SilentMouth blog

Oskar speaks! (In a manner of speaking. ... That is to say, makes sounds... Of the monosyllabic variety.)

noreply@blogger.com (ungeziefer) — Wed, 25 Jun 2008 01:27:00 +0000

10:24, 61MB*

*I realize this is a huge file, and this will only interest you if you are a member of my immediate family; if you are not, feel free to disregard. Thank you for your time.

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)

Virtual Oskar

noreply@blogger.com (ungeziefer) — Sat, 24 May 2008 23:30:00 +0000

2 longish videos:

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)

Rags to Less Filthy Rags

noreply@blogger.com (ungeziefer) — Sat, 24 May 2008 03:48:00 +0000

The Time I Had To Hawk My Souvenir $5 Canadian Bill To Buy Enough Gas to Get to the Used Record Store to Sell my CDs to Buy More Gas to Get to Work the Next Day

Have I mentioned yet that I am now gainfully employed? No? Well, I am gainfully employed. There: I've mentioned it.

And have I mentioned how grateful I am to have a fucking job? Answer: really fucking grateful.

Not that being unemployed doesn't have its perks. Like, umm.... Well, o.k., "perks" isn't really the right word... Maybe... "quirks"...

Such as this little episode, which I was recently thinking about.......

So you know how it is when you're on your last dollar and wondering how you're going to make it 'til the next paycheck? Or, rather, how you're going to make it until the next loan or miraculous discovery of a bag of money? And you're digging through the pockets of all your old coats and pants and pulling up the cushions of not only the couch but every chair in the house in search of enough change to buy a loaf of bread and maybe a 2-liter of Coke and -- if you really dig -- a pack of cigarettes?

Well, on this particular occasion, we didn't find enough change to buy a Snickers, let alone a pack of Luckies. (I think we had already resorted to the desperate nickel and dime search earlier in the week.) And we desperately needed to put gas in the car in order to get to work the next day and etc., lest our situation become all the more desperate....

The logical question that comes to mind in this situation is: What do I have to sell?

Once in a while I'll realize I actually have a lot of unnecessary electronic equipment lying around -- extra hard drives full of digital video -- mainly recordings of CSPAN and History Channel that will never be watched, from back when I had a Tivo-type-thing for my computer. A few minutes on CraigsList and I'm in the money! (Not MUCH money, mind you, but enough to eat.)

No such luck this day. Aside from selling my computer -- the sole source of income for me at this point (I was scraping together a few bucks here and there doing freelance graphic and web design -- on those rare occasions when people would actually pay me...) -- or my car -- actually, no, we had already sold that... Or my kidneys.....

The next obvious thing to sell, of course: CDs and DVDs.

After all, you can't whine about being broke when you've got a stack of these taking up space on your shelves. (The shelves themselves, of course, would be the next thing to be sold...)

Fortunately, there was a little independent music shop near our apartment that bought and sold used albums -- not for much, of course, but when you're desperate and hungry, $2 for a CD you haven't listened to since Bush's pappy was in the White House seems pretty damn good. (By the way, that's not meant to be a comical hyperbole, but an accurate estimate.)

So we begin the search: finding those 5 or 6 CDs and/or DVDs which A.) do not suck, and B.) [this is the really tricky part] do not look like they've been used as cat toys, coasters, and/or hockey pucks.

Then the inevitable debate ensues: "Is it wrong to sell that which was given to me as a gift? And, more to the point, given to me as a gift by you?"

"Well..."

At some point we come to an agreement: "O.K.: I don't mind if we sell the Tom Waits CD you gave me for my birthday, if you don't mind if we sell the Dimitri Martin DVD I bought you for YOUR birthday.".....

Most of the CDs I still possess are somewhat rare and obscure -- which is why I haven't ripped them into iTunes and sold them already. So I'm hesitant, but... well, I'm desperate.

So I toss them all into a paper grocery sack and head to the local record shop -- a hippy-ridden store called "Know Name Records" in which the reek of patchouli is so pungent that you will literally choke from the god-awful smell upon exiting your vehicle in the parking lot. Once actually IN the store, well, god help you. (Let's just say you don't want to browse the racks without a gas mask...)

I pretend to browse for used CDs while waiting for the hippy behind the counter to examine my wares and determine their resale value.

He calls me over: the moment of truth: ........ "Sorry, I think we'll have to pass on these."

