Our Names on a Marquee
Sigh. Why do I bother? Nobody returns my e-mails, nobody returns my phone calls. I'm watching the molecules slowly break off from my arm, transform into information, and drift away on electromagnetic waves. Slowly the rest of my body will follow suit. My consciousness will glide away until my lidless eyes close and I fade from existence.
Hallelujah.
Well, I suppose when you have one of these blog-ma-bobs it's necessary to post all the tedious tid-bits that make up your travels. Just so I don't have to do this ever again I've decided to post a breakdown of my average day. Stand back from your computer screen, don't look directly at it, and prepare to be dazzled!
10:00 A.M. - Day starts. My day, anyway. Yes, while you poor bastards have been slaving away for two hours, I am nice and cozy in my bed with a cat by my side. Ha ha!
10:15 A.M. - Breakfast!
10:30 A.M. - Daytime T.V!
10:33 A.M. - Since daytime television sucks, I switch it off. The next three and a half hours, who the hell knows. It's occupied by anything from taking Ben the dog out for a walk, annoying the ducks, doing chores (HA!), watching Mr. Show for the bazillionth time, watching Mr. Show with commentary, watching Mr. Show extras, corrupting my brain with video games, increasing my knowledge of C++ and HTML, and perhaps cooking. Maybe some macramé if I'm feeling salty.
2:00 P.M. - If I didn't get enough sleep the night before it's time for my afternoon nap. Yes, the Sandman visits me twice in one day! Aren't I lucky?
4:00 P.M. - Oops, play-time's over. Time to put on my game face. Any trace of mirth sinks back into my pores, because it's not going to be needed for the next seven hours.
4:30 P.M. - I mount my mighty blue stallion and soar to work on the wings of children's dreams.
5:00 P.M. - The dreams turn into nightmares, for I am back at Rolf's Groceries. For the next eon or so I am the public's bitch. Yes, a bitch. Horny parents sic their sugar-starved kids on me with twenty bucks in their sweaty, greasy grasp. The village idiots pore over the bags of chips, hoping to find the brand and flavor which defines them as people. Nicotine-addled fools beg me to front them a package of cigarettes until payday, even though their kids haven't eaten for a week. And through it all there's me, tapping out telegrams from the frontlines of cultural armageddon.
11:00 P.M. - The store closes. This particular eon lasted around six hours; rather piddling by eon standards, but not if you were there living it. Rope up the cash, sling it in the back, toss off a rough estimate of how much money we lost, and there we go! Work's done! Oh yeah, the cleaning. Then I'm done. Wait, the tapes for the security cameras! And then... fuck it, I'm never done. But let's pretend, shall we? I'm doing a damn fine job of it already. It's my peaceful and solitudinal computer time next. Ah yes! Unlimited access to the entire breadth of knowledge transcribed by mankind! So what if I use it for porn?
3:00 A.M. - Depending on whatever the fuck I was doing (or watching!) I'm usually back at home around 2:00 A.M. At which point I'm practically attacked by my attention starved cat, at least until I open my bedroom window, at which point she couldn't give a crap about me. I swear, she's more interested in sniffing the window-screen than eating, sometimes. So, once I've regained my peace, I read from the selection of books I've got going at the same time. Around 3:00 A.M. I drift off to sleep and dream about vampire puppies.
It's currently past three in the morning and I am not at home nor am I in bed. I am not at the bar, nor am I at a friend's house. I am still at work, banging away on my laptop's keyboard and jiggering with the mouse. There's something profoundly wrong with this situation. Do normal people do this? Does a regular guy stay at his office and dick around on his computer for, let's say, five hours after punching the clock? And reason no. 3,359,287 for why Joel does not have a girlfriend is...
Double standard time: When a gal plays on a computer for more than an hour at a time it's incredibly cute, quirky, and endearing. But when a dude does it, it's just really sad and wrong.
