03 March 2013

another try

Doug watched out the window as Rick opened the satellite. Asimov IV floated below them, looking like home. Asimov IV was not home. Asimov IV was not even habitable according to the computer, but it had been inhabited. It was a plague-world, home to intelligent life long before humans came to this part of space. Intelligent life means unintelligent life, animals and plants for food, decoration, or companionship. The greater the variety of life on a given planet, the greater the variety of microbes, and all new colonies were isolated to ensure they did not spread any new plagues through the galaxy. The first colony on Asimov IV had lost contact and it was labeled a plague-world. That had been thousands of years before, when this part of space was still new. Warning satellites had been placed around such planets and it was Doug's job to fix them. The Destiny had arrived two days earlier and the crew had begun their work. Doug, Rick, and Karen had been taking turns with the satellites. Karen spent most of her free time playing games with the ship's A.I., Rick spent his free time video-chatting with girlfriends who didn't know he was married, and Doug spent his spare time looking out the window. Rick floated in his suit above the satellite. The access panel was open and the diagnostic computer was attached. Doug watched Rick as Rick watched the computer. Each waited in silence. From somewhere else in the ship Doug could hear the captain complaining about something. The captain thought his decades of experience gave him some great wisdom or insight into space, but his belief in the power of his own mind was unjustified. This poorly paying contract was the best he could manage. The state of his ship was more a reflection of his crews hard work and dedication than it was of his own competence. Doug knew this and did not pay much attention to the captain's complaints. Outside the window, Rick moved down to the open panel. Doug knew something was wrong. A clean diagnostic can take hours, but failures end the diagnostic routines early. The next step would be for Rick to rotate the solar panels into darkness, reducing power throughout the satellite before starting repairs. Doug wondered if anyone on the surface would see the panels flashing overhead as they shifted into darkness. The thought of a descendent of plague survivors looking up to see such a flash made him smile a little. He stopped smiling when the screaming began. It was Rick's voice, but Rick was floating outside, at the diagnostic computer attached to the satellite. Doug scanned the length of the satellite and saw rockets firing. Rick was tethered to the satellite and would go with it if he failed to shut the engines off. Doug pressed on an intercom button next to the window. “Ship, help Rick shut the engines off!” “Only partially successful,” replied the computer. Doug could see some of the venting cease but the satellite began to turn towards the ship. Doug scrambled as quickly as he could away from the window. The safest place to survive an accident was inside a cargo pod, so into a cargo pod Doug went. The nearest pod at hand was a passenger pod stuffed with gear the captain wanted but never used. Doug hit the close button for the door and grabbed for the bunk as the ship shuddered from the impact. Sirens and alarms began wailing as Doug climbed into the bunk. Each cargo pod used the same structural shell with universal attachment systems so they could be moved from ship to ship. Capable of being entirely self-sustaining, they only lacked useful flight systems. Passenger pods were capable of housing a single passenger for a month without needing resupply, and the bunks were equipped with harnesses to from floating around in their sleep on a zero-G journey. These harnesses were also useful for crash landings. This was a point not lost on Doug as he strapped himself into the bunk. The cacophony seemed to go on forever. Doug thought he felt the pod separate but the shaking made it hard to tell. The noises coming over the intercom seemed to be random. Doug thought he could hear a person speaking now and again, but could not pick out what they were saying. He closed his eyes and wished that he could sleep through whatever came next. He did not sleep, but it seemed an eternity before some violent explosion rocked the pod. Doug could not tell if it was part of the ship or the satellite, but when impact cushions billowed out around the bunk he began to panic. He kept his eyes closed and waited for the end, but the noise and shaking started to slowly subside. After a few more minutes, the alarms started going quiet. A few continued until Doug told the computer to shut off all of them. He was surrounded by silence and focused his attention on the shaking. It seemed to have become almost rhythmic, rougher but similar to the Destiny's engines firing. “Computer, what is happening to the ship?” Doug asked. “The status of the Destiny is unknown. This pod is intact and will land shortly.” Great, Doug thought, crash-landing on a planet riddled with infectious diseases. Doug tried to see an upside as the pod landed and bounced it's way to a halt, but the best that he could do was that he wasn't going to die in space. Dying alone, forgotten, and on a forgotten world named after a forgotten person was not much better. It may even be worse. He lay in the bunk for hours. He did not want to get up but just lay there until death came for him. Nature calls on everyone eventually, and he unfastened the safety harnesses on the bunk only to tumble out onto the floor. The bags and boxes of the captain's things were all secured to the walls, leaving the cold metal floor exposed for him to lay on while he thought about the strength he had lost in zero-gravity. In a few moments he began to drag himself across the floor to the bathroom built into the corner of almost every pod. When he was finished, he dragged himself back across the floor and into the bunk. Physically and mentally exhausted, he lay motionless for hours before drifting off into a fitful sleep. He awoke the next morning poorly rested and aching. He crawled