Lazy Post

Caption this photo.
Then go wash your eyes.

Friday Audio Visuals

First the Audio...

I have a massive band-crush on Spoon. It's not a new thing. I've had it about eleven or twelve years, ever since a friend pushed A Series Of Sneaks under my nose. Their new album, Transference, dropped last week, maybe the week before (or several). It is one of their better albums to date, although a bit messier and without some of the studio polish which they regularly wield like a weapon. The low-fi sound, abrupt starts and ends, and smeared vocals all add up to a positive sum and leads to a good end. It's deliberately messy, and it works.

It took me a few (seven) listens through the entire album to isolate my favorite track. At first I thought it was Out Go The Lights, for the singular reason that it contained the lyric "You became like that on which your heart was fixed," one of the most ass-wrecking lines I've heard in a while. The songwriter in me is jealous of that lyric, mostly because it accurately describes the life paths of MANY of my friends, and possibly even my own. But that song also gave me a Coldplay vibe, which is a total non-starter. So it was removed from contention along with The Mystery Zone, with it's drums and bass counter-punctuating each other to create an infectious rhythm.
Ultimately, I've settled on Trouble Come Running as my favorite, because of its tempo and ability to kick shit from wall to wall. I'd post a link to it, but I can't seem to find one. So go buy the album and listen for yourself.

Instead, here's one to Metal Detektor.

And a motion picture talkie:



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Then the Visuals...

A friend in town for NYE tested out his new camera on myself and friends. Considering how drunk everyone was, I'm surprised ANY photos came out as anything more than blurry abominations.





Have a good weekend.

Jesus Puppy

People have seen the image of Christ in everything from fridge mold to French toast to the shroud of Turin.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

In order to illustrate my point for a childish email argument earlier this week, I ran an image search on Google for the phrase "Jesus Puppy".

I was surprised by the wide variety of the results.

They ranged from oddball crackpottery

To aesthetically nauseating
To slightly amusing
There were even a few cute ones




But NOTHING quite as remarkable as the image of Jesus that one day appeared on a puppy. It must be the result of the Lord's divine intervention, as a symbol for us all to have faith in him.

Pictured: Finally! Evidence of God's divine, compassionate presence.

Or maybe it's just a dog's ass.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

People need to get a grip, and quit looking for "proof" or "evidence" of God. Belief doesn't work that way; science does. For all of science's proof and evidence and hard facts, when it comes down to base motivators for human action, it cannot trump the power of belief.
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Take a gander at THESE mind-raping tattoos.

Where's The Giant Slingshot?

Friday, on the property where I work there was a curious sight. A curious sight indeed.

"What the hell is that? A rug?" asks a coworker as we drive back from securing our mid-morning meals of sausage rolls and caffeine something healthy that all the cool kids are eating/drinking. He points to what looked like a small piece of dingy, cut-up carpet.

"Looks like a dog or something, curled up on that gravel pile," I reply as I drive through the parking lot.

"Holy shit, that's a coyote!" he responds.

"Bullshit. It looks too fat. Plus it's not covered in ACME products," says I.



"All right pull in. We'll walk over there and check it out," retorts the coworker.

In response to this comment, about four or five different thoughts jammed up in a synaptic cranial bottleneck all at once, much like that three stooges gag where they all try to walk through a doorway together. Fortunately, one mental image trumped the rest:

...And his last words were: "We'll walk over there and check it out."

My car's tires squealed a bit as I made a sudden, impulsive turn.

"Are you totally high, or just want rabies? Tell you what, we'll just drive over there, since Toyota Avalons are coyote-proof, and denim is only coyote-resistant. Whatdya think?"

"Solid plan," agrees the coworker.

So I edge my vehicle in close to get a better look at the animal. When I get within about thirty feet, the animal unfurls and stands up on super-long legs. While not exactly baring teeth, the coyote did pace back and forth atop the mound. Telltale ACME products must have been hidden in the gravel.