Bleagh! This day can just go and kick itself in the ass. I'm sporting a damn big headache, it feels like I'm slathered with grease, and to top it off its goddamned Mountaineer day. Oh goody, Pepsi just showed up with a delivery! Throw in castration and it's my favorite day ever!
(Please note that this post was composed on May 13, 2004)
Criminy, how is it that a day that started off so pleasant can devolve into something so hideous?! Well, that's a bit of hyperbole right there but the day sure ended up crappy. Sheesh, I even did a (sort-of) good thing by rooting through all our home movies and digging out the one my mom's been dying to see lately. Okay, so it's not that great. Judge not, lest ye be judged. I was flying high when I pulled up to work listening to I Had the Time of My Life from Dirty Dancing, which is probably a scarier scene than you want to imagine. So I have shitty tapes, what're you gonna do? Unfortunately, the second I walked in the door all the fuzzy feelings melted away. Sherry started ranting to me about ignorant customers and my evil creditor who won't stop bugging the shit out of everyone. Didn't really put a positive spin on things. After that, little annoying crap just kept building up and up until the end of the night when I could probably shatter glass just by staring at it. Hoo - boy. In more positive news Dane and I are probably going to see Troy tomorrow night and rendez-vous with Rob later. Been about six months since I've seen Rob; last November to be exact. There's really no reason why it's been that long; it's just the miracle of procrastination at work. "Yeah, I don't feel like leaving the house today. I'll call 'im next week." Of course, the fact it's my turn to buy the pizza this time probably makes up some of it, too. Lo and behold, six months have gone by, Rob is sporting dreadlocks and new tattoos, there's no more bloody snow on the ground, and nothing else of great import has happened. That's the beauty of having married friends; you can drop in pretty much whenever and guarantee nothing's changed since the last time you saw them. Well, until the rabbit dies, anyway. God help you when you're visiting in that situation. But regardless, it should be a decent night. Now that Rob despises Rocky's "night-life" it's probably going to be a ganja-fest through and through.
(Please note that I did not create a post on May 14, 2004. In lieu of said post, here's some crap I pulled from my computer.)
Page 6 panel 4: Burgess gives the name of "old lords": Namtar, Allatu, Morax, Naberius, Klesh, Vepar, Maymon. Morax is certainly the name of a bull-headed demon appearing in _The Demon_. Maymon may be a reference to Mammon, a Greek word for riches. Mammon is also the name of a devil in the Key of Solomon,
based on the line "one cannot serve God and Mammon" in the scripture.
Panel 5: More names: Ashema-Deva, Maborym, Horvendile. Ashema-Deva is Persian, a god or devil in the Zoroastrian pantheon. He is more familiar to Westerners under the name Asmodeus. Horvendile is a name that appears in both Lord Dunsany and James Branch Cabell. In Dunsany (an early fantasist and
playwright, active in the early decades of this century, best known work perhaps _The King of Elfland's Daughter_), Horvendile is a god. In Cabell's "Poictesme" cycle, he is referred to as a demiurge, a being who, though walking through the story, is above it, and possibly pulling the strings. He also keeps swine that feed on human flesh.
Page 7 panel 6: First known appearance of Morpheus, the Sandman. Morpheus has many different names, since every culture has known of him in some form. Morpheus is fairly rarely referred to directly as the Sandman, with the major exception being issue #3. In this shot, he is wearing a helmet; that is not his head.
Page 8-9: We clearly see here the removal of the helmet, ruby, and pouch of sand, whose recovery will occupy most of _More than Rubies_.
Page 10 panel 1: Ellie is holding a copy of _Through the Looking Glass_, and her appearance bears some resemblence to Alice, the heroine of that book.
Page 11 panel 2: The word "morphine" is derived from the name "Morpheus".
Page 14 panel 3-4: "Sleepy sickness" appears to have been a real phenomenon in the early part of this century. It can also be seen in the Williams-De Niro movie _Awakenings_ and various texts.
Page 15 panel 4: Who or what are the Endless? They include Death, Destiny, Desire, and Dream. We will find out more in later issues.
