A Rake at the Gates of Hell

I never thought I’d be defending Twilight...

Thu, 10 Dec 2009 02:21:13 GMT

As I was sitting in the taqueria, eating my lunch, I watched a pair of angry "feminists" go after some high school girls about Twilight, apparently provoked into a rage after overhearing the girls talking about the movie. The feminists berated the girls for liking a movie that didn't have enough lesbians, people of color, non-traditional families, differently-abled people, etc. Every time one of the girls tried to say something, the feminists would interrupt her and accuse her of being brainwashed by the white male patriarchy. I had to speak up and be rude to get them to shut the fuck up.

Seriously, the old guard feminists need to shrivel up and die. We don't have any need for this kind of fascism. Regardless of left or right orientation, such behavior should not be tolerated.

Gonorrhea online

Thu, 03 Dec 2009 04:06:23 GMT

I do enjoy occasionally playing an online shooter game. In this game, the handle you choose is displayed in the message confirming that you killed someone or have been killed by someone. For example, when you are shot, you are informed "You were killed by bob_smith". Consequently, I decided to have a little fun and with a change of my handle, some people found that they had been "killed by gonorrhea." Lovely.

Last night, in mid game, one player's mother began texting to the game, very upset. Apparently her son is only 14 years old and she didn't think it appropriate that he be exposed to such filth as the clinical name for a sexually transmitted disease, so she demanded I change it at once. Of course, this message came through from her son's handle... "muth3r#f*ing*C0PKI77AH*666". With a handle like that, I think her son has bigger problems than seeing the word gonorrhea. Nonetheless, being a nice guy, I did change my handle.

To syphilitic_rectal_prolapse.

She hasn't complained since.

Misplacing the wreck of the Resolution

Sun, 29 Nov 2009 19:09:28 GMT

Back in 1953, a DC-6 crashed in the Santa Cruz mountains; all passengers and crew were lost. Extensive recovery efforts recovered the remains of most of the victims of the crash, but fragments of the plane still cover the slope where it went down. On Saturday November 28th, over 50 years after the crash, the Misplaced Places group went into El Corte de Madera Creek Open Space Preserve to explore the wreckage. The following are a few select photos of the remaining debris.

Dead birds and good friends and tradition

Fri, 27 Nov 2009 06:49:46 GMT

Never let it be said that being a vegetarian makes you incapable of preparing meat. If the enthusiastic devouring of the brace of roasted quail I served for dinner is any indication, there's nothing to that at all. I'm now thinking of bagging a few wild ones next time I need to cook up a bird.

It was lovely to have Dave and Terri out for the day to spend time just eating and talking and cooking and nothing but. There wasn't a lot of sentimental giving thanks for this and giving thanks for that, but I think in our hearts we all reached out to feel gratitude for all the amazing wealth we have in our lives. Although my religious rituals of gratitude for the harvest are done in August, there's always an echo in this time as we carve up some creature and turn it into a feast.

And last of all, in case any of you thought I was getting soft this year, here's another fine tradition. Take it away Bill...

Recipe suggestions for quail?

Mon, 23 Nov 2009 07:41:31 GMT

I have four little birds that shall be presented on T-day. I'm looking for any particular favorites that anyone has experience with because, sadly, my only experience with the cute little buggers was a freshly mangled bit of unseasoned flesh and feathers over a campfire and that's hardly what I want to serve my guests.

I've found many very nice recipes online, would much rather hear what you've done yourself.

On Catholicism and Politics

Sun, 22 Nov 2009 17:29:21 GMT

So Bishop Tobin has forbidden Rep. Patrick Kennedy from receiving communion until he toes the line and votes as the Bishop and the Catholic church dictate, eh? And this from the very same man who called the Ryan Report a farce, made excuses for Cardinal Bernard Law's coverup of child molestation in America, thinks gays are a moral stain upon humanity... and is considered one of the most highly regarded American Bishops by Pope Benedict. This is how the Catholic church has decided it shall force itself upon the world, as its priests have forced themselves upon innocents for centuries, cramming their doctrines, beliefs and laws down the throat of everyone they encounter, Catholic or not. Behold, the church without compassion, behold, the fall of Rome.