"See! I told you it was a coyote," crowed the coworker.

"Yes. Congratulations. And now we've not only awakened it, but apparently we've also pissed it off. Plus, I'm sure to the hyper-sensitive nose of that mammal-hunter, we both smell like giant sausage rolls."

"Shit," repeated the coworker.

"At least I can run faster than you."

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Coyotes are one of the most resilient mammals in nature, and have little trouble adapting to the very unnatural world of humans.

http://advocacy.britannica.com/blog/advocacy/2007/05/coyotes-the-wild-becomes-urban/

I'm still trying to park as close to the building as possible though.
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I'm wondering if THIS will make Oprah's book list.

Deal Breaker

It's been suggested that I break up my massive, multi-topic posts into MANY smaller posts. So I'll try that for a minute and see how it goes. Here's one of my first.
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Don't go to Steve's House. Ever. It looks like the kind of place that will play host to cops unearthing corpses in another ten years. Seriously, that guy has some kinda fierce compulsive hoarding disorder. A disorder that might include hoarding human bones. Fresh human bones. You've been warned.

But hey ladies, he's single and a homeowner. What more could you really want?
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I told the woman I've been dating that I don't listen to the radio, and haven't listened in years. She sent me a text regarding Fred Flintstone and making a bed rock, and cited the radio and a guy named Lil Wayne. She was pointing out what I was missing by avoiding the radio, albeit in a cheeky fashion. She also mentioned that all the good lyrics have already been taken, which is a sentiment the songwriter in me does not share.

So, I'm wondering if I should tell her that in spite of my sanctions against broadcast radio, I'm already a Lil Wayne fan? Or just keep secretly pumping Shooter through my cans and clandestinely shaking my ass?

What do you think? Could Lil Wayne fandom be a deal-breaker?

"I turned around, I was staring at chrome (hello)"
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Birthday Reflections

According to Google, today is the birthday of Norman Rockwell.

I used to think that Mr. Rockwell's paintings were overly contrived, with about four extra tablespoons schmaltz and nostalgia than ANY recipe ever called for.

I thought that for a long, long time.

Also, those little pricks at grandpa's right elbow are about to start some shit. Backhand those twerps!

It just always seemed like things were a bit too posed in his paintings. Almost fake.

... ... ... ...

My grandmother (father's mother) will be ninety this April. Born in 1920 (in case you can't do math), she's a tough lady with an even temper and an endless supply of patience. She has had the experience of seeing her corner of the world turn from agrarian to mechanized, and lived through some of the more interesting chapters of twentieth century history (including Oklahoma's depression-era dustbowl).
I can't help but reflect upon how many advances mankind has made since my grandmother was a child: splitting the atom, walking on the moon, curing polio, eradicating malaria, national highway projects, radio, television, computers, advances in medicine, civil rights, and women's lib, breaking the sound barrier, 911 service, color photography...the list goes on forever. The advances of my generation (and subsequent generations) don't really look that impressive by comparison, and seem to serve only individual selfish purposes rather than humanity's greater good. (Got cancer or AIDS? There's an iPhone app for that! ... But no cure.)

In preparation for my grandma's upcoming birthday, the immediate family (all 20+ of us) are pulling out all the stops, and our current guest list for the event is only slightly smaller than the 400 or so blood relatives who came out to celebrate the 100 year anniversary of my great grandfather's purchase of the family farm in 1898.

Fourth from left: Sweetest old lady in the world
Third from left: Some asshole blogger

My contribution (chosen for me by less tech-savvy relatives) for the party is to sift through photographs and compile a photo/video DVD as a keepsake for attendees.

And actually, most of the photos come pre-"sifted" from my other relatives, as NO ONE wants to scan and email their ENTIRE library of photo albums. So I'm only getting the relevant and most cherry of all the photos.

Like this one. Notice how well behaved children were when they were regularly beaten.

... ... ... ...