(Please note that this post was composed on May 15, 2004)
Aah, there's nothing like working a nice, peaceful Saturday morning. At least until the sunshine hits and you're swamped with bleary-eyed toddlers looking for their next sugar fix. That's the sad reality of working at a convenience store; you're the worst paid drug dealer in the world. If you think that description's hyperbole, try selling cigarettes to an old man who's hacked out his left lung on the way to the counter. It's not just the tobacco either; practically everything here's designed to satisfy a damn craving. But in the big scheme of things, that's neither here or there. Whenever I get too many customers and I'm in a pissy mood I'll blame my grumpiness on the chemical dependence of society instead of my own anti-social dickhead tendencies to make myself feel better.
Went to see Troy last night with my ol' pal, Dane. Talk about one unsatisfying movie. First of all, practically everyone knows that Troy loses the war and Achilles dies (if you think this is a spoiler, go read a damn book). So much of the dramatic tension is pretty much lost. However, this isn't a big deal if you like the characters, and wanna follow them throughout their journey. The problem is that in a cast that's this big there's only two people I gave a damn about, Hector and Oddyseus. But this movie from the get-go is pretty much all about Achilles. Oh, Achilles... I hated, hated, hated, HATED that fucker. I still hated him, even after his character started developing in the last ten minutes of the movie. I see enough arrogant, cocky pricks in my day-to-day routine; I don't need to see one glorified on the big screen for two and a half hours. Another thing to point out are the natures of the opposing sides. The Greeks are portrayed as assholes and the Trojans are portrayed as sympathetic. Which is kinda annoying considering how it all turns out. Again, this would not be a big problem if there was the sense the Trojans were capable of more than dying in combat. Oh sure, they pull a couple of upsets out of their asses. But the feeling you get watching this movie is akin to watching a bunch of tyrannosaurs chasing a lamb. I might be a bit harsh, but we're talking about an adaptation of the first (and possibly best) epic story that mankind ever produced. Homer wrote it to light a fire in mankind's soul. Of course, I acknowledge that a straight adaptation would be pretty much impossible. But in bringing this story to the big screen they cut out just about everything that made this story stirring in the first place.
Buuuuut... if you're looking for swordfights and naked men, you ain't gonna do much better this summer. And maybe that's the point.
(Please note that this post was composed on May 16, 2004)
When you go to Rob and Lynn's house, there are two things you can expect: dogs and marijuana. Both of them were there in spades when I visited last night. 'Twas cool though; I love dogs and I don't mind marijuana, so a good time was had, I can say. I got to visit my delirious Mr. Show fandom on people other than my mother for a change; to the tune of seven episodes in a row. I still can't believe I got away with it, either. At the end of the fifth one Rob said, "All right, who's had enough of Bob and David?" But through the use of some divine mystical force that I cannot yet name or even understand, I managed to squeeze in two more episodes before I went to the bathroom and they hijacked the remote. Whatever the hell they put on next is lost in a gigantic haze; I just remember there were lots of cars crashing, a gratuitous lingerie shot, and a fat asshole pretending to be a badass. Oh yeah, Swordfish. Anyways, I think they liked Mr. Show until I overkilled it. But yes, the revolution is coming. Soon, the nation will be just as zealous as me. The Bob will rule all!
"Only British people can fly! You shouldn't try to fly, and you shouldn't listen to British people." - Our Excitable Friend from Across the Ocean, Ernie!
Dane and his girlfriend were there as well. That day was actually the first time that I met her. Now, before I continue on this topic I just need to point something out. Ever since my male friends went through puberty (I'm still waiting, apparently) they have attracted members of the female species. I say they have 'attracted' because I don't think any of my male friends have had to do more than a token gesture to get into a relationship, because the girl was already smitten with them. That's not the point I'm trying to make, but it's interesting to note nonetheless. Anyways, they would get girlfriends and I would eventually have to meet them at one point or another. There has been a startling consistency in their response to me to this point in my life, and I guess the nicest way to dress this up would be to call it toleration. Disdain would probably be a more accurate word, though. There are exceptions to this rule, of course, including if I knew the girl before they started going out or my friend and I first meet the girl at the same time. If I meet her for the first time after they've started going out however, it all goes to crap.