WTF????

These are my rarest and most valuable CDs! I'm selling these only out of sheer desperation! Don't you underSTAND?!

He does not.

Back in the car, on the way back home, to work out Plan B. (Hoping I have enough gas left in the car to get back home to work out Plan B, that is....)

"Those fucking hippies have no goddam taste in music," I say as I (thankfully) return home.

"They didn't buy ANY of them?"

"Fuck no."

All is not lost, however: there's another local music store, "The Electric Fetus," which sells all sorts of great and eclectic music, including lots of local bands, and also buys and sells used CDs. I KNOW they'll buy my John Zorn and Secret Chiefs 3 and Mike Patton and my Miles Davis box set... The only question is: Do we have enough gas to get there?........

It seems extremely unlikely. When that little "out of gas" light on the dash starts flashing, you have to ask yourself: "Do you feel lucky, punk? Well? DO ya?" There could be a gallon in there, or there could be just fumes -- it's difficult to say........

Plan C.....

I remember that I have a couple secret boxes downstairs filled with random stuff -- old rolls of undeveloped film, notes and post cards from years ago, keep sakes and suchlike.... I rummage........

Yes! There it is: the Canadian $5 bill I've had since I was about 6 or something, from some trip my family took when I was little! I've had this since I can remember. Used to think it was worth something -- because it was unique and interesting to me -- then later thought it was worth something still -- because it was from this trip and had "sentimental value" -- and now I KNOW it's worth something: $5 fucking goddam [Canadian] dollars, to be exact! YES! That's at least a gallon of gas!!

Shit is lookin good. All I have to do is buy some gas with this, then head to the "Electric Fetus" and sell my wares, then use that money to buy some more gas, and we're SET (for a day or two, anyway...).

With great optimism I head out the door.

For some reason I suspect that paying with Canadian currency might cause trouble. So I decide to go to the nearest gas station I know of where you can pump the gas first, THEN pay. I put in less than $5, and head inside.

They do not accept Canadian currency. FUCK.

Now what? I've already taken their gas.

"This is all I have," I explain. "You can keep the change -- I just ran out of gas, and this is all I've got."

"Sorry, we just can't take it."

The guy next to him seems as confused and annoyed as I am: "Seriously? We don't?"

"Nope, says right here." (Pointing at a little note taped to the counter.)

"But it's worth more than American."

(Guy shrugs.)

(Other guy shrugs.)

FUCK.

O.K., I've got the gas in my car. I can now make it to the Electric Fetus.......

"I guess I can try to go find a bank and exchange it..."

"Yeah, you'll have to, I guess."

"If there's still a bank open..."

"Yeah..."

"Or, I could... If I can just go talk to my wife, I think she's got some cash -- I just -- this is all I have on me..."

(pause)

"Well, yeah, but, like..."

"I mean I'd leave this, obviously."

........

Finally he agrees that if I leave the Canadian $5 bill, I can leave and come back later with some REAL money, and then we'll set things right.

Thing is, there IS a bank open -- a Wells Fargo, and they're less than a block away. I run over there, confident now that things are gonna work out...

Turns out, they do not exchange Canadian currency.

That's right, you read that correctly: the FUCKING BANK will not exchange Canadian currency for American currency.

Why? Don't bloody fucking ask me. They just don't.

(It is possible that they will exchange large amounts, just not a single $5 bill. But they did not tell me this -- perhaps just so that I would not look/feel like an asshole. A stupid broke asshole trying to exchange a keepsake from his childhood for a lousy 5 bucks to buy a lousy gallon of goddam gas with in order to get to the fucking used record store in order to sell his stupid old esoteric CDs in order to get some money with which to buy some MORE goddam overpriced gas with in order to get to work the next day..... That's possible, too........)

At any rate, at that point all I could do was head for the "Electric Fetus" as fast as I could, sell my shit and get back to the gas station before they closed to set things right and not have my license plate listed with the "fuzz." (As I call them.)

As luck would have it, the good folks at the "Electric Fetus" paid me top dollar for my obscure bizarro music, and I walked out of there with over $30. Bought some gas, bought some smokes, even bought myself one of those awesome Mom's egg salad sandwiches from the cooler to kill the hunger pangs.

Life was good.