A few things keep popping into my head as I pour through the photos....

The first is what a spoiled little bitch I am. My dad spent his second (and possibly third) year of life literally living in a chicken coop, because the lumber (and ALL other building materials) from the old farmhouse were taken apart to be used in the new farmhouse. So he spent a year and a half living in drafty makeshift quarters in the middle of the windy plains. DHS was NOT called in response to these living conditions, and not just because they had no phone service out in the country. Mainly no one dropped the DHS hammer because the living conditions were not considered unusual for the area at the time. Contrast that against what gets people in a twist these days, and I think you'll agree we've all become a lot softer over the past few generations.

I think the worst scenario I've ever had to endure was when my electricity was out for a week after an ice storm. It is relevant to note that my grandmother went without power for a week and a half during that exact same storm. So she even proved herself as more of a hard ass than I in a head-to-head challenge.

NOT PICTURED: Sissified whining cowardly wimps.

Another thought is that I have a pretty long family history, and that history has only recently intrigued me. I should take a week off work, plan a lengthy visit, and soak up every last tale my beloved grandmother has the inclination and energy to share. Because while "Joseph beget Mathias beget Henry beget Mathias beget Krëg" is good to know, it lacks the colorful details that make it more than just my lineage, more than just branches on my family tree. There are things I'd like to know, blanks I'd like filled in.

... Like where my granddad got his pimpin clothes.

Seriously, where can I get some fly-ass suits like that?

Ok, so maybe I don't want to know EVERYTHING...

Finally, I've decided that while they are overly nostalgic and schmaltzy, perhaps Norman Rockwell's paintings weren't quite so posed after all. From the photos I've been sent, it appears that's how people actually behaved before the hydra of mass media began trading us fear in return for our own independent thoughts, judgments, and emotions.

"Shit! Look out! Terrorists and Swine Flu! Hide! ... Oh wait. I forgot. We DON'T panic about over-hyped crap."
"Damn straight. Pass the catsup, miss bad-ass."

If that's the case, modern society got ripped off. It seems we traded character, camaraderie, and resourcefulness for mass-produced shiny baubles and blindly following the messages of our favorite talking heads. Perhaps the technology that we praise for connecting us has also taught us that we no longer need to look people in the eye while communicating, and that the act of texting "xox-hugs-xox lol" is an acceptable substitute for the real thing. Our newest and best technological distractions seemingly only disrupt opportunities for REAL connections, and while they plug us in to a vast world of communication possibilities, they seem to leave us increasingly isolated from our immediate communities.

After looking through piles (albeit digital piles) of old photos, Mr. Rockwell's paintings don't seem quite so posed and fake.

In fact, they feel a bit like family.

Fresh Card

My belated xmas card is now online. You'll have to scroll back to the 25th to see it.
Eyewash not included.

Life Is About Learning

...And this past week I learned a valuable lesson: Sometimes it is best to listen to your friends.

When my friends initially told me not to watch pornography on a high-def screen, I thought they were just being cowards. "Surely," I thought to myself, "clearer, crisper picture will make ANY viewing experience better. Especially naked women being hammered by hairy trolls with horse-cocks." And I never stopped to consider that perhaps my friends were speaking from experience; that maybe they were trying to share their wisdom and spare my anguish. If I had only taken a moment to look into the frightened and bewildered eyes of my friends as they tried to warn me...

What a fool I was.

In stage and television, the fourth wall is ever-present. Some productions will poke at the fourth wall for humorous effect, but most have the good sense not to disturb the magic with which they've enchanted their audiences. High-def is making this more difficult, as the realism of the images get ever-closer to their real-world equivalents. And while high-def may be cool for some entertainment like Austin City Limits or CSI: Miami, it is less so for sweaty favorites like Justin's Titty Limits or CSI: MyAnus. As the fourth wall begins to fall away, never have I so deeply longed for a piece of glass to separate me from the greasy action. I didn't realize how safe it made me feel.