How can anyone with eyes in their head and a brain that can think not perceive history repeating; that the abandonment of Vatican II by John Paul II and Cardinal Ratzinger is a modern version of the same mistake Leo X made in regards to Erasmus, Martin Luther, John Calvin and Ulrich Zwingli. I fail to see how any moral person can stand in unity with the Catholic church or at least find favor in a schism that follows Christ and not the ways of homophobes, child molesters, racists headed by an (ex) Nazi, marching steadily backwards into the 12th century.

Funny and awful

Sun, 22 Nov 2009 04:24:43 GMT

Something must be happening to me. I can't get this eurodancepop stuff out of my head. Air, Ladytron, and now Flairs. Fortunately, Flairs is sick and twisted enough that I don't have any shame about enjoying it. You, however, might just feel a tinge of "this is way too much". Or maybe that's just nostalgia for those old 1980s video games, eh? Enjoy...

FLAIRS - TRUCKERS DELIGHT from 3rd Side Records on Vimeo.

More encroachment of the Mommy-state

Fri, 20 Nov 2009 01:58:59 GMT

I'm suffering from a rotten cold right now, so I stopped in the Rite Aid tonight to get a decongestant for my stuffed up, painful sinuses.

First off, I could find nothing on the shelves, so I asked in the pharmacy. They had all the cold and flu meds behind the counter and to get one, I had to swipe my driver's license! Why? "Because the government now wants to know who is buying them and how much." I then noticed all the birth control, from condoms to K-Y, is locked up. "why is that?" I asked. "The city passed a law, can't sell contraception or anything that could be sexual to minors." "What? Who on earth would sponsor something like that." "Lots of churches in town. They are trying to make it illegal to buy unless you are married too."

And thus the American Taliban make their way into my town. If I'm arrested for going postal in the local church, you'll know why.

House Stalking, again

Fri, 13 Nov 2009 04:24:15 GMT

Tonight's potential home was drivable distance to work, out in the boonies where I wouldn't be bothered, 2 br and an acre and a half of land, all quite affordable. Unfortunately, it's located about six miles of dirt road that is going to require a 4x4 in the winter to get to, and most of the forest around the property burned in the Summit Fire. That's a no-go.

Second one looks promising. Have to see it in the daylight and its more of a mountain neighborhood than a boondocks address, but... maybe.

Drink me!

Wed, 11 Nov 2009 05:02:27 GMT

So aside from the lovely meal my girl had waiting for me when I got home last night, I also had the opportunity to try Lost Coast's Tangerine Wheat Ale. American beer snobbery aside, most wheat beers are improved by a shot of lemon juice. In Germany every weissbier I had was served with lemon on the side and that's how I prefer mine. I'd substituted lime on an occasion or two, but the flavor just wasn't right, so I'd kept to lemon. Last night I learned that I should not have given up so easily.

Lost Coast's Tangerine Wheat Ale is some mighty fine stuff. The tangerine is potent and dominates the flavor while the wheat comes in beside it, giving it an interesting "beer without being completely beer" flavor. The purists will no doubt object to the heavy tangerine, but those of you who can enjoy an occasional fruit flavor in your brew, especially those of you who are used to a squeeze of lemon in your wheat beer, should give this one a try. I don't think you'll be disappointed. I know I wasn't.

At the end of the weekend...

Mon, 09 Nov 2009 06:32:25 GMT

There's trouble brewing...

About six gallons of trouble. Apple flavored trouble.

And someone likes his new bed..

He likes it an awful lot. I've never seen him so excited about sleeping. Now he's just like his dad, won't get out of bed unless he absolutely has to.

Yeah, it's one of those weekends.

Misplacing J's Amusement Park

Sun, 08 Nov 2009 19:11:33 GMT

Hours of driving, a tankful of gas, and within five minutes it was all over.

Somewhere in the woods of North Sonoma County lies someone's forgotten dream, the thrill rides and cotton candy booths now a home for weeds and vermin. Unfortunately, it is still closely watched by the neighbors, so these few photos are all we got before being chased out.

