America West Airlines cuz all the cheap seats on SWA were gone and I was not gonna pay $1000 to fry OAK to PHX.
Oh and Am. West was SUCH a step up. Wow. It had, um ... unbelievable advantages over SW. Uh ... oh yeh! They had seat assignments! I got 12C (aisle) and my wife got 12B (middle). Fantastic! Only thing is we had different boarding grooooops. Stupid! And they boarded folks from all over the plane at the same time. Not first seats first, last last, last first, or whatever. Nope. I mean jeez. They might well have had Southwest's so-called "open seating."
And the class of people were such a welcome change from the mangy fucks from the budget airline. Some of these people had t-shirts without big johnson's or Cabo Wabo logos on them. Upper-upper crust, I'm tellin' ya. And the kicker - the thing that smacked me and said, "this here's some sophisticated folks," is the comments made by a beautiful couple of people making their way to row 16 or something. Passing me while looking for bin space for their luggage, the lady turned to the man trailing her and said, "Wow. Somebody actually put a BACKPACK in the overhead bin." To which the man said, "Huh. Sure looks that way."
I put the fucking backpack up there. I didn't see the sign that said, NO BACKPACKS. HERMES, COACH OR BETTER LUGGAGE ONLY. I suggested aloud to the people that they might charter their next flight so as not to be burdened with people putting backpacks in the place to put backpacks. The man opened his mouth to say something and I vomited on him. I excused myself and said I have a condition called Tarmac Airsickness and offered him my handkerchief. He declined.
OH! And the beers cost five bucks! SWA's beers are only four!
Tonight - House of Shields
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Thursday, March 03, 2016
Ghost in the Machine (REDUX)
3.1.2016 (this very important Club document was first posted this week, 2001. That's 15 years ago, folks!)
Let me directly address a growing controversy. It is something whispered about over tall martinis. Something alluded to while waiting for the Guinness to settle. Something hinted at while smoking cigarettes in the vestibule. Something suggested on the cab ride home. It's something that's not quite out of control, but it's also something that shows no signs of slowing. It is something not unlike the start of a scandal. What could this impropriety be, you might ask? What is the obliquity in question? Why, the taint seems to be the TNSC Venue Selection Process, actually: It has been conjectured that the Process has been manipulated to serve the personal needs of a certain Founding Member.
One might wonder just why some list members are vilifying the TNSC VSP. This Founding Member was indeed ashamed to learn of such accusations. The vernerable Process has had a long run of venue selections that "fulfill well the needs of the List Members who actually show up."1 The TNSC Charter itself calls for the Process to be "fair, magnanimous, unselfish, utilitarian, practical and impartial."2 It also stipulates that it must be "public, consensual and informal."3 Such requirements produced the primary tool of the TNSC Venue Selection Process: The TNSC Venue Determinator.
Spawned by some math geeks at the University of Bisbee, the TNSC Venue Determinator is a surprisingly simple equation. This assertation made in light of the complicated problem it solves weekly. It is unfortunate, however, that it is impossible to publish the equation in this forum as it is a sensitive trade secret. What is of public knowledge, though, is a list of partially declassified variables that have been factored into the equation for the last 6 months:
1. Proximity to [CLASSIFIED]'s place of work;
2. Proximity to [CLASSIFIED]'s residence;
3. National Oceanic & Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) predicted atmospheric conditions for 38 degrees north latitude, 122 degrees west longitude on the Thursday evening in question;
4. Proximity to [CLASSIFIED]'s girlfriend's residence;
5. Proximity to BART, CalTrain and Muni stations.
So you see, there's ... ahem ... nothing fishy about the TNSC Venue Selection Process. No one ... er ... nothing at all. Shoot. Don't take this Founding Member's word for it, see for yourself. Follow this link to the Thursday Night Social Club Venue Selection Process Graphical User Interface and put the Determinator through its paces. Marvel at the unequivocal randomness that serves all list members, not merely one Founding Member.
Tonight - Lone Palm
(perfect place to get out of that wet weather, and into a dry Martini)
Bibliography
1. Pidd, Stuart. I Was Born In Tennessee: The Myth and Reality of the Thursday Night Social Club. Bisbee: University of Bisbee Press, 1999, 67.
2. Chimenti, Johnson, Metsker and Smith. The El Gran Charter de Thursday Night Social Club. San Francisco: Tennessee This Thursday Press, 1998, 36.
3. Chimenti, et al, 109.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
Let me directly address a growing controversy. It is something whispered about over tall martinis. Something alluded to while waiting for the Guinness to settle. Something hinted at while smoking cigarettes in the vestibule. Something suggested on the cab ride home. It's something that's not quite out of control, but it's also something that shows no signs of slowing. It is something not unlike the start of a scandal. What could this impropriety be, you might ask? What is the obliquity in question? Why, the taint seems to be the TNSC Venue Selection Process, actually: It has been conjectured that the Process has been manipulated to serve the personal needs of a certain Founding Member.
One might wonder just why some list members are vilifying the TNSC VSP. This Founding Member was indeed ashamed to learn of such accusations. The vernerable Process has had a long run of venue selections that "fulfill well the needs of the List Members who actually show up."1 The TNSC Charter itself calls for the Process to be "fair, magnanimous, unselfish, utilitarian, practical and impartial."2 It also stipulates that it must be "public, consensual and informal."3 Such requirements produced the primary tool of the TNSC Venue Selection Process: The TNSC Venue Determinator.
Spawned by some math geeks at the University of Bisbee, the TNSC Venue Determinator is a surprisingly simple equation. This assertation made in light of the complicated problem it solves weekly. It is unfortunate, however, that it is impossible to publish the equation in this forum as it is a sensitive trade secret. What is of public knowledge, though, is a list of partially declassified variables that have been factored into the equation for the last 6 months:
1. Proximity to [CLASSIFIED]'s place of work;
2. Proximity to [CLASSIFIED]'s residence;
3. National Oceanic & Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) predicted atmospheric conditions for 38 degrees north latitude, 122 degrees west longitude on the Thursday evening in question;
4. Proximity to [CLASSIFIED]'s girlfriend's residence;
5. Proximity to BART, CalTrain and Muni stations.
So you see, there's ... ahem ... nothing fishy about the TNSC Venue Selection Process. No one ... er ... nothing at all. Shoot. Don't take this Founding Member's word for it, see for yourself. Follow this link to the Thursday Night Social Club Venue Selection Process Graphical User Interface and put the Determinator through its paces. Marvel at the unequivocal randomness that serves all list members, not merely one Founding Member.
Tonight - Lone Palm
(perfect place to get out of that wet weather, and into a dry Martini)
Bibliography
1. Pidd, Stuart. I Was Born In Tennessee: The Myth and Reality of the Thursday Night Social Club. Bisbee: University of Bisbee Press, 1999, 67.
2. Chimenti, Johnson, Metsker and Smith. The El Gran Charter de Thursday Night Social Club. San Francisco: Tennessee This Thursday Press, 1998, 36.
3. Chimenti, et al, 109.
bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!
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