Three unrelated vignettes, if I may be so bold.

For those of you who have not seen a Victoria’s Secret retail store, they decorate entirely in pink. Not really a soft, inviting pink (though that would fit in with their merchandise perhaps a little better), but a shocking carnation-of-imminent-doom pink. The few times I have visited a mall in recent years, I have commented on the evidence that the color pink stimulates the most regions of the brain at once. This brain exercise is of course only complemented by the exciting undergarments for which the store is famous. With synapses firing loudly enough to rival a gatling gun, it is my fondest wish to walk into such a store. Inside, I would wander aimlessly, innocence plastered on my face. When, cautiously and unctiously, a customer service representative would approach, my expression would brighten in epiphany. Before the shapely saleswoman could say anything, I would cry jubilantly, “I have become … a genius!” and race from the store to some mysterious purpose.

—

The passing of Ernest Bruns, MHG’s grandfather, was a sad event indeed. One concern that has plagued MHG’s consciousness is that of who will bring in ducks for Christmas dinner. A sporting, energetic chap, Grandpa had performed in this task even into his late eighties. Since no one else in the faily has vounteered, MHG has taken it upon herself. Several young persons, including me, have offered to tag along for such a thing. I still have my hunter’s safety license. While I was never able to bring myself to kill the deer that crossed my path in the wilderness, I think duck hunting would be right up my alley. The sympathy I feel for the literally doe-eyed, dubiously majestic mammals would not apply to such creatures. In fact, my feelings for avians larger than my own hand are such that I have opted to call the activity “duck killing” rather than “duck hunting” to further motivate myself.

—

I received an order of inexpensive technology today from a confusingly named warehouse company, TigerDirect. This company has served my needs well on several occasions, and I’ve even noted improvements in their website over the last few months, indicating a true devotion to customer service. Whether one can actually purchase anything tiger related is beyond what my research can tell. Their dedication to constant revision of their website may have backfired a bit, however, as I noticed in the catalog included with my order some “Add to cart” buttons beneath the items. How am I to use these, do you suppose?

Carolyn, who is a hardcore stuntchick, entered the Milwaukee Rumble this year and held her own. Next year, she’ll win and I will get my participant badge. I have some apprehension about entering it, as I don’t imagine I’ll get out of there without a broken nose. I’m not really frightened of the pain or the danger, but the problems of having had a broken nose sound like something I’ll bitch about for years.

Anyway, support Carolyn and me next year as we go to whoop ass.

More bitching I’m afraid.

In the last week, I have paid over $60 for parking. Up until this week, I had been parking in the lot owned by my company. Parking illegally but morally. I have asked my company several times for a space, but have been passed over in favor of people who have worked 4 fewer years for the company and left soon after my rejection. I have asked again and the slots have been given out to other undeserving folks.

So, although I care very little for the laws of this city, I morally understand the imbalance of fairness my parking for free causes for those who must pay. Regardless, I parked illegally. I made sure on each occasion of this breach of the peace that my vehicle was blocking nothing, no legal spots, no door-opening space for said spots, no loading docks, no dumpster areas.

Despite my careful consideration, there are those who saw fit to have me ticketed (well within their rights, I do not blame them) and to leave gentle reminders on my windshield not to park there.

After one such reminder, I decided to curtail my law-breaking and see what opions lie out there for free parking. Finding none over the course of the week, I chose to once again risk ticketing and dispproving looks and park back where I had been (again, as conscientiously as possible.)

Scandal! In my place, on three occasions now, were two SUVs. Two clumsily parked, already oversized SUVs blocking doors, parked diagonally so to prevent trucks from loading and unloading into the futon store, and clearly owned by people who do not care a wink for others. Now, not only my chances of parking there with minor retribution, but the reputation my car had for not REALLY being obtrusive – they’re ruined. Once again, the careless actions of others create situations which I am powerless to change.

Sartre said it best: “Hell is other people.”

Whenever I tell someone I’m too busy for something, their immediate response is to explain to me how busy they are. Rarely am I actually convinced that they are somehow too busy, but they like to compete on hecticness of lives. One mile in my shoes…just one. I have a fair amount of empathic sense for other people and how they tread, and I often catch myself simply being cynical, but please believe me when I say: I’m busier than you are.

I’m not making an excuse, or polite conversation. Nor am I bitching, in reality. If I say to you I am too busy, it means I have no more than fifteen minutes of free time that day that is not dedicated to sleep. If I go into detail, it is ENTIRELY because no one believes someone who simply says, “I’m too busy that week.”

So if you have to go to the bank AND the grocery store in the same day, don’t tell me. Just say, “Shit, man, maybe next time.” And I won’t eviscerate you in my imagination and intentionally ignore you the next time I am free. Fair warning to those who call themselves my friend.

p.s. Those of you who know me: if you think I’ve given up on people, you ain’t seen nothing yet.

The ntoskrnl of my games PC has gone tits up, so to speak. I spent most of my weekend trying to correct it without losing gads of data, all the while attempting to deal with power supply and XP issues on the Frankenstein machine I created for my aunt.