The Tiger Lilies at the Great American Music Hall, 11/03/09

Wed, 04 Nov 2009 04:29:01 GMT

The opening act... oh ghad, what can we say? Vinsantos is what it was called, some kind of bondage emo drag queen in a leather corset, harness and gardening hat whose lyrics were nothing more than breathily croaked partial overwrought sentences. "Now.... I know.... everything.... and now.... I know.... nothing..." This was accompanied by vague tinkling noises on the piano and another musician who made a stand up bass sound like a weeping, sad whale. If I was a whale this horrid git and his miserable excuse for entertainment would make me weepy and sad too. I suppose we were due for something like this; the last few opening acts I've seen I ended up liking a lot. Time to rectify the balance with one that makes you want to plunge an icepick through both eardrums.

Two of the people sharing our table looked strikingly familiar, but I could not place them until I heard them talk of cycling, races, people who are and people who were doping, various high end terms for reaching blood oxygen musle output levels and such. I noted their long, thin, slender bodies and gaunt muscles on their necks and listened until I had a good idea that the fellow next to me had raced with Discovery and caught the other fellow's first name. This evening I looked over team rosters and confirmed my suspicions. Since they used fake names when introduced, I'll preserve their anonymity here, but suffice to say they were both world class competitors with some serious wins under their belts. And they're Tiger Lily fans. Ha!

The show was delightful, fun and wicked and depraved, as only the masters of perverse dark cabaret can be. Sorry Amanda, you're a jewel, and I love your explosions far more than Ms. Amos's self dissection and elegant bleeding, but when it comes to cabaret, Martyn, Adrian and Adrian have a seedy authenticity when they play their songs of hookers, addicts, murderers, pimps and thieves. One moment we're laughing at a man who gets his jollies kicking babies and old ladies down the stairs, the next we're weeping over some lost soul, sitting and looking out the window, dreaming of a better life that shall never come, alone with the moon.

And now, photos. Lots of them.

Thu, 29 Oct 2009 06:18:00 GMT

"You agree to release Chase et al from all liablility for malfeasance, negligence.."
"You hereby agree that in the event of action, all proceedings shall be conducted in the city and state of New York..."
"You relenquish your right to a trial and agree to binding arbitration at your expense."

Really Chase? I mean come on. How much fuck you can you fit in a single "click here to agree" statement? Wamu didn't need any of this crap.

It's time to go to a new bank.

Misplacing The Mountain Charlie Tunnel

Mon, 26 Oct 2009 06:35:43 GMT

Some many years ago, there was a rail line that got people from San Jose to Santa Cruz and redwood trees from the mountains to the mills. That line twisted through the mountains, feeding little rail towns and snaking through the woods via tunnels for many a year. But the invention of the automobile and the development of the freeway system made that rail line pretty much obsolete, so the rail line was abandoned and the tunnels were dynamited. Which makes exploring the remains of the old rail tunnels a perfect Saturday adventure.

The group had been to the open end of the Mountain Charlie tunnel once before, but I had not. This is the one tunnel that is still mostly open, deep into the mountain, at least 900 feet or more. It's also the most frightening due to the massive amounts of rock that have fallen in. Just since the group's last visit, support beams have pulled away from the walls and large rockfalls have tumbled into the tunnel. The sandstone is crumbling from the walls in many places; you can literally scoop it away with your hands, and quartz granules can be seen on the floor in pools of oxidized minerals and metals. Deep within the remains of the old support frame is still standing, but the beams are so rotten I was able to push my walking stick right through several. The walls run with water and small bits of dirt and stone occasionally fall from the ceiling onto your hat in a very alarming way. No bats roost in the depths of this tunnel. I don't blame them

Nope, no need to go back into that one.

The entrance to the tunnel. Massive dirt and crumbled sandstone mound partially blocking the way in.

The mound and partial cave-in. Directly behind the brickwork is a collapsed section that now opens to the sky.