Imagine an entire person's body that looked like Edward James Olmos's face. Now image that person locked in coitus and writhing. NOT hot. Now imagine that they look SO real, that you could swear they were in the room with you. Seriously, I spent about 75% of my brain being teased and stimulated by the porno, and the other 25% wondering if the high-def images might somehow be giving my coffee table some hyper-virulant strain of herpes. (Okay, maybe it was more like 98% to 2%, but that is STILL too much "non-porn" thinking to be doing while watching porn)

If this story has a moral (and it DOESN'T, I promise), it is this: High-def pornography - Don't do it.


Happy 2010 to all of my friends and loved ones! And to you too!

Merry Holiday Card

♪ ♫ "Take me down, little Suzy take me down" ♫ ♪

Try Not To Touch Your Genitals Or Eyes

Today is/was the shortest day of the year. I hope you celebrated as I did; by shaking your fist at the sun and calling it a coward.

In observance of this day, here's a grab bag of random musings that never quite made it to the 'post' button.
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I. Fucking. Knew. It. Seriously. This news comes as a shock only to morons.
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Bobby Bare Jr. is just one of the many fine reasons I need to schedule a trip to Austin for SXSW within the next few years.
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After owning a cell phone for almost an entire year, I remain nonplussed with the technology. Not that I don't think it's great that the technology works in ways we could have only dreamed about even a mere fifteen years ago, or that people around the world are finding it easier to communicate. But somehow this human achievement seems like building the Taj Mahal, only to fill it level-full with excrement. Millions and millions of people, all chattering away like magpies on crack, but never really doing much other than recycling information to each other. 56 channels and nothing on.

And I feel as if I'm just left with another damn thing I have to cram into my pocket every morning.

And don't even get me started about texting.


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I'm still unimpressed with Facebook. So unimpressed that it seems the only time I'm ever there is to verify the occasional friend request. Apparently there are community groups and games and applications for the site. But since I can't get into the virtual fun of farm mafias, nor milk a sense of community from the glowing, rectangular chunk of plastic I call a monitor, those cherries don't hold much flavor. But I suppose it's just as useful of a social tool for not giving a shit about people as my current one. Although, I could argue that my current method of not giving a shit requires no electricity and has zero carbon footprint. That's right, my ambivalence has gone green.
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And while I'm on the topic of flash-in-the-pan trends of the moment, I finally had a funny idea for Twitter account that wasn't already taken and then ruined. So now my penis has a twitter page. I know ultimately, it will prove to be too exciting for you to ignore.

FOLLOW MY COCK!


I would make an impassioned plea for y'all to please stop using Twitter. That plea would include points like Twitter is not for mature, grown adults; it's for vacuous tween girls. I would argue that it's for people who would rather stare droolingly at their phones like lobotomized apes than actually notice (much less interact with) the world immediately in front of them.
I would even point out that mutha-humpin' RETAIL OUTLETS now post updates on the service, and yet no one in their right mind would ever ask Sears to CALL them every time they updated a sale in their lawn care center:
"Hi! This is Skip over at A.V. & S. phone services, and I just wanted to let you know that we're having a 35% off sale on everything in our store for the next twelve minutes!"
"How did you get this number, Skip?!? And why do you keep calling every half hour?"
"Mention this phone call and get an additional 5% off any purchase over $57.00"
"What? Stop calling me! I only wanted to know about that one sale on wireless headsets ONCE, like three years ago, but you still call incessantly! I hate you Skip!"
"A.V. & S. wants to make this a Christmas to remember."
"Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhh......." [self-inflicted gunshot sounds]

But I can't argue any of that, because twitter is now finally home to the musings of my penis, in all of it's vascular and single-minded glory.

Do yourself a favor. Take a look at the last five tweets that you received. Was it worth it? Did it make your life any more precious or memorable? Is your life fuller as a result?