back across the floor to the bathroom again, but he emerged this time, he began digging through the captain's stockpile of random junk. He smiled without realizing it when he found the emergency supplies hidden behind a bag of what seemed to be mismatched boots. The stash included fair amounts of food and water, meaning that he would not starve to death in the near future. Given that he was alone, somewhere on a plague-world, he did not even need to worry about the expiration dates. He opened one of the bags of food and eat it slowly and without any enthusiasm for it. He ate, not because he was hungry, it would be days before he was truly hungry again, but because it gave him something to keep his mind occupied. Venturing outside was out of the question in his physical state, even if the air had been safe to breathe. When he finished his meal of stale crackers and what seemed to be a cheap artificial cheese spread, he grabbed a bag of water and crawled back to the bunk. He lay in the bed for an hour or more thinking about the water. If he drank the water, he could recover his strength faster and possibly come up with a plan. If he did not drink the water, he would become dehydrated but not need to crawl to the bathroom as often. He couldn't think of any reason he would want to go outside, so he carefully laid the bag down on the floor near the head of the bunk and went back to sleep. He woke again sometime later to noise. It sounded as if it were raining outside. He could not tell for sure. He did not know if it rained on this planet. He did not know how thick the walls, door, or roof of the pod were. He did not know how the sewage system in the pod worked, or what was powering the lights. He did know that not drinking the water had not spared him another crawl across the room. He managed this with considerable effort. Each trip left his muscles sore and tense and his mind racing. He had enough foresight this time to push a fair amount of the supplies closer to the bed this time. He ate some more and drank a little water before fading off to sleep. He did not know it but he had ended his first full day in the pod. He woke early the next morning, at least in accordance with the time his watch gave him. He tried sitting up but almost immediately felt cramping through his entire back. He fell back quickly and grunted a few times from the pain. He began twisting and turning, trying to rebuild some of his strength when it occurred to him that he didn't know what time it was outside. “Computer, what time is it?” “The time is 7:17.” This matched his watch. “Computer, what is the local time?” “The local time is 7:17.” “Computer, how can my watch know what the local time if it was set for a different location?” “Your watch is showing you the current time. The current time is 7:18. Your watch does not know that there are multiple locations and is showing you the correct time for your current location.” He thought about this for a minute, pondering different ways to ask the question that might give him a useful result. It then occurred to him that the computer in a storage pod should not have the intelligence to give him the useless answer that it did. The captain may have changed something. The captain had not been good with his hands but had never shied away from buying things that he did not need. A pod with a near life-life intelligence wasn't exactly past the captain's means, but if that much had been put into the pod's computer, Doug wondered what other changes had been made. “Computer, play some music for me.” It began playing a song Doug had not heard before. He found the lyrics distracting and asked for instrumentals only. The computer obliged and Doug lost himself in thought for a while before falling back asleep. He was sore when he woke again, his limbs contained a stiffness he hadn't felt in a long time. He stretched, he ate, and he wondered if anybody had been notified that he had gone missing. He thought about the women he had known, he thought about friends he was missing, and he wondered if it would be better to open the door and let the local pathogens kill him, find some way to commit suicide-by-technology, or just let starvation eventually take its toll. He drifted off to sleep again and ended his second day dreaming that he was laying in a field of shortly-cropped grass, basking in the sunshine of a warm afternoon. On the third day, he woke early again. He tried to stretch and exercise following the same improvised regimen he had used the day before, but found that he could not quite get through it all. He was able to sit up though, which made eating rather easier. He took another nap midday and made several futile attempts to stand up. The computer lulled him to sleep with some pleasant little melody he thought he may have heard before. The rest of the week passed in a similar fashion. By the end of the tenth day he could walk around the pod upright without either being forced back into the bunk by cramping muscles or needing to hold onto things for support. He then began pilfering through the captain's gear and found enough survival gear to keep him well-equipped almost anywhere. He picked out a rucksack, several duffel bags, and a luggage cart. He loaded a second emergency kid he had found into the rucksack and filled the duffel bags with whatever clothing was close to his size, several tents. The duffel bags he tied to the cart and several large pouches filled with assorted gadgets and tools were hung on the rucksack. Although the thought of going outside filled him with trepidation, he was ready to leave whenever the time came. It was on the sixteenth day that he awoke unable to move. He tried calling out to the computer but could not seem to form any words. The only noise he could force himself to muster was the panting of a wounded animal. The spasms and cramps were so severe that he worried bones would have broken if he had recovered more of his strength. Some noises came from the doorway and he knew the pod had opened. All of his preparations were for naught. He was infected and darkness closed in on his mind. Goe, trying to kickstart some ideas.