Support beams, about 700 feet into the tunnel. These beams were up in place against the wall on the last visit to the tunnel. Note the crumbled support structure on the floor.

Some of the wooden support structure, still in place. Note the broken inner frame timbers

The impassible cave in at the end of the tunnel. Support structure partially visible on walls and ceiling. These timbers were completely rotten and oozed water.

Humidity in the cave was very high. Fog on the lens as I tried to get another picture of the cave in.

Another shot of the framing and support structure in the deep part of the tunnel.

Fungus and mineral deposits.

Cycling gear for larger cyclists

Tue, 20 Oct 2009 03:07:06 GMT

Louis Garneau Introduces Bike Wear for Plus-Sized Riders

I can attest that I love my Louis Garneau bib shorts and jersey. It's far superior to the Pearl Isumi and so many miles above what Performance has. Go get it and then get comfortable!

Dream Journal #45673

Tue, 20 Oct 2009 01:12:08 GMT

Carrissa and I discovered that my ability to control my dreams extends to pulling other people into my dream and then being able to manifest anything we made in the dream into waking reality. So for some reason we had decided to use this ability to create high quality, high price bath and beauty products which we sold out of an office in a medical building in Los Angeles.

Our offices consisted of an all white room, with a white reception desk, several white sleeping pads on the floor and white shelves for our product to manifest on when we woke. White was also the dominant color of the dream that we worked in; a temple like space composed of white pillars covered with white vines, bathed in a white light. The entire thing had the look of a Maxfield Parish painting that had been denuded of color. After sharing the ability to control the reality of the dream with Carrissa, we would concentrate on the products we wanted to create, and in a matter of moments they would appear before us. In order to leave the dream I had to release Carrissa from my dream, then concentrate on the products as I was waking in order to take them from the dream state into reality.

For reasons unexplained, Carrissa wanted to involve her friend Robert in our venture. This Robert turned out to be none other than Robert Downey Jr. Mr. Downey was full of all sorts of direction on how we should conduct our business, from what we should do with the profits to how we should dress when we dream. But it soon became clear that what Mr. Downey really wanted was to dream with us. So I took him into the dream space and, no surprise, he was just as annoying there as he was in the waking world.

Mr. Downey then insisted that he be allowed to bring a friend into our business who he was certain would be able to help both with production and marketing of the product. This friend turned out to be Angelina Jolie. Once more, I brought both of our guests with Carrissa and I into my dream space and imparted dream controlling abilities to both of them so they could help create product. Ms. Jolie immediately used her ability to summon Brad Pitt and then to float him helplessly somewhere in the distance, away from our working space, while she taunted him, telling him she was sleeping with Mr. Downey, and then telling him she was sleeping with me. Mr. Downey continued to stand about and issue directions rather than help Carrissa and I as we concentrated on creating products. The distractions of Ms. Jolie, Mr. Downey and the distant shouting of Mr. Pitt made manifesting product very, very difficult.

Upon awakening Carrissa left the office, angered and hurt by Ms. Jolie's tactless and rude behavior. I tried to catch her before she left, but Mr. Downey and Ms. Jolie had invited another friend of theirs to our office; John Travolta. Mr. Travolta was nothing but an emotional basket case, blathering about his problems and crying. I had to take care of him while Ms. Jolie made a television appearance announcing that our products were her new beauty line and Mr. Downey made phone calls telling even more people to come to our office.

While I was playing amateur psychiatrist to Mr. Travolta, I saw a note for me taped to the office door and could see Carrissa's signature through the paper. My heart dropped with foreboding, but this was no matter to Mr. Travolta, who was following me about, whining and whimpering and insisting that I take him into the dream state and share my abilities with him for personal therapy reasons. I quietly decided that the next time I went into the dream state I was going to use my dream state abilities to change waking reality to send all these horrible annoying people very far away and have them forget they ever heard of Carrissa or myself. I felt myself starting to get drowsy, and began to imagine a distant tropical island where a film crew and three movie stars were stranded, unable to return to the mainland for many, many years.....

...and then I woke up.