The answer can only be "yes" if one (or more) of those five tweets came from my johnson.
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In case you'd forgotten, Van Morrison still rules.
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So, when a primate goes mam-grabbing, everything's cool. Smile-for-the-camera-style cool. But god forbid if I should try something that bold, suddenly I'm testing the effectiveness of pepper spray. Lousy chimp/human double standards.
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I'm getting to be quite the artist with this stuff. Although I sometimes still "color" outside the lines...
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I was cooking dinner for some friends a few evenings past, and as I cooked, I learned some new things.

It was an Asian curry dish that required coconut milk, an ingredient I had never used before. In addition to being incredibly unhealthy, it turns out that coconut milk is also overpriced and hard to locate in the grocery store (ie. not in the 'bachelor' heat-and-eat section). Yet in spite of all that, it still tastes totally amazing. I want to breathe coconut milk instead of oxygen.

Like most other "milks", coconut milk is rather bland. This is only problematic because I like my curry to have some kick. So in an effort to crank up the heat, I began slicing peppers that a friend had grown and given away. The peppers sliced and seeds removed, I stirred them into the dish, and then went back to prepping other ingredients while talking with my friends.

Five to ten minutes later, as I'm drying my hands after rinsing them off, I notice they still feel as if warm water is running over them. Twenty minutes later I'm wondering if I didn't accidentally scald myself. An hour later, I've realized why many people advise you to wear gloves when cutting and handling peppers: their oils can cause an intense burning sensation to any skin exposed to them.

Once I realized the cause of my problem, my cousin immediately began scouring the internet for any suggested remedies. I'm not a super-scientist, but I could tell as soon as she began listing off homemade cures that they were all half-baked:
"Soak it in milk." : "My hand is not a veal cutlet."
"Soak it in vinegar" : "Balsamic or red wine vinegar?"
"Soak it in gasoline" : "Absolutely not. No. Just no."

It was painfully obvious that the only tried and true remedy was time. Wait while the burning sensation abates. Wait and wait and grind your teeth and wait. And no other choice but to just wait.

So I called a friend for one last shot at a miracle cure.
"Sup?"
"Hey man, I just sliced up some chili peppers, and my hand is burning pretty bad."
"Tough."
"Yeah. I remember you said something similar happened to you, so I thought you might have some pointers or ideas."
"Here's a pointer: Don't touch your penis or your eyes."
"Yeah, that's why I remembered your story. Any particular reason you mentioned penis before eyes? "
"Last time I checked, unlike the eye, the penis is not self-flushing. Also, and this is from experience mind you, pepper oils on the cock hurt more and lingered longer than in the eyes."
"So how long can I expect this hand-fire pleasure cruise to last?"
"When does it stop? Sometimes, in the cold lonely hours just before dawn, I think I can still feel it burning..."

My hand quit hurting after about three hours.
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According to this article from BBC, for maximum matrimonial satisfaction, I should be shopping for a younger woman. Like I really needed the Fogbreather Broadcast Service to tell me that...
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Maybe It's Maybelline...
...but it's probably not.
I wouldn't think a major cosmetics retailer like Maybelline would be foolish enough to get caught up in the Peruvian human fat trade. But come to think of it, that's similar to what I said about Circuit City getting mixed up with tampering with the guinea pig genome, and look what happend there.

In case you're too lazy busy to read the above article, I'll give you a quick executive summary: Gangs in Peru are killing humans, draining their body fat, and selling it as a cosmetic that reduces wrinkles. Anyhow, I was most troubled when I read that Hilario Cudena, the group's leader, had "been killing to extract fluid for more than three decades". THREE. DECADES. Now, I don't live in Peru, so I'm not totally clear about what constitutes a criminal act in that country. But I would think murder would be on that list somewhere. Somewhere near the top. Further I would suspect that authorities would want round up anyone suspected of murder rather quickly, instead of, say for example, waiting three decades. But maybe law enforcement in that region displays an uncanny resemblance to Larry, Moe, and Curly (or Racket, Graft, and Lazy).