Now, after having established this disturbing precedent, can you imagine the meeting that took place going any better? No, I dare say it did not. In the first five seconds, which people say are the most important in first impressions, I could hear any hope of social chemistry between us splutter and die like a bloated muskrat. Which is a shame, because Fermita (dammit, I mean Femira, I think, sp?) seems like a genuinely nice person, despite that whole "If I could immolate you with my mind, I would" vibe going on. And hell, Dane likes her, and he's always demonstrated good taste.
Of course, one could construe through what I've written that it's entirely the girl's fault for this sad, sad game. After all, I'm an affable, charming enough lad; how could anyone dislike me? Heh, fuck that. If anything, it's my own fault entirely for this state of affairs. People who've known me for a long time know that I'm a rather shy person. However, I am not one of those affably shy people. You know, people who don't say that much but are still approachable. I am a MISERABLY shy person. It's the kind that often gets confused with being a snob. I have to admit it, when I'm in my shell I just don't look like that friendly of a guy. I've stepped away from this sort of thing as I've gotten older, but there's still this one instance that sends me into a relapse every time. And, if you can't get what it is, you obviously haven't been paying attention. You see, it all started back when I was 14 and it seemed like all of my friends were hooking up. Not me, of course. I started resenting them for seeming to leaving me behind. And when it was coupled with own frustration in being (in my own mind) disdained by girls, it grew into something even more bitter and poisonous. It seemed wrong to direct this odd mix of meat, gristle, self-loathing and hatred at my own pals, so I chose the next target in line: their girlfriends. I've never been able to hide my negative feelings (positive ones, I with no problem hiding) so the reaction they have to me was probably influenced by my own demeanour. Hence, my own fault. It's weird that I've never managed to shake it off. Whenever I meet a friend's bird, my mind regresses back to its state of when I was 14 years old. The aforementioned meat and gristle blah blahbity blah. Now, this isn't to say that I automatically despise them right off the bat. No no no. Just the sensations I had back then start up again. See, isn't armchair psychology fun?
But perhaps this is all for the best. In the one case where I started to get along with one of my friend's girlfriend, they broke up like one week later. So, if you start going out with a pal of mine, whatever you do, don't start being nice to me because your relationship will go down the toilet soon after. But in the meantime, just remember you're insulting my buddy's impeccable taste if you start questioning why I'm hanging around.
(Please note that this post was written on May 17, 2004)
One of the suppliers dropped in today, gave me a free bag of Planter's Peanut Butter Bites (think Reese cups, but swankier) and asked if the store would be willing to order a box. Of course, with such a bribe as that and being lusty with power myself I yelled out to the heavens, "Damn right we would!!!!" I've sampled one and I have to say they're decent, except for a peanut aftertaste that lingers long after it's welcome. So, in an uncharacteristic spirit of generosity, I've decided to offer them to my customers instead. Response has been excellent, but there are a few people who still hang on the notion that nothing can beat a Reese. Ah, the joy of branding at work. How people can be emotionally involved with a chocolate bar is beyond me, but hey, what can you do? Some people have accused me of doing this just to move the product. Well, of course, but I'm mostly doing it to bribe people into thinking I'm not a total asshole. I'll buy their love and devotion yet.
I've sold one bag as I write this. Go me! Go Joelie, it's your birthday, gonna drink some Pepsi like it's my birthday. Sellin' lots of chocolate like it's my birthday It ain't even October but it's still my birthday! You can find me in the store Selling cigs to underage crack whores Pimpin' out candy gets me love So come give me a hug
Ooh... sorry 'bout that. But aren't parodies of year old songs the best? Just wait until I start on John Mayer!
