I’ve grown very rapidly weary of interruptions both intentional and unintended.

There are days when the world could be crumbling, falling down on all sides of me and I’d never notice it.  Then there are days like today.  Every whisper, giggle and laugh sets my nerves on edge and it seems as though everyone wants me to stop what I’m doing to do something else.  Inevitably they fail to realize that the something that is being stopped was originally set into motion by them.

There are times when mere secondary focus isn’t near enough for the task at hand, and full and undivided attention is required.  It is those times when someone nearby will start to talk out loud in a strong voice, asking themselves questions in order to work a problem out.  You being the conscientious person that you are, tear off a bit of your brain to listen to them and even offer a response only to realize three things: 1) They weren’t specifically asking you a question, 2) They don’t want your answer anyway and promptly ignore you — advice you should have given yourself and 3) Your focus is now totally blown to hell.

There are other times when you might be reading something exceedingly technical with the sincere intention of absorbing the contents.  Almost predictably you are peppered with questions, easily answered or ferreted out by the person asking them.  The questions are fired off every minute or so… just enough time for you to turn your attention back to what you’re doing, start to return to the groove and be distracted again.

This is also the perfect time for someone to initiate phone calls on their exceedingly loud speakerphone, lavishing upon you the obnoxious dial tone generation and ringing of the phone on the opposite end of the call.  Only after the other party has answered the phone do they pick up the handset and resume a conversation in a moderately normal tone of voice (and this is only after you have been used as an go-between by the two people who are now in a direct phone call… when you had nothing to do with either of the conversations to begin with).

Now, I say a moderately normal tone because some people in this world have never grasped the concept that phones, both analog and cellular, have progressed marvelously beyond the two-tin-cans-and-a-length-of-string phase they were in decades ago.  This results in a bellowed conversation and a ruptured eardrum on the other side of the phone.  There is one person I call on a regular basis who insists on shouting my name by way of greeting at the beginning of every call.  He winds up the first letter of my name like the charging of a Ghostbuster proton pack and proceeds to shoot me in the ear with it like Egon going after an ectoplasmic nasty.  I have since learned to hold the handset away from my head at the beginning of any call.  As a measure of contrast, Fiddy is the only person I know who can have a cell phone conversation so quiet that you never hear so much as a whisper… while he’s sitting right next to you.

Back to the topic of speakerphones.  I loathe them.  They are the single most abused feature of any phone.  If there is a necessity to have your hands free — let’s say, while delivering a baby, performing heart surgery or if there is a group of folks on one or both sides of the connection to be addressed — dandy.  Use the speakerphone.  If you’re just being a lazy fuck, then pick up the goddamned handset.  It’s an outright insult to me to if you sit on the other side of a phone call and shout to me because you can’t be bothered to pick up the fucking receiver.  Convenience is one thing, common courtesy is another entirely.

If you have something of importance that requires my attention, opinion or expertise, by all means interrupt me and get me involved.  If you are just asking me things to save yourself a minute or two of hunting around, kindly spend two seconds and see if I’m in the middle of anything important that has my rapt attention before poking me in the brain.  If you’re just being lazy and don’t feel like figuring out something insanely simple on your own, kindly write your request down neatly, fold it carefully four times and jam it forcefully into your rectum.

This has been a public service announcement.

Sometimes my befuddled brain can attain a moment of clarity, as in this quick snippet of an IM conversation with Fiddy/Fiddy (a rather one-sided one since he wasn’t typing anything at the moment).

Me: The lights are on, but nobody is home.
Me: Then again, we’ve known this about you for a VERY long time.
Me: Now that I think about it, I’m pretty much an "empty house" myself.
Me: Except for those bats in my belfry.
Me: They keep me company in the wee hours of the night.
Me: Squeaking Justin Timberlake love-songs to me.
Me: And crapping on my insulation.
Me: Sorry, "dropping guano" on my insulation.
Me: Damn bats… so sensitive.  They love to remind me that their poop is a valuable source of fuel in some countries.
Me: Really, I guess that’s the true test of how advanced your civilization is: what you use as fuel.
Me: I guess it’s a sliding scale from burned flying-rat crap to atomic energy.