Or maybe instead, motive for the crime plays a part in a criminal's pursuit and prosecution. Killing for vengeance? 15-years-to-life. Killing to produce homemade Oil Of Olay? Seventy-five dollar fine and time served.

According to Hilario Cudena, this easily becomes a lifetime supply of Noxzema.

Anyhow, it might be wise to avoid unique boutique "bath & body" products for a while...
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Weird With A Beard
... http://www.worldbeardchampionships.com/index.html ...
The national beard championships came and went again without me garnering any recognition for my growing the world's second mangiest beard.
Maybe next year.
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Merry Christmas

Three Things

1) Not dead.

2) Busy/sick lately.

3) If you want a horribly tasteless and/or inappropriate Christmas card, please email your address to me.

Blow Town

Chances are looking favorable that I'll be leaving town for the weekend. And not just some two-dimensional flattened copy of me either. No, this will be a real jaunt, featuring the official human-meat version of Krëg. I'll probably do off-the-wall things like eat food and look at stuff. Possibly some walking around and drinking things. I'm a wild-man like that. An animal.

Unlike most of my attorney-encouraged "getaways" where I lurk in a cabin while searing off my fingerprints with a clothes iron, this short break is welcome and purely recreational. Anyhow, I'll try to remember to take a camera or something, and I may even have the wherewithal to use it. I promise I'll give y'all an undetailed, rambling, and sketchy account of my wanderings when I return.

In the meantime (assuming I don't post again before I leave), amuse yourselves by looking at Black And WTF or Halloween In The Time Of Cholera, and marvel at Halloween costumes of yesteryear.

Also, feel free to answer the question from my last post, if you haven't already.

"We're gonna need a bigger fly-swatter."

Terrifying

If you can make it through the first 2:15 of this clip without experiencing some violent psychotropic reaction, you've got a leg up on me.

An appearance by KISS shortly thereafter saves the day. Well, as much as a KISS appearance can save anything.

Quiz time: What's your favorite Halloween memory?

I'll start...
My grandmother once fixed my plastic/vinyl Spider-man costume using blue and red electrical tape. I had somehow torn out the costume's crotch while putting it on. Anyhow, that's the day I learned that tape came in different colors, cheap costumes are problematic, and grandmas can fix anything. Even a crotchless Halloween costume.

You May Already Be A Winner.

But chances are, if you're reading this, you're probably NOT a winner. I'm just sayin'.
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According to highly unreliable chatter on the Interthing, I may have been either cloned or vivisected, and then mailed across the country. It's about damn time some part of me got a vacation.
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As many of you may have noticed (much to your chagrin), I fixed my comments problem, and I can now get back to peppering your comments section with my off-color contributions. It turns out that maybe it was just some user error (though I admit no guilt) of having too many accounts and passwords and being logged into too many different sites at once. Maybe. But probably it was still somehow the fault of technology, and not the result of my actions in any way.
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I know quite a few people who are in to fantasy football, and on occasion they have asked me if I'd like to join. My total lack of knowledge and interest in professional-level football notwithstanding, I have a few basic issues with the notion of fantasy football.

First, I often ask participants what they find so compelling about fantasy football. "It makes the games more interesting," is the bullsh!t reply I most often receive. I like to point out that betting on a game doesn't inherently make the game any more exciting. A checkers match isn't suddenly more riveting when there's $100 riding on the outcome. It's the same damn game, only some ignoramus decided to risk a chunk of cash on something arbitrary. And instead of/in addition to money, you're pissing away your time. [sarcasm]Whoohoo, what wild and interesting fun.[/sarcasm]

Second, if I'm going to indulge in something that refers to itself as "Fantasy Anything", that 'anything' will not involve any men other than myself. Sorry, no non-Krëg dudes allowed in any of my fantasies.

Not even this one.