While we're on the topic of pop music, I was recently mocked by three of my friends for not recognizing a recent Britney Spears song. I just, I don't know, there's just so many things WRONG with that I don't know where to begin. One would figure that you know, NOT having any knowledge on something so stupid would be laudable. Here's a little experiment you can do: go to Google and search for "Calgary Sun health care" and "Calgary Sun Britney Spears". FYI, the Calgary Sun is one of the daily papers in the glorious province of Alberta. Notice a disparity in the numbers? The Britney Spears search turns up at least twice the amount of results. How is it that something as trivial as an over-sexed pop star gets twice as much press as something that has a bearing on our daily lives? Sweet Zombie Jesus, any sign of ignorance in respect to the vacuous tart should be applauded!
And this is coming from a guy who just did a parody of a 50 Cent song. Hello, hypocrisy, my old friend... but the sentiment remains strong and true. It's practically impossible to tune out the ramblings of pop culture. Lord knows how much useless trivia concerning it I have harbored in my brain. But maybe, just maybe, we can cease our infatuation with it, and start to to concentrate on issues that matter.
Now whattya think of that; Danewort, Saraband, and Jeroboam?*
* Names changed to protect the incontinent
(Please note that this post was written on May 18, 2004)
People have always dreamed of time travel. Go back in time, and visit an old relative who's long since passed; or go forward, grab the lottery numbers and use 'em to fatten the ol' bank account. My daydreams, too, are occupied with the idle fantasies of warping time. However, it's not money or truth that I'm seeking. No, I'll be going back in time five years, when a certain individual walks into Rolf's Groceries on a mission. But this time, he's getting no further than the front door. As he enters, he notices Rolf asleep on the floor. Before he can wrap his head around this, there's a flash of Japanese steel, and in the next instant his right arm is gone. Before he can start wailing like a constipated banshee, five more flashes light up the store. I'm not going to describe the resulting mess. The remains of the guy are then fed into all eight tumblers of the slush machines making a fairly disgusting mixture which is then deposited into a chum bucket. The chum is transported to the ocean and fed to sharks. The sharks are electrocuted, then served to the guy's family. After which they get thrown into cages containing horny silverback gorillas jacked up with cocaine. And finally, not only will I have prevented a foul deed from occuring, I'll also have sent a message loud and clear to anybody else who has the same designs. Now, you may be asking, what the hell did this guy do that's so heinous, so despicable as to deserve treatment like this? Did he rob the store at gunpoint? Did he throw a temper tantrum and knock over a rack? Oh no, nothing as trivial as that. This person came into the store that fateful day and suggested to Rolf that he should serve hard ice cream. And thus, the tenth circle of hell was born, and populated solely by me.
On a happier, and more tasteful note, I ran into one of my old co-workers from the gas plant I wiled away my summers in over five years ago. He is the man with no name; Kevin McNutt. He was there with a bunch of kids, who I believe were in a youth group he's running. I only managed to talk with him for a little bit, as he had to make it back to the church and I was getting swamped with customers. I gleaned some odd information from him; it turns out he's the only pipefitter left at the plant. What the heck's going on? When I was working there, there were pipefitters practically crawling out of the supervisor's ass. Now they're down to one. I heard they did some reorganizing since I left, but this is ridiculous. Anyways. Now that I'm four years removed from the school-yard antics that colored my summers, I can safely say that Mr. McNutt was one of my favorite people to work with. Anyone who can put up with my continual screw-ups is a decent guy in my books. It's kinda sad to note however that I didn't really feel that way the time. Every time I was assigned fixing the louvers (think gigantic venetian blinds) with him I thought that I was missing out on all the action with the other summer stupids. Oh, how my heart would sing when we had to go to the warehouse! Basking in its golden light! If I really had control over time, however, I'd go back and tell myself to let it go. Right after a little stint of unspeakable violence, as mentioned before. Compared to some of the crap I had to do and some of the assholes I was paired up with, this was pure gold. So what if I wasn't where the action was? Oh well, hindsight 20/20 blah blahbity blah. But back to the man himself. It should be