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)

That Actually Sorta Smells Good -- In A Weird Sorta Way.....

noreply@blogger.com (ungeziefer) — Sat, 24 May 2008 03:24:00 +0000

Whenever you hear (or think) these words, beware...

I was just heating up the Quesadilla maker (which my co-worker Kate generously gave us -- no doubt because she got tired of trying to clean the goddam thing), and after waiting for it to heat up I thought... "Hmmm... That actually sorta smells good -- in a weird sorta way... Sort of like those flat breads that you get at the State Fair........."

But when I went to insert the tortillas, I opened the thing up to find a crusted horrid mess of burnt cheese and former tortilla and egg (I think?) and beans and god-knows-what-else.

Not so much appetizing.

Nevertheless, I cleaned it, and shall now place tortillas upon its surface and eat the result. Whatever that may be........

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)

How to amuse someone into quitting smoking...

noreply@blogger.com (ungeziefer) — Sun, 18 May 2008 01:31:00 +0000

This isn't the first time my 12-year-old step-daughter Abbey has decided to quietly deposit my cigarettes in the trash receptacle. (I managed to dig them out -- at least the ones not covered with bits of coffee grounds and Cream of Wheat...) It is, however, the first time she has thrown them on the lawn and proceeded to smash them to bits with a badminton racket.

Later, I go to get a cigarette from the pack on the night stand, and imagine my surprise when in the box I find not sticks of tobacco, but rather this:

That's right: some delicious Cap'n Crunch cereal.

Any annoyance that I might normally have felt was instantly obliterated by helpless laughter.

I mean, did I light the bits of cereal on fire and try to inhale the fumes? Sure. But I had a bemused smile on my face as I did it -- and, well, that's a start...

The trick I've found to quitting is to just identify those times when you smoke the most. So all I really have to do is stop smoking while driving, for example. Or in the morning with my coffee. Or after eating. Or on breaks at work. Or when drinking. Or after a long day at work, or when streesed out, depressed, angry, or anxious. Or, when every cell in my brain and body is telling me I just really need a fucking cigarette...

Should be easy enough...

Especially after I found this perfect smoking replacement at the local gas station (didn't know they still made this stuff!) :

Yes!

Or, I could just switch to one of these brands :

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)

Cars & Cats: A List

noreply@blogger.com (ungeziefer) — Tue, 13 May 2008 02:25:00 +0000

So I bought a new -- which is to say, very old but different -- car today, and I'm super excited about it.

Why? Well, because it runs.

Which is pretty much all the guy said when I went to look at it: "All I can tell you is, it runs. I don't know how, but it just runs."

It's a 1991 Mazda MX6, with over 250,000 miles on it. It looks about as old as it is -- paint peeling and fading, several dents -- but runs like a fucking top. Your basic beater.

I was dead set on buying a moped -- and had my eye on one of these on CraigsList:

( My brother Shane had an awesome Vespa :

but some cracker stole it while he was out of town... )

Anyway, I guess pragmatism ( and Kari's vehement dissent ) got the better of me...

Anyway, got to thinking about all the cars we've owned, between my wife and myself, in the past decade or so. It's fairly ridiculous:

'73 VW bug (which I rolled and destroyed). Made me very sad. It was one of those souped-up Baja Beetles, with an absurdly loud exposed engine in the back and huge tires and roll bars and etc. Probably would be dead had I been driving a normal Beetle...

'86 (?) Dodge Colt -- worst car I've ever had. Bought it with around 60,000 miles on it, for a few grand; it was nothing but trouble and lasted barely a couple years. POS. After paying once to retrieve it after it was towed, the second time it got towed (because after doing a 180-spin on an icy hill and ending up parked in a snow bank facing the wrong direction, I couldn't get it out nor could I get it started in any case), I just said fuck it and let the city keep it. Good riddance. The jumper cables and text books in the back seat were probably worth more than the car, at that point.

A '79 Datsun station wagon -- this car RULED. 4-speed stick shift, rusty as hell, seats shredded and covered with duct tape, smelled like oil, and when driving at highway speeds for great lengths of time you had to turn the heater on full-blast to keep the car from over-heating. But I loved it. (Also I remember it had only a sliver of wiper blade on the driver's side -- so it made this hideous maddening screech whenever the wipers were going.) Made at least 3 trips, as I recall, from Minot, N.D., to Minneapolis and back one summer to look for apartments, and never broke down. Eventually the clutch finally went out. (And, yes: we did push-start and drive the little bugger many times before finaly parking it and then giving it away for free. [I was actually really pissed off that no one wanted it -- and almost, out of sheer spite -- put a new clutch in it so I could just keep driving it... It was a GREAT FUCKING CAR, just needed a clutch...])