25 December 2012

Generic Adventure revisited

The boy stood watching the last light of the setting sun fade away. Several of the pigs began squealing at him and he twisted a little to give them a glance. They were watching him lean on his walking stick, a bucket filled with kitchen refuse hanging from his left hand. The boy walked slowly to the pen and lay his walking stick against the fencing. With both hands now free, he heaved the bucket up and over the fence, dumping the contents into the trough. The pigs squealed again and began to eat as he picked up his stick and began walking to the hilltop.
From the hilltop he could see everyplace that he had ever been. The farm where he and his sisters took care of their ailing father was on the western slope. Below it lay a few fields and the village beyond. To the south lay fields belonging to the mayor, who lived in the village and left his fields to be worked by others. To the north lay the Thick Wood, where the trees would not grow taller than the three-story tower that the lord kept but would grow almost as wide before being felled. Beyond the Thick Wood, many miles off, a great glow could be seen coming from the Place of Things where no one in the village had ever been. To the east lay more fields and a broad meadow beyond which lay the outlying farms of the next village.
The boy could hear someone coming as he stared up at the night sky. Stars twinkled and shimmered as one of his sisters began to call to him. He recognized her voice as that of Hideous but he still turned to face her.
“The stars are far away. Your bed is much closer.”
“The stars are much prettier. They are prettier than anything we have.”
“I would say yes, but we have the stars every time we look up at night, so they are ours.”
“Yes,” said the boy, wrinkling his face in thought. Together they looked up at the night sky. A bright flash drew their attention westwards, to the sky above and past the village. “A shooting star!”
“Yes,” his sister replied as the streaking light cut across the sky to their north. “But let's go home now and sleep.”
His sister began walking back to their little house, growing dim on the distance. The boy sighed and wondered what the stars were made of. Nobody in the village knew but nobody in the village knew much about anything outside of the village. Knowing things was dangerous and people who asked too many questions began to know things. His mother had known things, and she had died screaming. His father had asked too many questions and lost an arm. The boy knew that he would never know what the stars were made of and sighed again. As he began to walk home, he glanced at the pigs feeding in their pen and smiled. He didn't need to know about the stars to raise pigs and chickens or to tend the fields. His world was full and complete.
Goe, trying a new story

30 August 2012


Saw super-cute bunny on the way to work. Also, can apparently post to blogger from my kindle. Goe, finished reading Jane Austen.

27 June 2011

A Pirate!

A giant lego pirate, with real lego minifig at his feet for scale. This one wasn't from the Creative Park but from Ninjatoes.

Goe, giving the pirate away.

05 May 2011

Bridal Bear

From this space for sublet


Hearts in her eyes.

From this space for sublet

The frilly back.

Goe, sleepy...

28 March 2011

From art 2011

Greater Pied Kingfisher, although only pumpkin is really greater pied.

16 January 2011


Kitty with a beagle (for a departing coworker)(9 pages)

From this space for sublet
From this space for sublet

Kitty with a raccoon (1 page)

12 December 2010

red-eyed demon bunny. one piece of paper. i dont know why they made his eyes red.

Goe, making stuff

04 August 2010

the giraffe resumed.

From this space for sublet

shoulders are a bit tricky to put together, made more complex by the need for the chest piece (tiny thing filling the armpit area).

31 July 2010

and done

without face, you can see the neck flange inside the head, notice that the face itself is heart shaped.

From this space for sublet

and tada!
From this space for sublet

and back to the giraffe...

More bear

left leg, with crumpled flange...

From this space for sublet

and body with leg attached and flange uncrumpled.

From this space for sublet

the flange permits the leg to rotate, like a ball-n-socket joint, making the bear posable. superglue on the flange (done carefully so as not to glue the leg in place) makes the paper stiffer and less likely to re-crumpled so it doesn't become unattached in the future.
The torso, with neck flange at top. limbs go on with a flange also, so to unfold the flanges inside the body (so they can hold the limbs on), it has to be assembled from the legs up. This bear comes with a wedding dress that i won't be making.