Nobody can amuse me like I do, and I am so easilly amused at times.

Well chill’uns, I’ve all manner of little things to talk about but nothing to really sink my teeth into so prepare for Short Attention Span Theatre.  Stream of consciousness — ACTIVATED.

First off, Dave Chappelle of Chappelle’s Show fame is in early negotiations to star in the film adaptation of Memoirs of a Super Freak, the autobiography of — you guessed it — Rick James.  My first thought upon hearing this was "holy crap, who better to choose than the man already famous for parodying good ol’ Rick?"  Well, the problem is this: unless this ends up being a comedy it might end up a tragedy.  Dave does a great job of making a fool out of Rick, but can he pull it off in a straight role?  Is Prince’s life story the next in Dave’s list of movie projects?  "Game… blouses."

Ray Charles has croaked — not a surprise really.  I suspect that recently, for live appearances they had been propping up his corpse behind a piano and putting on a CD.  We made a point to see him at Jazz Fest about five years back under the assumption that it might be the last opportunity to do so.  We were right.

Coincidentally, Ronald Regan recently joined the choir invisible too.  Could there be a link in here somewhere?  A deadly love pact?  Was one impersonating the other?  Was Nancy having geriatric three-ways down on the Reagan ranch?  A little antiquated jungle fever?  I bet the welcome mat at her back door is a bit dusty, if you know what I mean.

Y’know, I bet if Ronald Reagan and Ray Charles were running mates on the "Belly-Up" ticket in a bid for the White House in November, I bet they’d stand a great chance at winning.  After all, a pair of stiffs has infinitely more personality and less potential to do increasing damage to the country and our international standing than any of the other clowns thumb wrestling for the honor.

I’d vote for them.

Finally we are having the electrical work done on the house.  I’ve been assured that it will be a mere six or seven hours to complete the job.  That’s a mere six or seven hours in Louisiana.  In the summer.  With no power.  Joy.  It’s worth the trouble as I am upgrading the paltry 65-Amp service to 200-AMPs.

The old power system was nicely efficient… if you only had a refrigerator and a single 60 WATT light bulb on at the same time.  C’mon — I’m Captain Technology.  I can draw more than that just making toast.  So, the old system gets upgraded… that and our insurance company pretty much told us that they were not going to renew our homeowner’s insurance is we left the old fire hazard in place.  No, really, we had a choice.

The screen for the wHoReS: Walk-In Theatre was completed last week and was given a test-run last weekend.  I declare it a quality bit of engineering, and a beautiful surface to watch movies in a 12′ wide format.  The wHoReS engineers are currently working on a scheme to broadcast audio on the FM band so that we can individually bring tuners and headphones and have the volume as low or loud as we like without disturbing the neighbors.  We at the wHoReS strive to bring you only the highest quality entertainment.

Recently I have been accused, rightly so, of being a "kitchen geek".  All because I bought one of these.  I’m telling you if you use coarse salts like rock, sea or kosher when you cook, this little gem is fantastic.  One-handed operation, holds a fair amount of salt and it looks snazzy too.  Worth every penny.

On that note, watch Good Eats.  It’s a downright entertaining, and more importantly, educational show that doesn’t preach or pander to you like you’re an idiot.  Alton Brown is a weird little monkey like I am, and comes up with some wacky shit that really works.  I’ve picked up a number of really great techniques from the show that I have integrated into my day-to-day cooking regimen.  Wonderful.  I’m a freak.

Thus endeth my ramblings.  Stay alive, and safe journey.

Hey.

How’ve you been?

It’s been a while.

Yeah, you’re right… this is a little awkward.  I can only hope we’ll warm back up to the conversation we left dangling oh, so long ago.

So, the story so far:

I have a wonderful wife, great house and fantastic friends.  Work’s a treat, the family is (mostly) just dandy. 

Money is tight and getting tighter through random acts of stupidity.  My brain has had all it can stand and rather than do something productive about it, has basically put the blinders back on.