mentioned that I haven't met a man more religious than he. Normally, this would not be a good combination, me and him. Yet besides the odd mention that I should really go to one of his church picnics, there wasn't anything churchy being shoved down my throat. There WAS the dissection of the Jesus mini-series playing at the time, but I'd rather not go into that. What is interesting about him being religious is that from the stories he told me he was the craziest, partiest mother ever when he was younger. Cripes, my friend Glenroy was with us once and you should have heard the stories they were bandying about. They were so raunchy I swore I could see the paint peeling off the pipes around us. What were they about, you ask? Well, they did swear me to secrecy. I guess it's been five years and the statute of limitations has expired, but still, these stories would probably mark them out as evil bastards for the rest of their natural lives. Thus, I shall remain silent on the matter for this point on. Or until someone sends me fifty bucks. Then I'm going to give out every last piddling detail. But anyways, let's jump back to December 2000, which was during what I call my Bleak Period. After an almost staggering display of continual fucking-up I ended up at my Dad's. Which is when he relayed a message from Mr. McNutt (and a Mr. Kirstein, but we're not talking about him) wishing me a Merry Christmas. This might not seem like a big deal, but at this point in time I was pretty much a wreck. I had done a damn good job of alienating just about every friend I had. Somebody wishing a pathetic wretch like me a Merry Christmas managed to get to even my black, crusted heart.
So, anyways, if you can hear me out there Mr. McNutt; SHINE ON, YOU CRAZY DIAMOND!!
"Just wait till tomorrow
I guess that's what they all say
Just before they fall apart"
(Please note this post was written on May 19, 2004)
Wooo! It's Core-Mark day here at the old Rolf store; which means endless pricing of crap. Okay, I should take this oppurtunity to address why all the prices end in nine. I know a lot of you are just dying to hear this information. Oh, so maybe you aren't; who cares? You're still going to hear it anyway. And git yer damn pointer away from the close button!!! I'm giving you knowledge! Maaaaad science! I'm droppin' old-school philosophy on yo punk-ass!
Yeah... Um, sorry, the leprechaun in my head was Riverdancing again. Stupid leprechaun.
There are two reasons why all prices end in nine. The first one is the one most people are able figure out for themselves; namely that $1.99 looks better than $2.00. Or $59.99 looks better than $60.00. It's just one of those low-level mindfucks to make customers believe they're getting a better deal than they're really getting. Hell, I knew about this back when I was eight. The second reason isn't as obvious; and that's because it has to do with us heathen bastards behind the counter. Back when all the prices were nicely rounded off, the management noticed that us cashiers (venomous, back-stabbing curs of Satan that we are) were taking the money from clean transactions and pocketing it. By a clean transaction, I mean one that doesn't involve making change. So, somebody would come up with a one dollar item, give us the money, and then we'd conveniently forget to ring it into the till. The noble and pure-hearted managers were taken aback by the gravity of the sins we had commited, and took it upon themselves to bring us back to the straight and narrow. Thus, every price from that point on would end in nine, forcing us to make change on every transaction, which meant we would have to ring it into the till.
Verily, the kind and loving executives had won this battle in the War Against Shrinkage. Yep, that's what stores call their losses. Shrinkage. Takes on a whole new meaning after Seinfeld, right?
"So, how's it going, Bob?"
"Oh man, you wouldn't believe the amount of shrinkage I've got!"
"Tough break, Bob. I could go over your resources if you want."
"Nah, I think I got a good handle on 'em."
"Cool. Wanna fuck each other up the ass?"
"All right!"
Help me! The subtext has become the text!
Ahem. The boss gets a convenience store magazine every month with his orders from Core-Mark, and if he hasn't taken it home by the time I get there I usually give it a quick read-through. Although most of it is run-of-the-mill business crap (Improve Your Customer Service! Stock More Stuff! Maximize Your Profits!) every now and then you run across something interesting. This month there's a three page advertisement for du Maurier cigarettes. First of all, cigarette companies haven't been allowed to advertise in Canada since like 1860 so I was a bit taken aback by this. Second of all, du Maurier is pretty much the top-selling brand in the country and stores would stock it anyway, so what's the point? And third; well, I'll let the copy speak for itself.