From this space for sublet


the face goes on last. a flange is attached to the top of the body, and crumpled up, inserted through the hole at the base of the head, then unfolded. to unfold it, you reach it through the hole where the face goes, then put the face on to complete the bear.

From this space for sublet

30 July 2010

and now for something different

stopped work on giraffe to make pink bear for expectant coworker.

29 July 2010

Starting a new giraffe

forgot how to make the face, so i looked it up and realized it was actually rather obvious. i hate it when i miss something that seems obvious.

30 January 2010

everything comes to an end.

Time ended. Just a few hours ago, I think. I'd just gotten out of work and was waiting at the bus stop with a few co-workers and some others when I heard a loud banging noise. Some of the women screamed a bit, although I'm not sure if it was from pain or fright. I, myself, had a sudden pain on my wrist, as though a match had been held to it. I grabbed and rubbed at the pain while observing those around me do the same, knocking the remnants of our watches to the ground.

The passengers on the bus we were waiting for arrived while we were still trying to comprehend what had happened. They came floating up, standing and sitting on nothing and then, as startled by this as we were, they fell to the ground. Backpacks, purses, and bodies formed a heap in the lane which did almost nothing to stop the bus when it finally arrived and neatly parked atop them. The doors promptly opened revealing the driver, the upper part of his body projecting out of the dashboard. He turned and mouthed something, maybe words of fright or a last guttural gasp before he died. I couldn't hear him over the screaming of the crushed, the noise of the engine, and the mayhem that was ensuing all around us.

We waited in the bus shelter for help, not unable to pull others to safety, but unwilling to risk being struck by the vehicles and debris that seemed to come in no pattern and without visible cause. We put out several small fires in pockets and purses caused by burning cellphones, but mostly we just waited. Help should have come already, it's far past time.

Goe, would like to be a better writer.

30 October 2009

ironic, dontcha think?

my horoscope says that i can't trust the voices in my head. oh, sweet irony, you make me chuckle.

Goe, really does think.

30 September 2009

woohoo! Slaugherhouse revisited!

there's this about what exactly is meant by the following phrase

"No State shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States" from the fourteenth amendment.

the supreme court said that that phrase is meaningless in 1873 or so.

that it's being taken seriously again is important.

Goe, happy about this.

26 August 2009

Dreaming of Charlie

She stumbled towards her grandparents house. Cars were usually parked in a corner of the yard but a glance over her shoulder showed nothing there. She stopped and looked again at the house, which appeared to have been expanded to either side. Familiar concrete steps led up to the front door but the additions were at ground level, below the one-story house itself. She hadn't been here since her grandparents died and wasn't sure who could have made those changes. Anybody could have. She wasn't even sure who owned the house anymore.
She began moving again, now in a more steady stroll. Soldiers were standing outside smoking, she hadn't noticed them before. As she climbed the steps, they gave her the feigned smiles of terrified men. She smiled back instinctively and wondered why they were there. She opened the door and entered. The living room had also been redone. It now had a walkway looping all the way around the upper floor with a finely carved railing that clashed with the plaster walls. It both seemed to fit and not, but she couldn't put her finger on why. Soldiers were gathered around a table at the center of the room looking at documents. They weren't happy men and their conversation stopped as she had entered.
“Oh, it's you,” said Charlie, dressed as an army officer. “We were hoping for more.”
“What's going on?” she asked.
He shook his head and led her to a bedroom door that opened to reveal not a bedroom, but stairs leading upwards. He waited for her to clear several steps before following. When they reached the upper floor, he again took the lead long enough to open another door, this time to what would have been right above her grandparents bedroom. She entered and stepped to the left. He followed and moved to the right. The room was almost as large as she remembered the small house having been once. Soldiers stood in the corners, staring at their own feet. They were wearing what appeared to be some sort of middle ages armor, made of plastics instead of iron, and all had rifles pointed downwards at the stone floor.
In the center of the room, spanning some ten feet across, was a hole, lined with a stone wall like that of an old-fashioned well. Charlie shouted something incomprehensible and all of the soldiers moved to the wall, lifting their rifles just enough to clear the wall before pointing down into the darkness. Charlie, now wearing armor and carrying a weapon, had a spot at the wall, and she stepped forward to see what he and the others were doing here.
A fluttering noise came up from the blackness and dark shapes began rising. They looked like giant bats and the soldiers began firing Although some of the shapes rose slower, none fell back into the darkness. After a few seconds, the shapes began to clear the opening and circle the room behind them. Afraid to look behind her, she saw them circling the room behind the soldiers, who circled the wall in turn. They formed an almost solid column now, a few feet across at the center of the hole and rising to the ceiling where they spread out to the walls.
The soldiers stopped firing and she looked at the one next to her. Instead of reloading, he leaned forward and looked down at the rising shapes. The rising column grew rapidly in width, but despite the seemingly endless flow, the creatures were not visibly increasing their numbers in the room. She looked at the column and wondered where they were all going when everything went black.