Mild sadness compounded by an even milder depression has descended upon me.  I’m a walking contradiction some days, an outright lie others and just dandy in between.  Every so often my paranoid side taps me on the shoulder, cups it’s mouth to my ear and proceeds to whisper evil, sharp little barbs that stir up dust in the irrational cortex of my brain.

My self-image is a little tattered and is getting more threadbare by the day.  Once again, my brain has adopted the same attitude about this as it has about money — if I metaphorically put my hands over my eyes, I can’t see the problem, and therefore it goes away.

Rest escapes me.  My schedule is off just enough that while I’m not getting to bed too late, I’ve been doing it so long that I can’t catch up.  Quite frankly, I’m of the opinion that I’m subconsciously doing it to myself but haven’t bothered to leave a manifesto pinned to the door of my mind with a Bowie knife.  If I ever get my hands on my subconscious, I’m going to kick it square in the balls.

I’m managing to distract myself with comics and 80’s music.  The borderline obsessive drive to collect and organize both has kept my mind quite occupied.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m nowhere near eating a bullet or delivering one (or more) at high speeds into anyone else.  I’ve hit a low point, as we all inevitably do now and again.  This too shall pass… eventually.  That doesn’t mean I’m any less inclined to be feeling this way, even armed with that logical little gem.  And this is all despite the best efforts of the people around me who have both knowingly and unconsciously tried to buoy me up.

Thus endeth the mope-of-the-moment.  Maybe next time I’ll be entertainingly angry or ranty at something or someone.

Let me just start by saying "Thanks a lot GonzO, you rotten bastard, for getting me completely addicted to this fucking comic.  I’m powerless to do anything else but read it now."

This particular comic is Transmetropolitan, the life and times of outlaw journalist Spider Jerusalem as he wanders the not-too-far-in-the-future streets of what the world has become and essentially gives folks shit by the metric ass-ton… then writes about it to his great financial and sadistic gain.

He smokes, his assistants smoke and his cat smokes.  He has an unholy love for his favorite toy… a bowel disruptor.  His life is devoted to poking the scabs off of society and those who foul it (worse than he himself can) then liberally sprinkling the wound with salt.  What’s not to like.

The comic is superbly, yet simply drawn without the wholly unnerving and distracting amount of detail that you would get from, say, Todd McFarlane (which has a time and place, like in the Lobo comics I adore so much).  While the artwork is definitely a treat, it is not the shining star of the comic… the writing is.  It is razor sharp and clever, at times mocking itself and at others weaving pointed, almost painful stories from the fictional world Spider lives in.  The dialogue ranges from an observation of a manufactured, bloody riot:

"It’s a show of power.  How dare anybody ignore the authority of Civic Center?  How dare a bunch of freaks try and think for themselves?  So let’s go out and stomp on children, lunatics and incompetents, because by damn it makes our balls feel big.

I can see a blatantly unarmed Transient man with half his face hanging off, and three cops working him over anyway.  One of them is groping his own erection.

I’m sorry.  Is that too harsh an observation for you?  Does that sound too much like the Truth?

Fuck you.

If anyone in this shithole city gave two tugs of a dead dog’s cock about Truth, this wouldn’t be happening."

… to the harassment of the President himself (to his face, and just before Spider disrupts his bowels):

"You ought to be peeled, salted, driven through the streets by mental patients with spiked planks, and then used as a toilet and jizz-catcher by baboons in heat.  At best."

I’ve just started reading, and I’m hooked.  If you run across the graphic novels in the bookstore or online (in one format or another), I strongly advise you snag them.

Oh, and I’ll leave you with this last little bit which is taken an issue after I was introduced to the "Air Jesus" all-terrain sneaker that lets you walk on water, or pretty much any surface:

"So this Zealot comes to my door, all glazed eyes and clean reproductive organs, asking me if I ever think about God.

So I tell him I killed God.  I tracked God down like a rabid dog, hacked off his legs with a hedge trimmer, raped him with a corncob and boiled off his corpse in an acid bath.