A '76 Volvo wagon that I bought at the Salvation Army (yes, I'm not kidding) in Minot. Love Volvos, but this car gave new definition to the term "lemon." What I remember most about it was that I kept having issues with the fuel system -- replaced the fuel pump twice (the second time left the car stranded on the side of the road about an hour from town, after stalling on a trip to some cabin for a theater party). Mechanic figured out that there was some sort of lining in the gas tank which was peeling off and clogging the fuel pump -- so they had to take the tank off, clean it all out, etc. Even after this the pungent gasoline smell permeating the car did not go away -- this got worse the fuller the tank was. Oh, yeah: and the gas gauge didn't work. This meant: you had to constantly guess at how much gas you had left (the smell was somewhat helpful in judging), and then fill the tank JUST A LITTLE BIT -- never over half a tank, or you'd risk passing out from the fumes while driving and veer into oncoming traffic -- but enough to keep you going for a while before the next refill.... Yeah, that was fun...

When I first met Kari she drove an old Nissan -- which was a great car, except that the passenger door would not stay shut, so she had to tie it shut with string wrapped around the door frame and tied to the seat belt or some goddam thing.

Perhaps because she had a child, and this car did not seem the optimal choice of transportation in this situation, she bought a sweet old Jeep Grand Wagoneer -- the brown kind with the wooden panels on the side. V8, 4-wheel drive, the whole 9 yards. A lot of fun to drive in the winter in N.D./Minnesota. Eventually had to sell it because it got approximately 8 gallons per mile. (This reminds me of our nightmarish move to the cities. Perhaps that will be my next post........)

After selling the Datsun and the Volvo, I bought the best car I have ever owned: a '93 Subaru Legacy wagon. Had over 150,000 miles on it when I bought it, I paid $1,500 for it, and ran it with NO problems until it had over 250,000 miles. Finally, the brakes gave out (had I been better at maintenance, this probably would have been avoided, but alas) -- the cost of replacing calipers, rotors, etc. on all four wheels was at least $800. So I decided to sell it for $400. But that thing ran like a brand new fucking car. I almost wish I'd just fixed the brakes and kept driving it....

Bought an old ('89?) Hyundai something-or-other. Hatchback, 4-speed stick. Nifty little car. A bit loud. Can't remember what happened with that, but I do remember learning that Hyndai's weren't exactly as good back when they were first built as they are today...

An '86 Toyota Tercel. Reliable little car, though it had trouble with things like acceleration (e.g. merging onto the freeway...) and traveling over 65 mph... Ran it till it pretty much died.

An '86 Audi -- 4-cylinder 5-speed manual, miles unknown (odomoter didn't work, but I think it read around 200,000). Bought it for $500, just needed a new exhaust system, ran it without any trouble. Ended up selling it, for some reason, to our friend Paul... Who proceeded to abandon it in a goddam field, for some reason. (Paul, WTF??) Good car, well worth it.

An '89 (??) Volkswagen Jetta. Solid car. Great boxy little thing with some character. Bought it for $450 and finally sold it when we were so behind on our mortgage payments that we were considering selling our internal organs...

**UPDATED: forgot about ye ol' Mazda MPV mini-van (and yes, Kari, it's a mini van. Just because the back door opened like a regular door instead of sliding open doesn't make it a station wagon : ) ) Gotta insert that here -- cause I do remember that was right before we bought our first non-ancient vehicle. (MPV was great, by the way, but used a bit o' gas, and the breaks, I think, or the front axel was dying so we sold it.)

A 2000 (?) Kia Rio. (Great cars. Unfortunately they don't have much resale value, for some reason, though...)

A 90-something Mazda Protege -- actually, THIS is the worst fucking POS car I've ever had. Drove it for less than one day before it started on fire -- on our way out of town, miles from home. Took it in to Firestone to have them look at what was wrong with it, and they basically said, "Yeah, someone went to great lengths to hide a whole lot of shit that's seriously wrong with this car. I wouldn't even try to fix it -- it's going to cost you about $3,500 just to do all the diagnostics on this thing..." And so, to the crooked fucker who sold me that car: I hope you get mugged, beaten senseless and then urinated upon. And then beaten some more.