“I was dreaming of you,” Karen said to Charlie when she saw him for lunch.
“Was it a good dream?” he asked, picking at his fries.
“Not really. I would tell Dave about it but he'd just get jealous.” She tilted her head in an overly dramatic way to let him know she was thinking of something he wasn't supposed to understand. “I never dream about him. Why is that, do you think?”
“Maybe your subconscious doesn't love him like you do. Maybe it's still got a thing for your ex-husband?”
“I don't dream about him either, anymore. It's almost always people from work.”
“How is work?”
“Boring. No more layoffs at least. They want us to make a story out of some artists stealing each others work, like people can't have similar ideas or even different ideas with the same result.”
“Or maybe neither the ideas or the result is original. You could always go for the snark angle: which is the greater crime? Stealing the concept, stealing the creation, or destroying the culture by passing crap off as art?”
“It's not crap.” she said, grabbing one of his fries and stabbing at the ketchup with it. “Just because you don't understand it doesn't make it crap.”
“I didn't say that I don't understand it. I did say that it's crap, but it's unoriginal crap. Things that are unoriginal are usually pretty easy to figure out and the original stuff almost always has some zen sort of 'could mean anything you want it to' approach to it. And please stop trying to kill my ketchup.”
She look at him at she chewed the weaponized french fry. Not a lot bothered Charlie but she had bruised his ego enough with the implication of ignorance that he was starting to sulk.
“I'm sorry.”
“It's okay,” he said in a tone of voice that boldly hinted the opposite, “The ketchup had it coming. It was looking at me funny earlier.”
“I'm going on an art walk tomorrow to see the whatever it is that is supposed to be stolen. You can come if you want. I'd like that.”
“I think I might like it too.”
Charlie carefully smoothed out the ketchup with a remaining fry, unaware that Karen was staring with tilted head.

The first gallery had a cat. The art displayed consisted of a glazed sculpture of the cat, a number of photographs of the cat, and t-shirts with photographs of the cat.
“I think the message in this art is that these people like cats.” said Charlie.
“Yeah, do you think they'd let me pet it?”
“Maybe, it's supposed to be a world famous cat.”
“Well, it is. They sell a lot of pictures on the internet.”
“I'm sure a lot of sex toys are also sold online, but that doesn't make Granny's World Famous Dildo's into art.”
Karen threw her head back and laughed. “I still want to pet the cat.”

The second gallery had sculpted dioramas of ceramic bodied figures with wire limbs hunting and gathering amid the ruins of a city built of lego blocks.
“So did they steal the idea of bad sculpture?” said Charlie, pointing at foot-high figures involved in a ceremony on library steps.
“It's not bad. Sculpting things is really hard.”
“Something being hard increases the likelihood of someone doing it wrong and the results being bad. The mosaic lizards in northeast are good, this is bad.”
“Whatever. Just because you're not good at something doesn't make them bad at it.”
“Doesn't make them good at it either.”
“Whatever, dude. That little guy there looks kind of like you.” Karen pointed at a priest figure.
“I thought I was taller.”
“Do you have any idea what people see when they look at you?”
“No. Not a clue.”
“They see that guy, but taller.”
Charlie looked at the figure for a moment. “Maybe they have a cat that we haven't spotted yet?”