So he pulls an alternating-current taser on me and tells me that only the Official Serbian Church of Tesla can save my polyphase intrinsic electric field, known to non-engineers as "the soul."

So I hit him.  What would you do?"

Hatred and bias.

I’ve touched briefly on this topic in the past, and really I have volumes to say about it.  This is my blog after all, so there is a soapbox with my footprints worn neatly into it that I use for just this occasion.

There are many good reasons in this world to strongly dislike someone — too many to not have one.  In fact, if you can’t be bothered to come up with something tangible, then you should really get out of the game.  You can’t hate someone without at least spending a modicum of time figuring out why.  If you’re going purely on appearances, let’s say the color or length of someone’s hair, then you are an imbecile — the lowest form of human being there is.

No, let me correct that.  You are an ape.  A gorilla.  You lack coherent thought and act purely on instinct.  You might just as well be scratching your crotch in a tree, wondering with your tiny brain where the next banana will be coming from, and when that other furry blob over there will come and preen you, picking the ticks off of your smelly hide.  I’d go so far as to say you were born without a brain stem, but ultimately you need a connection to the central nervous system to be able to masturbate in your cage as the nice zoo patrons walk past.

Really, to take offense at someone for purely superficial reasons is the basis of all the nasty little "isms" that have developed over time.  Racism, sexism, classism…  Hmm.  Classism, that’s a good one to use as an example.

Let’s say that you are an office worker, one of the folks who push buttons and generates a fair amount of brain-sweat developing and streamlining new procedures and technologies to make the company you work for a more efficient and profitable machine.  You harbor distaste for physical laborers, you know… the typical plant worker.  Guys who operate basic tools and perform repetitive tasks.  They are in your eyes all sophomoric, Cro-Magnon, high school dropouts, incapable of doing anything else.  They occupy a low station in life and are alcoholic wife-beaters to the very last man.

Let’s also say that you formulated this opinion without having spent more than a cumulative thirty seconds talking to any of them.  You’d have missed out on the fact that what they do for the most part is a skilled trade.  In some cases, it’s very complex and dangerous work that you yourself could not perform if thrown out into the plant and handed the tools.  Many of them are extremely intelligent folks, who for their own reasons choose to do what they do.  Some of them are indeed low-intellect closed-minded buffoons and fall into the gorilla category specified above.

Now, reverse this scenario.  You are a plant worker, one of the guys in the trenches.  You bust your ass all day long, freezing in the winter and sweating in the summer doing a thankless backbreaking job.  You produce the merchandise that your company markets for profit, paying the bills and your paycheck.  You can’t stand those snobby bastards in the office who get to sit around all day in the air-conditioning, playing games and fucking around with the way things have been run for the last thirty years.  They’re good for nothing if they can’t produce a tangible product.  They’re on easy street and you hate it.  You’ll take any chance you can get to reduce them to your level.

Have you considered that all that these folks are average guys like you?  They may have devoted a fair amount of their lives to working behind a clipboard or keyboard, but their job while not as physical, is no less valid than yours.  They are working to make the road ahead smoother.  They take an outdated system and make it more accurate and responsive — eventually reducing the time necessary to get results.  These office folk are also the ones that ensure that you get prompt medical attention, the parts and equipment to do your job, an accurate paycheck, representation with the brass, and fair wages.  They aren’t out to make your life miserable as long as you work with the system, not against it.  They are no better or worse than you are.

The net result of all of the above bullshit is this: have a halfway genuine beef with someone before you start shooting off your mouth, otherwise you’re just a misguided simian who is one tree-branch away from being used for scientific anal-stretching experiments.  You are as shallow and superficial as your opinion, which has as much weight and bearing as a fart in a hurricane.  Your mental incapacity is worn on your sleeve for all to see.  A bias without foundation is as good as belief in nothing at all.

"They’re nihilists, Donny, nothing to be afraid of."

"Are they gonna hurt us, Walter?"

"They won’t hurt us, Donny.  These men are cowards."