Finally we broke down (so to speak) and bought a newish, fully-functional and reliable car: a 2003 Hyandai Elantra. Pretty much the perfect car (o.k, except it's not a hybrid). No problems yet.

And now: the ancient Mazda. We shall see........

Believe it or not, this list now actually seems rather short to me. It just seems like we've had SO many bloody cars....

This is what I'd really like to drive again:

But, well, I don't feel like driving to Montana.

"So, what's with the 'Cats' part of the title of this post?" you may be asking (assuming you're still reading this, which is very, very unlikely indeed)...

Well, that's another area where it feels like, Holy Mother of Fuck, how many of these have we HAD??!!!

Here's a list:

Moved to Minneapolis with three: Keeshawn, Tinkerbell, and ... shit, I can't even remember the third one right now...

Little Brother. I remember coming home one day, and there was Kari, sitting on the couch with a tiny little baby orange and white kitten cuddled next to her. What could I do? (He is, though, pretty much the perfect cat.)

Lickey (So named because, well, she liked to lick people. She would simply lick your hand, and never stop.)

Smokey. Ah, Smokey. Kari and Abbey went to the pound to look at the cats, and saw this poor sad looking guy, fat and old and completely shaved (clearly he'd had mats all over his fur, which could not be combed out), shy and timid but loving... We had to have him. But, the other cats ended up trapping and terrorizing him........

Grey Pie. (Yes, you read that right: "Grey Pie." Because, as Abbey quite logically explained, "Because he's grey! And I like pie!"

Crooshanks... O.K., there's sort of a story here... My friend Mary came to visit from Montana, and along the way (somewhere around St. Cloud) at a gas station saw this poor cat hanging around -- super friendly and sad-looking, tail and ears frozen off, hungry... She asked the people at the gas station if they knew whose cat it was, they said, "Nah, just a stray, probly." And of course she couldn't just leave him there, so, she took him with her. And left him with us. Which is fine -- he really was quite possibly the nicest cat I have ever met. However: in addition to his putrid smell, he was not fixed... He proceeded to impregnate all of our (3) female cats. We found out later just how quickly he had "gotten down to business" : all three cats gave birth in one weekend. That's right: we had three litters of kittens in one weekend. What was amazing about it was that rather than being territorial or protective of their young, all three mothers conglomerated into one basket and joined together as one big group family -- sharing the nursing, etc. We had no idea, after that, whose kittens were whose. (All these cats were basically black and white, so...) So, in short, our cats turned into fucking goddam pinko commies.
One kitten was named (by Abagail) : Blackberry. He was pure black (obviously), scrawny and sickly, and we tried to bottle-feed him and keep him healthy, but he died, and we buried him in the backyard. (I remember that well, because Abbey wanted us to "say something," like for a funeral, but I had nothing to say... But I knew she felt really sad, so I tried, but it was difficult for me...)

Was "Zebra" one of those kittens? I think so...

And then there was "Chewbacca," who we kept also -- and who freakishly makes a wookie noise -- I kid you not -- when he speaks. But we had never heard this when he was named. Some predestination, apparently...

We had another batch of kittens -- just before FINALLY getting Chewbacca fixed -- and they were absolutely the cutest, cuddleyest, sweetest kitten I've ever seen. One of them -- horrific story -- got his tail chopped off in the paper shredder. He was playing with the shredded paper in the basket, and somehow managed to step on the "shred" button and turn the thing on, just as his tail happened to be near the slot... That is one of the more horrific experiences I can recall -- the sheer sound of his screams, and his desperate flailing about, and my own yelling in horror, and trying to hold him still while trying to turn the thing off, and then reverse it so that his little tail would come back out, and him feeling as though I was the one hurting him, and scratching the living shit out of my hand, blood all over it.... Yeah, that was no fun. And then afterward, seeing the end stub of his tail cut off and stuck there underneath, in the blades of the shredder.... *shudders* But you will be happy to know that he went on to live a perfectly normal and happy life, and was as cute as every -- in fact the cutest kitten of the bunch -- long-haired and fluffy, just like his dad.