The third gallery had drawings hung on the walls of people in concentration camps, but instead of dark and dreary conditions, corporate logos and vending machines abounded.
“I don't see any bad sculpture here.”
“Dude, seriously, have you ever tried to make something out of clay? It's really freakin' hard.”
“They're doing something they suck at and think they do it well. They should know what they can and can't physically do. It doesn't matter if I can or can't do it, what matters is what they can, or in this case, can't do.”
“Then how would anybody ever get better?”
\ “By playing to their strengths. If you can draw, draw, if you can make things out of clay, make things out of clay. Don't do what you're bad at. I can't make things out of clay so I don't.”
“You also don't date.”
“Not 'exactly'! If you want to be good at something, you have to try. And you do need to get out more.”
“I'm out now. And I don't see a cat.”
“No, no kitty here.”
“It can't be stray fur. You can't steal fur. Cats give it away for free.”
“Whatever dude.”
“Any clue as to what they're mad at each other for stealing?”
“No, the guy we sent down to do the interviews found out that they're worried it'll hurt their prices if the works aren't original.”
“I thought controversy made things more expensive.”
Karen didn't answer. She traced the outline of one of the prisoners with her finger, head tilted to one side.

At the fourth gallery, statues made of broken bottles fused together formed a football team.
“You can see through these and I don't see a cat anywhere.”
“I don't think it's about a cat,” said Karen, slowly circling a crouched player.
“How come none of these artists are starving. Aren't they supposed to be starving?”
“I don't know. Maybe they sell a lot of their work?”
“If they sold a lot, wouldn't they be sell-outs and not artists? Isn't that how it works?”
“No,” whispered Karen, reading the placard of a player holding a ball over his head. “Don't be so silly.”
“Are you sure? I thought that it wasn't really art unless it was suffered for.”
“No,” said Karen, gently tapping the nose of another player. “Art is art, the suffering just makes it interesting, and as for selling out, it's just toe-may-toe poe-taw-toe.”
“Now you're the one being silly.”
“I may be silly, but I think I figured it out,” replied Karen, tapping Charlie gently on the nose.

At the fifth gallery, body parts mounted to the walls gave the illusion of people passing through those walls, while holding up other things.
“Is it something symbolic? Like nature's inhumanity towards man?” asked Charlie, studying a towel draped over a waiter's arm mounted on the wall.
“I don't think so, I'd have to check with some guys at the office to find out for sure, but it is kind of weird.”
“What's weird is that they want seven hundred dollars for this arm and couldn't find a towel with a higher thread count.”
“Maybe they didn't want anything too fancy schmancy?” asked Karen, standing by a bodyless head that faced upwards, with candles sitting where there should have been eyes.
“I could understand the not-fancy, but the schmansy is a must for what will undoubtedly become the pink flamingo of the future.”
“That's kind of harsh.”
“Yes, much like this towel, which is not smooth, gentle, or fluffy.”
“A towel critic now, are we?”
“Yes, but only in the evenings. It doesn't come with dental so I'm keeping the day job for now.”

The sixth gallery had paintings of animals dressing, living, and mingling with humans.
“This looks like something from Richard Scary,” said Charlie.
“I remember those. I used to spend hours pouring over them when I was little.”
“Me too. I would try to make up stories for each and every person.”
“I do that in food courts. People watching is a lot of fun.” said Karen, tapping her finger on nothing in front of a painting of three people, a goat, a badget, and an alien waiting at a bus stop in the rain. “Bus stops just aren't as fun. You can't look around at others so much without them seeing and thinking that you're creepy.”
“Maybe they don't think you're creepy. Maybe they're flattered by the attention? And why are those people in the back staring at me?”
“Because you're creepy.”
“No. You really don't have any idea how anybody sees you, do you?”
“No. Not really. You've asked me that twice now, is there a reason?”
“You're the reason,” answered Karen, pointing at the painting.

Goe, thought it would be longer when he started it.

16 August 2009

Richard Marx

He won't give up until he's satisfied.

1) he doesn't listen to the rolling stones and doesn't know that he can't get no satisfaction, no no no, hey hey hey, that's what they say.

2) he's really being satisfied but keeps claiming this to extort more from people forced to listen to him sing.

3) he has no attention span and forgets that he is unsatisfied after a few minutes of singing and goes to the next song.

Goe, going with a combo of 1 and 3

27 July 2009

Flock of Seagulls

"I ran" - Flock of Seagulls.

they're seagulls. why didn't they fly, especially since their stopping point was "so far away"?

Goe, puzzled.

05 July 2009

Mural Alley

From Summer 2009

From Summer 2009

Goe, lives in an interesting place.

04 July 2009


found an odd alley, pictures tomorrow.

Goe, is sick.

13 June 2009

an author

i stopped by a store to see what they had in the way of supercheap software and they had an author sitting at a table near women's clothing to sign books. nobody in line. never heard of him myself. very strange place...

Goe, works for a company that adamantly believes there are 1.37 quarts per gallon.