All indication is that I was hit with a virus, though how I am not sure. I use my PC for games exclusively. No email, no internet but the occasional firefox troll for patches to games. I am careful to get only authorized things. And now, my games PC is on the fritz. I am going to recover my Neverwinter Nights games and not worry too much if I’ve lost anything else, but still I am so tired of Windows I could puke. I have a desperate plea to developers everywhere: develop your games and software for multiple platforms. With Mac OS now using a Unix environment, it should be getting easier and easier. Stop with this sort of lazy, backwards M$-subservient garbage and start taking pride in your work being stable and secure.

I know PC aficianados everywhere will tell me that it’s my own fault that Windows broke down. I must have done something to make it happen. There is some truth there, I’m sure, but it is Windows fault that it is so difficult to repair the problem. I have gone above and beyond the call of duty on maintenance and repair.

I guess I’m done bitching. I have another 8 hours of my free time to devote to clearing windows troubles.

Ok. I’ve found him. My hero model for sketching. The person whose art most jumps into my brain and bashes it around like Jean Claude Van Damme in those multi-take split-kicks he does in every movie. Blood continues to gush from my brain as the sound of meat being slapped plays in repeat over inspirational rock licks.

Link ferreted away from Barry at Angst Technology.

I was staying in a luxury and remote cabin on a small lake with an incredible view. Apparently, I was staying with my aunt Mary, who is young enough to be my older sister. She had a new baby with her, and as always, was looking like she had never had any kids. My aunt Mary is tall and slender and just about the kindest person I know. She makes a great mom.

Anyway, we were sitting on the edge of the pier in the back of the cabin, dangling our feet in the murky shallows. Mary was explaining to her young son about the water and showing him the view of lush evergreens climbing out of the valley in front of us, clouds greeting them at the very top.

I was relaxed in a way I have not been. Not in some time. And I spied something moving in the scene. A sasquatch-like thing slowly roving round the edge. It wasn’t frightening, just there. I pointed it out to Mary, but she ccouldn’t see it. It rose to its full height and I realized it was actually more of a man made of rock, though at that point he shed his rock skin in a way that resembled a sheep being sheared. Apparently it was fur after all.

Then he flitted like a wingless fairy over the surface of the water and began to speak to me in two word sentences, like verbal pictographs. He was my size or larger, but he seemed to be partially incorporeal, the way he nimbly flew about. He told me he was the Rock-man* and that I could see him because I was not afraid to see him and that Mary might be too timid to do so.

He took the child up in his arms and cooed at him, and asked where the mother was. I explained that he was looking right at her, and he commented on Mary’s figure. I agreed that with a newborn baby her figure was remarkable, feeling a little uncomfortable talking about my aunt that way. I woke up soon after to my beeping alarm.

Now, seemingly incestual thoughts aside, I think I can interpret this dream like this:

It is what I want for the future. I want a secluded sanctuary, a small family, and a kind partner that even fantastic fae creatures think is hot. One down, two to go.

*that sounded significant in my dream, but now I realize it’s not very creative. Nice job with that name, subconscious.

I dreamt last night that I was a father. My 22-year-old son (I knew I had at least one child) wanted something that I could not give him. The argument screamed over the protests of my wife, Clare. She stood nearby, her face indignant and injured. My son continued to assert that my backward principles stood in the way of my understanding him. I was old in the dream.

But in my mind within the scenario (not the third-person one that passively watched), I would not lose this fight. I decided that my son was misguided and this was my opportunity to teach him something. Ironic, actually, how stubbornly I was going to defend my side, not even considering what my grown son was saying; exactly what he was saying. And I knew that my son would respect what I would say in the same subconsciously conscious of our relationship way that I would disregard his opinion on the subject.

And later at home, even knowing that he disagreed, he would wrestle himself over whether he should trust in his father’s experience and wisdom or believe what seemed more right in his own mind.

And I was proud. My son respected me, he loved me, and he valued me as his father. I was proud that he listened, and decided ultimately that he disagreed. I was proud of him and I was proud of me.

This dream was way better than the one where I kept dying over and over again in World of Warcraft.

Frodo: I can’t do this Sam.

Sam: I know. It’s all wrong. By rights we shouldn’t even be here. But we are. It’s like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger, they were. And sometimes you didn’t want to know the end. Because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened? But in the end, it’s only a passing thing, the shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you. That meant something, even if you were too small to understand why. But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn’t. They kept going. Because they were holding on to something.

Frodo: What are we holding on to Sam?

Sam: That there’s some good in this world, Mr. Frodo… and it’s worth fighting for.

Thanks, Sam.

James Lipton’s famous questions as answered by an overstressed wannabe Buddhist.

1. What is your favorite word?
Sandwich.

2. What is your least favorite word?
Management.

3. What turns you on?
Smooth skin. Shiny hair. Lips that move like they’re in some kind of 300 frame-per-second animation. Winks. Tattoos. Sly or coy conversation. That heart-stopping moment when you’re still teasing each other that you might not kiss.

4. What turns you off?
Surrendering to minutiae and not the moment.

5. What sound do you love?
Water: waves, drips, sloshing, rain. Even sometimes having water in my ears.

6. What sound do you hate?
Teeth on forks.

7. What is your favorite curse word?
Fucktard.

8. What profession, other than yours, would you like to attempt?
Professor, martial arts stuntman, actor.

9. What profession would you not like to participate in?
Clerk. Librarian. Accountant.

10. If Heaven exists, what would you like God to say, when you arrive at the pearly gates?
Yup, I do exist, and you were right, I found that funny. Wanna split this ice cream sandwich with me?