Just piles of human females, Wesson Oil, and Milton Bradley's Twister. Maybe someone remembered to bring a riding crop or something. Point being, barring a traumatic brain injury, my fantasies will hopefully never include shoulder pads and jock straps.
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Two of my coworkers play a little game which they call "The Morning After Jam Night". They find a Internet article with an interesting headline, and humorously speculate that the article reflects how the neighbors/police/media found me Tuesday or Saturday morning. Last week's front runner was pretty awesome.
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This is one reason (or two) I love living where I do .
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This is one reason I despise living where I do.
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I couldn't help but notice that some television network has reanimated the rotting corpse of the old mini-series "V". Even though my health insurance has diagnosed me with the awful precondition of enjoying a piece of good science fiction (an ailment scientists have classified as "geeky" or "loser-ish"), I am still apprehensive about this new version. I was pretty damn young when the original aired, but I remember enough to realize that it was mind-numbingly terrible.

Riding the tide of Star Wars popularity, the original series featured nefarious rodent-eating lizard biped-humanoids covered in faux human flesh. So, I guess you could say it was exactly like Desperate Housewives, except set in the 80s. [rimshot] Also, apparently this post-disco Flock Of Aliens got a discount on Micheal Jackson's 'Thriller' apparel and Blublocker© sunglasses. You know, because they wanted to fit in.

A timeless look.

I'm sure much like any other 80s fad, it seemed trendy at the time.

In the new-redeux of V, apparently the people in wardrobe took advantage of a fire-sale on the glut of unemployed-executive-banker clothes at the local consignment store.

A timeless look for the colorblind stockbroker.

I'm sure, not unlike its predecessor, this new show will hold up nicely in the ensuing decades, and if humans DO ever meet aliens, scholars will marvel at how on-the-mark the producers at ABC were with their depiction of an alien species. (cough)

Having not seen the new show (but still overly-willing to bad mouth it), I can't really say how it compares to the original: if it will examine society's xenophobia, lampoon 1930s/40s era facist Nazi Germany's government, or even if it will sate the ravenous appetite of the world's reptile fetishists. Right? Because everyone knows how unlivable, overbearing and dickish Fedcral Reserve Employees sauro-freaks can get when they can't get a little "green scale-tail". Wait, you DON'T know? Just me? Hmm. Moving on then...

The most important question this new mini series raises is a question that society has been asking itself for quite some time now: What the fuck happened to Marc Singer?

"Yeah, what the fuck happened to me?"

Dude was pretty much on top of the world in the early 80s. Prior to his role on the original V, he played The Beastmaster, a streetwise pimp high on blow mystical Fabio precursor that could communicate with an array of animals because it was the 80s and people would swallow any premise, no matter how ridiculous. Video and photo records from that time suggest he managed mind control over creatures through a mysterious combination of angry squinting and chest oil, and he also rolled through town in a bad-ass Cadillac. Admittedly, I might have watched The Mack right after Beastmaster and confused a few plot points.

Here's a little something for the ladies: (sadly, that 'little something' is Marc Singer)

"I swear to Buddha, if this bird shits on my hand one more time..."
[Angry squint!]

Not long after these early eighties 'successes', he disappeared. Maybe, in what scientists term 'The C. Thomas Howell Effect', the world just quit noticing Marc. Or perhaps it was just one of society's reflexive defense mechanisms; ignoring a rising-star/hack much like they would repress a horrible childhood trauma or step over a bum on the street. Ignore it, and it will go away*.

But he's gone now, and God and the Internet only know to where. The current career possibilities for Mr. Singer are only as narrow as your own imaginations: Porn star, truck driver, kosher hot-dog vendor, chainsaw repairman, soft-spoken priest turned vigilante, forklift operator at a dildo plant, underprivileged inner-city youth, prom queen in a small Iowa farm town, Ralph Macchio's only dependable roommate, or Secretary of the Interior.