John Henry and the Bicycle

Sun, 18 Oct 2009 23:16:39 GMT

By noon the clouds had set siege to the late summer sky and tinted the day with blue grey portent. My little red bicycle stood at the ready by the door, but my fingers kept me busy weaving conversations with long missing friends across the net. Thus the clouds had further hours to waste the weakened patches of blue.

And in the later hours I was spinning the wheels, off to fetch mice for my snakes. I've kept snakes for so many years I really can't imagine at this point what life would be like without some kind of snake pit in my house. In any case, the months since I'd been on the bike wore upon my body and my breath was short as I climbed the hills. I recall thinking that much of my ability has been lost due to inactivity and even more shall be when I go beneath the surgeon's knife in December.

And then there he was, younger than me, slimmer than me, on a bike easily twice what my bike weighs, turning from a driveway and pedaling up the hill in front of me. Making it look so effortless. And while the months and weeks of not riding may have weakened my flesh, my heart is still a monster...

I hated him instantly.

I stood on the pedals and snorting and huffing like a locomotive, chased him up the hill. Yet for every three turns of the crank I pushed out, he turned his but once, and up and up and up he went. My heart screamed at the injustice of this and I redoubled my efforts, but as he raced through the intersection, the traffic light robbed me of the chance to catch up to him. At least, that's what I told myself as I caught my breath.

He remained in my sights as I crested the hill and pedaled into town, in the bike lane one block or more in front of me. I upshifted for speed and stood up again, pounding the crank with all that I had, determined to catch him on my commuter bike that was never built for speed. Yet he was on a huge framed mountain bike, I should still have the advantage. "Should" in this case being a very sad word, almost tragic.

He turned where I would be turning and by pouring on the last that I had, I managed to catch the light and follow him up the slope into the parking lot. He arrived at the door to the local market, dismounted and, without chaining up his bike, walked into the store, grocery bag over his shoulder. As I came towards him I watched his casual, easy stride, his smile and the confident set of his jaw with an envy so strong it could have been loathing. It was only when I was close enough to see the details of the heavy, chunky shape of his bike that my heart surrendered it's rage. For there, on the frame, was one of those new, silent electric motors.

I rode home in the rain, laughing. I wonder if his electric motor is waterproof?

Hoax-o-rama!

Sun, 18 Oct 2009 19:33:34 GMT

Balloon Boy was a hoax perpetrated by a sleaze-bag who missed the fame of being on reality TV and is now gonna face fines and jail time for wasting the nation's time and resources. Yowsa!

With thanks to Mr. duncan_blkthrne for the original.

Now that I finally have power again...

Fri, 16 Oct 2009 04:26:26 GMT

Watch and be amused.

Angry Dog

New Dr. Tran

That is all. As you were.

Sat, 03 Oct 2009 15:38:57 GMT

Fuck but I love Red Meat...

Why Rebates Are A Racket: A Story In Four Parts

Thu, 01 Oct 2009 05:59:14 GMT

It starts with a rebate offer. Buy expensive object, fill out and mail in the simple form, and receive your rebate, simple enough. But nothing is ever so simple...

Part the First: Happy Purchaser and the Card of Confounding
I returned home from work on a fine summer's day to find an envelope from the appropriate retailer and well known financial institution in my mail box. But within the envelope there was not a rebate cheque, but a Visa card. There was also a letter stating that with this Visa card I may

1) use it to go out and buy things,
2) transfer the money from the card to my bank account online,
3) make a cash advance for the balance at any bank,
4) or request a paper cheque.

I elected number two and after a long and arduous process of logging in, reluctantly providing some personal information, acknowledging that I really want to do this, and declining the free magazines, special offers, financial assistance by telephone and other sundries that the website insists would do me a world of good, I completed the transaction and the money was on it's way to my bank account with an estimated arrive date of four to five working days.
Only it wasn't.