And for the sake of all that is good and holy, if you must… if you absolutely feel the necessity to insult someone, at least do so in a creative way.  C’mon people, we have a rich and wonderful language at our disposal, put a little thought into it.  Get clever.  Prove to the world that you’re no ape.

Well damn and howdy.  It would seem that I have unintentionally gathered up a whole new slew of readers from a source that shall remain nameless.

You know who you are.

Let me guess… you’re reading my words and having a bit of a snicker.  Go ahead, my writing is intentionally laced with dark humor and intended to tickle the funny-bones of those who read it — either because they understand it or they think I’m ludicrous. 

Reading someone’s blog is a bit like watching a fish in a bowl.  You can silently watch the fish swim about, getting tickled by the bubbles coming out of the little treasure chest.  You can have a laugh when he bonks his face into the plastic diver or coral reef.  You get a thrill out of him feeding on the smaller fish, or getting chased by the larger ones.  It’s even a hoot to make comments about his markings and coloration… "Whooo-wee Helen, he sho’ does have some funny looking fins".

Really, if I didn’t want anyone to see what is written here, I wouldn’t make it visible to the public.  I’d password protect it, or even better yet I’d go back to the cro-magnon method of writing things down on paper.  With an actual pencil.  How barbaric.  No, I write mostly for my own amusement, knowing that I have an audience — neither one, nor a thousand pairs of eyes make any difference to me.

I also have enough scruples not to write any painfully detailed information about anyone… or any place of importance.  If I have something to say in that regard, I remain painfully vague about the specifics, and the target audience (if there is one) will know what I’m talking about.  No, you will get no real juicy details about anyone but me, and only then what I want to reveal… which coincidentally happens to be a fair amount.

Which leads me to my next point.  You see, if you are reading my babblings here, you aren’t really finding out much about me except what I post.  Selective bits.  Really, I have no use for anyone who won’t bother to get to know me in the most courteous method.  Talking to me.  I love to talk to people, interaction on a level playing field is the grandest way to learn about someone, find out what makes them tick and show them a modicum of respect.  Hearsay is suspect and shallow.  It leads to rumor mongering, and inventing or spreading rumors is reserved for the residents of the shallowest end of the intellectual gene pool.  If your mind and eyes are closed, then you should go ahead and lie down in a hole and pull the dirt in after you.  This is, of course, assuming that you care to know more about a person.  If not, you have the right to remain silent, and anything you say can and will be held against you.

I know that I might spout off some outlandish things from time to time.  Some, if not most of you will be amused or moved by my words, and a portion of you might be offended.  To those with more delicate sensibilities, I direct you to my disclaimer.  Just remember, you exorcized your right and free-will and came here of your own volition.  If you get upset, you have no one to blame but yourself.

One parting bit of wisdom to the newly arrived.  While an individual’s blog is like watching a fish in a bowl, in the case of blogs, the fish is watching back.  And he never, ever blinks.  Be careful whose bowl you tap on, you might get tapped back.

I would like to formally welcome back the two weary immigrants from the crisp, clean land of the Western shores to the moist, gritty bowl of this Southern port-of-call.  GonzO and Shortbus — you were sorely missed and we, your Southern Family, are overjoyed at your return.

As sad as we were to see you leave a little over five years ago, it was understood that it was something you wanted to do … had to do.  It was a journey that none of us could anticipate where you would eventually be led.  The possibilities were endless and we wished you well upon your departure.  If your feet led you back, we would rejoice, if they led you further along, we would wish you safe journey and good speed.  All paths are the right one as long as you keep growing… continuing to discover yourself and be happy.

Jebus, it’s good to have you guys back.  It’s surreal, and as Krazy says "I refuse to believe you’re here to stay until after Mardi Gras and you haven’t hopped on a plane and left."  Here’s hoping that you stick around for a while.

Speaking for Lady and myself, we really love you guys and I hope you realize that you are going to want for nothing.  Like the rest of this rag-tag bunch of miscreants, we take care of our own.  I’m sure the sentiment is mutual throughout the rest of the Community.