Anyway... So we managed to give away the kittens to friends of ours, and -- oh, yes: WANDA! Forgot about her. There was a nice lady cat named Wanda, who sort of became antisocial and we ended up giving her away.

Our cats at present:

Little Brother (not so much little any longer)

Chewbacca (yes, he has stayed with us -- and he and I, as Abbey says, "share a love"...)

Zebra (Abbey's favorite -- lets Abbey pretty much do whatever she wants, and hold her in all sorts of contorted positions without complaining or trying to flee...)

Mabel -- the one kitten we kept from the last batch, after -- Oh! Shit, I forgot a kitten. "Popa Di Milo III" -- the perfect little all-grey kitten, who we loved and had planned on keeping -- and had desperately bottle-fed, to no avail... died also. But: Mabel is the one kitten we did end up keeping from that batch -- not all grey, but grey and white (the others were all black), and (at the time) the sweetest of them all. Calm and sedate and loved human contact. Now... well, she's kind of insane, and appears to despise me at times... Ah well.

Binjigate (or, "Binnie," as we call her) Abbey named her after the last name of our good friends Dillon and Emily Binjigate (sp.), and she is a bit aloof, will only be held for approximately 22 seconds, but is quite nice. Cat #5...

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)

OSKAR!!!

noreply@blogger.com (ungeziefer) — Wed, 30 Apr 2008 17:40:00 +0000

Well, the wee Oskar Bram Hansen has emerged :

[ slideshow ]

[ turn your sound on, if possible -- i fortuitously heard this great song on NPR Saturday night ( "Olha Maria" by Gene Bertoncini ), while sitting in the car in the hospital parking lot and eating my rather grotesque Arby's chicken sandwich, and made a note to find it and use it for this here slideshow. ]

No webbed feet (sadly). And unfortunately not a deity, either.

But pretty damn cute, nonetheless. I would say a "good egg." ( And my recurring dreams of having a baby Stewie thankfully proved not to be prophetic. )

Although perhaps that remains to be seen.......

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)

ONN: Anonymous Philanthropist Donates 200 Human Kidneys To Hospital

noreply@blogger.com (ungeziefer) — Sat, 26 Apr 2008 22:23:00 +0000

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)

HAND THING

noreply@blogger.com (ungeziefer) — Sat, 26 Apr 2008 21:52:00 +0000

[ thanks to c. george for the link to this insanity. ]

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)

Dream: Shape Shifters Have Taken Over The World

noreply@blogger.com (ungeziefer) — Sat, 26 Apr 2008 14:17:00 +0000

Everyone in the world is dead except for us -- a small group of people hiding in one little town. The world is filled with these shape-shifters. They have found us and surrounded the giant house that we're in. They sometimes look just like regular people, other times like animals, other times they are surreal beings with horrific demon faces...

There's some kind of key inside this box that they want, also, but apparently they can't open it -- they have to trick us into opening it for them. We're on this balcony on the second floor, and notice some bowls of food, like taco salad or something, setting on the ledge. Someone I'm with excitedly goes to eat some but I stop him because I notice these thin barely-visible strings coming down from above and attached to the bowls -- it's like some pulley system, so if someone lifts up the bowl the string will lift open the box down below... Also some birds keep coming down to eat the taco salad, and we have to chase them away...

For a long time we're fighting the shape-shifters off, keeping them out, etc. -- and we think we're going to make it.

Then the reinforcements show up -- countless numbers of them, thousands, surrounding the place completely. Helicopters, etc. I and some little midget guy find a hidden tunnel under one side of the house, and we crawl down in there -- it's just a huge cellar, dirt floor, stone walls. We hide in there and peek out at the carnage.

Then we hear a noise and go into the next room -- it's a kind of cell. It's open (there is no door), but a creature is in there chained to the floor. We're not sure if it is a human or a shape-shifter, so we leave him there.

That's all I can remember.

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)

Dream: The Underwater World Inside The Pop Machine

noreply@blogger.com (ungeziefer) — Wed, 19 Mar 2008 14:22:00 +0000

High school again. Buying something at the pop machine. Jenny Sellers is next to me, and she invites me somewhere, but just where exactly is unclear.

Somehow we go into the slot in the machine (where you get your soda from) and into this other world -- an ocean. We're not swimming, exactly, but floating under water. Carried away without effort by the underwater current.

Tony Miller is also there, under the water.