"Some cigarette packaging may look alike but the smoking experience tells a different story. du Maurier delivers on exceptionally smooth and classic taste that your customers cannot find in any other brands of cigarettes. Here is why: du Maurier has always offered an exclusive combination of filters and tobacco brands. If it's not a du Maurier brand, it's not a du Maurier product and it's not du Maurier quality. IT IS that simple. Now YOU know the difference! Only the du Maurier name guarantees the du Maurier quality."
Which is funny, because I thought the du Maurier name guarantees trach rings, lung cancer, and general hacking death. Sheesh, I should forward this to Canada's anti-tobacco lobby, or Adbusters at least; they'd have a bloody field day with this shit. I WOULD do it, I should say, if I didn't smoke more than London's chimneys myself. I'll end my discussion on the magazine by saying it has probably the silliest example of corporate lingo I've ever heard. In one article it actually describes the act of buying a chocolate bar as an "eat occasion". An eat occasion?! What the hell? What's next, when they go to the can are they going to say they're "performing a urinary evacuation"?
Ooh, it seems like the Calgary Flames are going to the Stanley Cup finals. Since I'm not a fan I usually have a marginal interest at best in hockey, but it's hard not to get swept up in the boundless enthusiasm that's flying all over the place. Frankly, after the dark days the entire country had last summer, it's nice to see people excited for a change. Getting the Cup back in Canada, even if it's in Alberta (as the assholes say), will go a long way in improving our national mood. 'Cause if cynicism were monkeys, we'd need a hell of a lot of bananas right now.
On the homefront, things are stable. I gave my room a massive clean yesterday, so it's finally hospitable again, although my cat was kind of put off by the whole thing. But seeing as she's the damn reason why I had to sweep up anyway, what with the cat hair and all, I really didn't give a shit. I gave her a toss out the door and let the ducks have their fun with her. After that was done I started up a new game of Prince of Persia: Sands of Time. Even though it's been said many times before, I must say it again. This is one of the best games ever made. If you believe that video games have to ability to evolve beyond a spectacular waste of time into something more akin to art, you owe it to yourself to buy this game. Show the gaming cartel that you want to see more games like this and that you've had enough with the derivative unplayable crap that's flooding the market. And pick up Beyond Good & Evil while you're at it. It's short, but it's most definitely sweet.
Joel's Non Sequitur of the Day:
Jeroboam: I've been collecting silver bullion lately.
Joel: Yeah, so what? I've got a stuffed Batman doll hanging on my wall!
(Please note that this post was written on May 20, 2004)
Good news, everyone! The Rob Mob is back in business. Or the Lynn.. uh... Flynn. Hell, let's just include them both and call it the Hart Mart, okay? ANYWAYS, the Hart Mart, as it henceforth shall be called, is now the number one seller of dreadlock... wax? in the Rocky Mountain House area and is willing to supply your every dreadlock need. Git dem natty dreads, mon! Irie! Okay, okay, i'll stop before I embarass myself further. But it's good to see Rob (and Lynn; don't forget Lynn, dammit) back in business. So, with their future in mind, I therefore declare this to be the Year of the Snow Cult. Well, on my page at least. Which will get the message out to my whopping ten unique visitors. All right, so it's an empty fucking gesture! What, are you doing anything better? WHO THE HELL ARE YOU TO JUDGE ME?!
...
So, to help out all of you who are lost as to what this business is and who these people are, I present to you:
"Lo! Dost thou hear the wind? Dost thou feel the shiver it imparts down thy spine? All's Wintered Eve comes! Prepare thouself, for long months of agony. The chill hardens the very marrow of bones; the eyes and lips turn to cold stone. Alas, the world of man suffers not alone. For in the merciless nights, the beasts fare no better than men under winter's harsh gaze. Nature is robbed of her beauty; there is only an endless white sea to behold. All things who dwell in these afflicted lands suffer. Oh thou naked man, oh thou shivering beast; how I long to clasp thee to mine bosom in the passionate fire of mine embrace!"