I personally like to imagine he's some combination of all of those. Plus, it's easier to imagine a new life path for him than looking up what he actually now does for a living. Wait, it isn't? Score another point for technology.

*Note: The above idiom is NOT to be used in the treatment of herpes or syphilis.
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Seriously, a little something for the ladies. No refunds.
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SUBJECT: Blogger awards

Seems like I'm always seeing people giving (or nominating) blogs awards, regardless of any actual merit.

So, I've cooked up a few of my own. Feel free to award these new and totally awesome awards to yourselves and each other. You could tell your friends some lies such as "I nominated you for a prestigious Krëg Blog Award, but I'm not sure you'll win. Competition is stiff for a KBA." Then later you can tell them they won and just email them whatever JPEG you deem most tasteless.

What are your award choices? Well, I'm glad you asked, internal rhetorical questioning narrative plot-device voice! Just take a gander at THESE:

In retrospect, I probably should have included more baby photos in that one...

Much like a handjob, this last award was really just for me to give to myself.

So, what awards did I forget? What custom award would you like me to make for YOU?

Blogger Hates Me

Blogger has tweaked something within the past few days, in what I am certain is an effort to piss me off.

I don't know what they have changed, but I find myself no longer able to leave comments on anyone's page. I would suspect this "no comments" development to be the result of court-ordered sanctions against me for repeated online lewdness, except my lawyer helped me dodge that bullet by successfully arguing that I am human in no demonstrable way, and therefore not subject to the laws of people. I used the same argument to refuse his legal fees.

But seriously, Blogger has shit the bed on me, perhaps for the last time. Every few years, I get bored with a particular blog site, and move on to a new one (my ex-blog sites include MySpace and Xanga). I just get bored and need a change, so I move on and set up shop somewhere else. I have been about ready to ankle this Google-owned interface for over two months now, and the ONLY thing that's been keeping me coming back is the enjoyment of commenting on the posts of other bloggers. Such as you, dear reader.

Now I can't even do that. I don't know what is preventing my always witty (read: shitty) remarks from reaching your comments sections. Perhaps it is the crazy amount of restrictions I impose on the Internet using many Firefox add-ons (script-blockers, ad-blockers, cookie-killers, etc.). The problem might fade if I used Internet Explorer as my browser, but I'll eat a handful of soggy cocks before I use ANY version of IE.

Further, without being able to comment on other people's pages, there is little chance of increasing my readership. Not that I care about such things. But still, pretty much an impossibility.

So, until I either solve this problem, cancel my Blogger account, or put a bullet through my motherboard in frustration, please know that I really WANT to leave you some comments. But I can't.

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Meantime, here's a couple of images to reflect upon.

Mmmmmm. Baconhenge.

Peace out, yo.

Krëg

I Hope That If I Found The Strength To Walk Out

You'd stay the hell outta my way.

This clip was sans our banjo player, acoustic guitar player, clarinet player, and violin player. So basically that's only half the band.

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It is apparently time for my annual PPP (Phall Phlegm Phest).

Allergies > Sinus infections > Excessive phlegm production > Chest congestion & sore throat > Me being sick as hell (physically sick ... My psychological illness is pretty much year-round)

I think I coughed up about a half pint of "fluids" Saturday alone.

On the upshot, my doc says I don't have swine flu. Yet.

Horrid Joke

Horrid jokes are the ONLY kind of jokes I enjoy. The sicker the better. Therefore, I was incredibly pleased when a band mate supplied an excellent specimen last Friday.

This isn't the joke, but it damn sure has the makings of a good one...

Apparently, there is a site called sikipedia.com, which is a rich depository of awful jokes, and Jeff couldn't wait to unleash the fury.

Neither can I, so without further ado.......

Q: What does spinich have in common with anal sex?

A: Chances are, if you had it forced upon you as a child, you won't like it as an adult.

Yeah, and that is STILL not the worst joke I've ever heard.

What's the worst one you've ever heard?