We are all naked, and I keep kissing Jenny's legs and thighs.

At some point I'm back in the school -- the last day of senior year. But I've already graduated from college, and had to come back for some reason.

Apparently there's one class that I hated or found boring, and stopped going to. Now I find out that if I don't do such and such -- finish this certain paper and that certain project and write this or that -- I will fail EVERY class and will not graduate.

I am talking angrily with the secretary at the desk at the entrance to the school -- yelling at her: "I've already taken 200 credits in college and got straight A's, and you're going to flunk me for THIS?"

But for some reason it matters -- it's like I'm in some sore of rehabilitation program, and if I don't pass, don't graduate, I'm fucked.

I growl at her through clenched teeth, "If you do not pass me, I will fucking KILL YOU."

I'm incredibly pissed off, but also very anxious -- I have to pass this one stupid fucking class, or I don't graduate.

Somehow I have gone home, crammed in a bunch of paper writing, etc., and am back at school -- turning it in JUST before the school year is out and the bitch secretary has gone home for the summer. (I have no idea whether or not she'll get it, see it, read it, and pass it on to the teacher, etc., in time to change my grade before the final grades have been issued.....)

Now stuck in the street -- no ride, nowhere to go. Somebody is burning meat -- but not burning, exactly: they have this special formula, some kind of translucent clear crystalline gel that they have been soaking this meat in, so that it will cure or something...

I'm not sure who it is, but he says: "This takes out all the rot, all the death. Try it!"

And he offer me some meat. But when I stick my hand in, this translucent stuff sticks to my hand and burns me, searing off my skin.

I am walking through the streets -- angry enough to kill someone -- with huge gaping infected open wounds on my hands and face. I need to get home, but don't want to call home until I know for sure about whether I graduated or not.... If all else fails, I will stay at Eric's house, if he still lives here...

I am back at the school again. In the art room (which did not exist), and all the students have made the most disturbing and incredible images I have ever seen in my life -- I can't stop looking at them, even though they make me literally afraid and a little bit sick...

I'm in the weight room, trying to lift weights -- but can't because every time I move blood starts squirting out of my wounds -- not only messy but also excruciating.

Art room again (waiting for the secretary to return). Karen Healy has drawn all over everyone's art -- stupid juvenile stuff, mustaches and eyebrows on every face, and sloppy words in speech bubbles. It's childish graffiti, destroying every piece.

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

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)

Dream: basketball game cancelled due to virus/quarantine

noreply@blogger.com (ungeziefer) — Sun, 16 Mar 2008 03:10:00 +0000

High school, getting ready to take a bus trip for a basketball game -- but I can't find my uniform anywhere, or my shoes. I look everywhere, but my room is full of art and garbage, and the more I dig the messier it becomes. I literally can't walk without tripping or climbing over stuff. I think, "I'm not gonna get to play anyway. Fuck it, I'm not going."

In the locker room everyone is about to leave. Someone finds a uniform for me, and I find an old pair of shoes that should work -- they're not basketball shoes, but actually much more comfortable. Coach Lavachek tells me I can't wear these shoes, cause they're not the right color. "What are you talking about?" I say. He holds up an example of the correct shoe: it's exactly the same, except for a white stripe on mine. I point this out, but he's adamant.

They leave on the bus.

At some point I guess I find what I'm looking for -- or else I'm just going as spectator -- because I'm in the car with my parents, on the way to Des Lacs for the game.

When we get there, it's impossible to navigate because there are no roads in the town -- every square foot between houses is covered with lawn, or gardens, flowers, or fences, or piles of rubbish. We're in a truck or bus now, and I'm driving. We're precariously inching our way along this really narrow concrete ledge, trying not to tip over the side. Somehow make it through...

We're driving faster now when suddenly I notice there's some little kids (toddlers) playing right in front of me. I am able to slow down before running them over. I see my aunt Caroline off to the side, paying little attention -- apparently these are her kids, or anyway she's watching them. This bus has no windshield, so I lean out and look down, shake my fist at them and at Caroline and yell jokingly, laughing, "Get the hell out of the way, you bastards! get off my lawn!" (I am not worried now that I see Carolyn, since she will have plenty of time to grab the little ones and move them out of the way.) She looks up at us, recognizes us but doesn't do anything. I am still moving, and the kids haven't moved, so now I'm sure I'm going to run them over and cannot stop in time. Now I'm enraged and terrified, yelling at her. ........ I can't remember if I run them over or not.....