-- Lord Quincy; 1420
"A wint'ry doom has befallen our lands since the dawn of time itself. It retreats from the power of spring's warmth only to conquer again at autumn's finish. But its tyranny will soon be at an end. For in the snowflakes I have divined the coming of a conquering army, destined to make the winters their own! These good and noble-hearted souls will glide upon the very snow itself, illuminating the path upon which humanity will march itself to freedom. I must make haste to the Norwegian mountains, where I am assured by my good friend Heinrich, who has assisted me thus far in my research, that I will discover the rest of the prophecy. It pains me to leave my beautiful wife behind, but Heinrich has insisted that he look after her while I'm gone, so I know that she will be well taken care of. At the stirring of the morn, it is off to Norway I go!"
-- Sir Adelbaird Quincy; 1745
(British crackpot found frozen to death. A Mr. and Mrs. Heinrich Stoller will arrive in a month's time to claim the body on behalf of the Queen.)*
-- Norwegian Telegram; 1747
*Translated from original Norwegian
"A pox on the usurping Stollers! They are the malicious beasts who condemned my uncle to lifetimes of ridicule upon his death. And now mankind is not prepared to face down perhaps its greatest foe. I have continued my uncle's research, and discovered that this army is not here to save; rather, to enslave! Plucked from the very bosom of the traitorous pagan god, Ularr, they will wreak unthinkable havoc upon this world. Unholy terrors! Robbed of their very wit and will by a sacred sacrificial plant, they will erode the morality and decency which keeps our society together. The arrival of these perverted Lotus Eaters is not the worst to come, however. Soon afterwards, one will rise from their ranks who will unite them all under a common banner. This cult, this Snow Cult will then rule the Earth as they see fit. We are doomed, doomed I say, doomed to an eternal winter!"
-- H. P. Quincy; 1863
"Hey! You know what would be a good name for my snowboard brand? Snow Cult!"
-- Rob Hart; 1999
"And so, the child of man and Ularr revealed himself to humanity at the turn of the millennium. He began to spread his tidings of love, respect and peace, but was quickly brought to an end by his own personal Judas. All was not lost, however, for he had once discovered a maiden fair and introduced her to his ways. Through their combined strength and love he was resurrected once again to preach to the masses. He is long gone from this world, but his spirit still lingers to guide and teach us. Praise be to Ularr! Praise be to Rob! Praise be to Lynn! Now step forward for your ceremonial toke and dreadlock waxing. Then let's RIDE!"
-- Mass on October 18 at a Snocultian Temple; 2545
"Man, I have too much time on my hands."
-- Joel Nielsen; 2004
Oh, what a month it's been! I lost my old internet account to the technological ether, but I've managed to summon another one to do my bidding. Unfortunately, I sign back on here and find out they've revamped the whole bloody shebang! And because of this, I can't sign on to my old... uh... blog. Yeah, I know, blog is a widely accepted term, and millions of people have no problem tossing it around everyday, but it still seems pretty damn ridiculous to me. Blog. Sounds like my cat barfing. Well, now that I'm done disrespecting one of the revered cornerstones of online life, I'll continue by venting about this shitty service! My god, you'd think they treat their customers better than that! I pay good money... oh wait, no I don't. I'll be quiet now. Praise Blogger! Praise Blog*Spot! The champions of the free-loading ingrate!
If you're at all interested in reading my stilted ramblings from before, click here. It looks and reads like crap, frankly, which is why I've decided to start fresh with a new one instead of complaining to customer service. The plethora of new design options just sweetened the deal. I've been creating posts during the last week, and I'll put them up shortly. But because of the way the posts'll be ordered, you probably knew that already.