Part the Second: The Call of the Riled
After a length of time twice the estimated four to five working days, plus a weekend, I made a phone call to the retailer regarding the rebate. They insisted that there was nothing they could do; they have paid my money to the financial institution who has issued me the Visa card, whom I need to speak to in order to receive it. So I called the number listed on the back of the Visa card and, after an insufferably long and convoluted automated menu, through which at any time I expected to hear such nonsense as "if you like turnips better than rubarb, press three, if you like rubarb more than turnips but less than beets, press four, if you would rather hear an amusing anecdote about Mr. Oglethorpe's trip to an Istanbul bath house, press five", I discovered that actual live human assistance was available only two days a week, and then for only a few hours. At the first opportunity, I called this number and was placed on hold for over 20 minutes before the line spontaneously disconnected. I repeatedly called the number during the day, whenever my work became too exciting and I needed some tedium to calm me down, eventually racking up three twenty minute waiting sessions. I did, however, while pressing random buttons in order to stave off a nearly fatal encounter with ennui, that the full balance of the rebate was still on my card and has not been processed to my bank account at all.

Part the Third: Twisted Branches
Deciding that the third option, that of taking the card to my bank to get a cash advance, was superior to wasting any more time with the online transfer, I visited my bank's local branch office and presented the card and the letter to a friendly teller. After consulting with the senior teller and the bank manager, it was decided that she could fulfill my request by running a cash advance against the Visa card just as she would with any other Visa card. Doing so, however, involved all three individuals and a small machine that sounded like a 14.4k modem. Needless to say, the financial institution that issued the card did not respond to to the modem. Or telephone calls. It was suggested I visit their branch, some 10 miles across town. As it was then a quarter to closing time, I am proud that my success in doing so did not come with a speeding ticket.

I entered the financial institution that issued the horrible Visa card, presented the card and the letter to a teller, and requested that she turn the card into cash by any means possible. Money order, modem, magic wand, I really don't care as long as the rebate cash is in my hand. The teller then informed me that I cannot have cash as the card is attached to the account of the merchant offering the rebate, and to do anything like a cash transfer from their account would require the intercession of the branch manager. I asked that the manager be brought out to speak to me forthwith, but was informed that he had gone home early. The teller then suggested that I use the card to have a happy shopping spree at the mall directly across the street, but cautioned me not to spend more than the balance of the card, or attempt to split charges between the Visa card and my own card, cash or cheque, or the card would be declined and the financial institution will fine me, by reducing the balance of the card by twenty five dollars. She also informed me that if I spend less than the exact amount on the card, leaving a balance of twenty dollars or below, I will forfeit the remaining funds and like an immense paper towel sucking up the filthy pool of my cash, the financial institution will absorb the residual monies. As I was the last customer, she then closed her window and informed me she needed to go because her kids had arrived home from school. I am still not sure if I am proud or ashamed to say she left the bank to fetch her children with her head still attached to her shoulders.

Part the Fourth: The Future Is Written in Blood or Money
And that, dear reader, brings us to the present. Tomorrow I shall visit the branch when the branch manager is there. If I emerge from the financial institution with my cash, they shall only have my eternal loathing and be the beneficiaries of a campaign to free them of the burden of the custom of any merchant I do business with. However, if rather than my cash I emerge from the financial institution wearing a necklace of human ears, covered in blood and screaming, please come and visit me at Napa State Mental Hospital. I'm sure I shall appreciate the company.

Just don't mention CitiBank.

Ever.

Dream Journal #45672

Wed, 30 Sep 2009 05:01:02 GMT

I had purchased the house I've been looking at up in Boulder Creek, a nice 3 bedroom place on half an acre. One morning I opened the front door and lo and behold, there was a monster boar in the yard. The boar chased me into the house and stood outside the door stomping and snorting.

Rather than be late for work, I went out the back door and crept around the other side of the house with my 30-06, got the boar in my sights and squeezed off a shot. The bullet passed straight through the boar's chest, dropping him instantly, but kept going and took a half dozen shingles off the corner off my neighbor's roof.

The next thing I know, I was in a courtroom with my angry neighbors, two pissed off fish and game officers, and one fuming sheriff. I slowly and methodically went over the events that had led to me firing my gun, and once I had explained the situation to the judge, Carrissa came into the court room, dressed in high gothic fashion, with a large cooler full of cuts of fresh boar ham, boar bacon, boar sausage, all from the so called victim of my crime, which we offered to everyone.