Welcome home GonzO and Heather, and may DeJockamo ever smile upon your lives and keep you safe.  Well… keep you drunk without illness at any rate.

From the instant I first saw you there was a connection.
Little did I know when we met that day,
I had met the person I would want to share the rest of my life with.
So, far it has been a wonderful life indeed.
I am so fortunate to have you as my husband, my lover, and my friend.
I don’t need some special day dictated by a card company
To tell you how much I love you.
I hope I show you how much each and every day.
In June we will have been together for 15 years,
And I didn’t think it possible,
But I love you even more today.
There have been high and low points,
But never has there been a dull moment.
One thing for certain our love has remained constant.
I told you that I didn’t want anything for Valentine’s Day,
And that was a lie.
I want you.
I know that’s a fairly expensive and valuable gift,
But I think I can afford it if you let me take out a 100-year loan.
Don’t worry we’ll work out the details concerning interest later. 😉
In the meantime you’ll just have to hang around until the note is paid.

With all my love,

September 9, 2003 Lady and I lost Silk, one of our two beloved ferrets, to insulinoma.  On January 29, 2004 Fagan passed away, also from insulinoma.

Silk and Fagan are the first and only pets that Lady and I have together as a couple.  Those two critters were showered with the love and affection that only we, the two obsessives, could lavish upon a pair of spoiled rotten weasels.

Fagan survived her sister by five months, and was by all outward appearances a happy and healthy fur-ball.  She showed few, if any, signs of the creeping sluggishness that Silk exhibited toward then end.

She was playful, bright eyed, and had put back on a little bit of weight although she had always been slim and trim her entire life.  In the absence of her little ferret sister she would mountain-climb her way up onto the bed and sleep with her big ferret parents most every night, usually either curled into a little furry doughnut nestled into the crook of my left arm, or between Lady and I — a third spoon in the drawer.  You wouldn’t believe how much heat a 2½-pound ferret can generate.  She was a little burning ember.

On Thursday, January 29th when Lady went to give Fagan her morning medication she found her unresponsive and whining softly to herself in her cage.  Fagan was in the throes of a seizure brought on by low blood sugar.  One of the horrible things about insulinoma is that it’s so hard to regulate in an animal the size of a ferret, and the animal can’t tell you when they are starting to feel bad.  You medicate them on a schedule and keep a sharp eye out for a few telltale symptoms, which sometimes never surface before a crash like this.  Fagan had had two previous seizures — out of the clear blue sky.  No warning.  You’d see her playing, and then an hour later she’d be completely immobile and unresponsive to any stimulus.

Lady rushed her to the vet and they immediately started to work with her.  In addition to being near comatose, Fagan had dehydrated and the Vet was attempting to re-hydrate to be able to take a blood sample.  Several hours later, we received the call.  Fagan had died while the Vet was examining her.  She had never regained consciousness, and her poor body just gave out.  The last seizure had done extensive damage to her brain, and she just turned off like a light switch.

That night we went home and packaged everything ferret away before our brains could quite get a grasp on the fact that she was gone.  We went to dinner and surrounded ourselves with a few friends.  We spent this past weekend in the company of more good friends to distract ourselves.  The fact remained that our bedroom — the defacto domain of the ferrets, which they had graciously let Lady and I sleep in, was terribly empty.  We keep catching ourselves in old habits — like remembering to get the medicine ready when we get home from work, or having a split-second of panic when seeing the bedroom door open because Fagan might get out.

Maybe I’m just a stupid 30-something jackass with a pussified attachment to animals, or possible I’m just a hardened, cynical exterior balanced by a softhearted core.  Either way losing Silk, and then the loss of Fagan has ripped me asunder as sure as if they were members of my human family or Family.  When you spend every day of eight years living with and loving a pair of adorable critters, you have a tendency to miss them terribly when they’re gone.

Fagan Noir Matherne has joined her sister on the far side of the rainbow bridge, and now plays for eternity with all beloved pets that have gone before her.  I love you, my little Fagan-ella, my little firebrand.  Try not to run Silk out of the hammock too often.  You take another tiny nibble of my heart with you as you go.