The judge was so happy to have some boar sausage he told fish and game to bugger off as the animal was an introduced nuisance species with no hunting season and no license necessary to hunt, and furthermore I'd shot it on my own property, so the violations they were presenting to the court were invalid. He then told the sheriff that his illegal discharge of a firearm charge was invalid as I was acting to protect my person and property from imminent threat by a wild animal. This left just the neighbors.

I offered to repair the shingles I had knocked off their roof, but they insisted on a professional roofer. I agreed to this and as a peace offering, I offered the rest of the boar meat to them. That's when the wife stood up, and in a towering rage announced she had never been so offended in her life as they were Jewish and how dare I offer them the flesh of a filthy unkosher pig.

The neighbor woman then began to scream and howl about how people like Carrissa and I, being goths and owning guns, were a threat to children, not specifically theirs as they did not have any children, but to all children, everywhere. She proclaimed that if we had our way, it would only be a matter of time until Marilyn Manson was president, all boys were required to wear black lipstick, and Columbine like school shootings were considered daily entertainment. Therefore, she would start a crusade to Protect The Children from people like us. It was at this point that she turned into the character of Kyle's mom on South Park, Sheila Broflovski, down to becoming two dimensional. The judge became so annoyed by her tirade that he walked out of the courtroom leaving us alone with a cooler full of boar meat, a screaming angry cartoon character and my 30-06.

...and then I woke up.

Forbidden Zone Sequel!

Fri, 25 Sep 2009 05:46:01 GMT

From http://www.buzzine.com/2008/06/richard-elfman-news-and-events/...

Forbidden Zone 2: The Forbidden Galaxy
Ma and Pa Kettle leave the depressed Dust Bowl with their kids, Stinky and Petunia, and drive their old jalopy down to Crenshaw in South-Central Los Angeles. Stinky is a hyper-active 12-year-old, played by a hyper-active 50-year-old; Petunia is a lumbering 13-year-old slut, played by an actress over 18 (hopefully); Ma is a corn-cob pipe-smoking inbred, and Pa is a craven, drunken carnival geek…with a bad disposition…even before his carnival job folded after the last dust storm. Together, they hope to find a better life in California. Unfortunately, the little shack they rent has a basement connected to the Sixth Dimension.

Daughter-in-law Jenna Elfman will do a surrealistic aerial dance routine (did you know Jenna’s a professional dancer?); I think I’ll get brother Danny to reprise his Devil role, singing a knockout version of “St. James Infirmary Blues,” and we’ll shoot the “Crenshaw” scenes in Ghana. Crenshaw will look like a cartoon version of 1910 Harlem, but everyone will be INCREDIBLE dancers and acrobats - from the Ghana National Dance Company.

Forbidden Zone 2 will have all the ABSURDITY and balls-out zaniness of Forbidden Zone 1 but with more technical tools and a greater budget to play with. I can guarantee that Forbidden Zone 2 will have unforgettable musical numbers. It will employ the MUSIC FORMULA that we used for the songs in Forbidden Zone 1.

Milan Fashion Week Candied Fig Disaster

Fri, 25 Sep 2009 04:27:13 GMT

Dear Mr. Wonka -

We regret to tell you that there has been a terrible accident involving one of your confections. Apparently one of our models, being slightly less substantial than a lollipop stick, managed to fall into your "Super-Sugar-Fig-o-Saurus Rex." Being that it was so sticky sweet, she has become quite stuck and in spite of our best efforts, we have been unable to remove her from the candy.

Please advise us on how to dissolve the confection, or, if such knowledge is a trade secret and cannot be shared, send some stout and manly oompa loompas with good appetites for candied figs at your earliest convenience. I cannot understate how urgent our need is as our model is quite concerned that she could absorb some of the fig through her skin, gain a number of ounces, perhaps even a pound or more, and utterly ruin her carrer.

Thank you very kindly Mr. Wonka. We do greatly appreciate your help.

Yours,
Comité Pour la Mode, Milan