We park somewhere and get out. This nice, somewhat old lady is tending her garden, raking leaves or something, and she smiles at us and says, "What are you doing here?" "We're here for the basketball game," we tell her. "Oh, goodness, no. Oh, that was cancelled, wasn't it?" "Not that I know of." "Well, it should have been. You'd better leave. I'd get out of here as soon as you can." Crazy old lady? She goes on, "It's not safe, haven't you heard? There's a virus going around, it's contaminated the whole town." O.K., she's standing outside... Crazy lady, clearly.

But then it occurs to us that the town appears empty -- she's the only person in sight...

A car drives by, spraying huge jets of water from each side -- sort of like irrigating or spraying weeds, or spraying for mosquitos. I think it's water, and since I'm hot and thirsty, I let it wash over my head and face, and open my mouth wide to drink some of it.

My dad suddenly, without a word, turns around and starts running back the way we came, toward the car. (I have never seen my dad run like this.)

Apparently there is indeed some horrible chemical contaminant engulfing the town -- and I'm not sure if this spraying car was responsible for spreading it or trying to control it, but in either case clearly I should not have drunk this stuff or gotten it all over my face....

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)

Dream: Grandma crashes pickup, chased by bear, man comes back to life

noreply@blogger.com (ungeziefer) — Fri, 07 Mar 2008 18:21:00 +0000

Dream: 3/7/08

On the farm. Parents are gone for some reason. We have to do some work, though. Grandma Eva is driving the ancient International pickup — Kari and I next to her. At 96 years old she has never gotten a driver’s license or learned to drive — and this is evident. She swerves all over the gravel road — even more so because the steering on this old rusted pickup is so loose that you have to turn the wheel about ¼ turn in either direction before anything actually happens. But when I look at her, she is not nervous in the least. In fact she’s smiling and having a great time. I am sure we’re going to go into the ditch. I tell Kari to tell her not to drive on the edge of the road, where the huge lumps of sod are from the maintainer — but too late, she’s already over there…

We go into the ditch. Grandma keeps driving as though nothing happened. Over and around little lakes, huge mounds of earth, pieces of concrete drainage pipes. Bouncing up and down like crazy…

This ditch is much deeper than I thought, too. I look over to the left side (next to the road), and notice there are some deep caves dug into the side of the ditch. In one of them I see a bear – or think I see one… “I hope that bear doesn’t come out after us,” I think to myself…

At some point the inevitable happens: grandma plows into something and rolls the pickup over.

We get out and try to push the pickup back up onto its wheels – lifting the back end. As we’re doing this, I see/hear the bear coming behind us. We manage to get the truck flipped over, get back in and drive – the bear now chasing us…

Then we’re on the farm again, working on the pickup, I think, by the garage. I’m in the big pen next to the barn, feeding or doing something… There’s no cattle in there except for one giant bull — and he sees me and decides he doesn’t like me in there, charges as I run and jump the fence. But he breaks right through it — the biggest bull I’ve ever seen — and now HE’S chasing us… With the dog I manage to get him back in the pen. I find a plank to fix the fence with — there are a bunch of them pre-cut the perfect length, and I realize this must happen frequently. But while I’m trying to fix the fence, the stupid bull gets out again…….

At some point we find an old man lying in a field, near death… He dies in front of us. We put him in the garbage can in the back of the truck, close the lid, and take him into town.

When we get there and take him out of the can, he still looks dead — but I notice his stomach moving slightly. He’s still alive. He opens his eyes, looks at us. It really is as though he was dead and came back to life — he is so happy to discover that he’s not dead, he jumps to his feet – now seeming years younger.

……….

Later on, dad is home, and he asks what I’ve been doing all day. I start to tell him the whole story, about grandma driving, crashing, the bear, the dead guy, etc. Then it occurs to me: wait a second, grandma can’t drive… And I realize that it was a dream (in the dream). But then what DID I do all day? I can’t for the life of me think of what I actually did while they were gone, so I don’t know what to tell him…

...

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)

Dream: MSU transport

noreply@blogger.com (ungeziefer) — Wed, 05 Mar 2008 16:22:00 +0000

Dream: 3/5/08

I’m back at Minot State University, but the school seems larger and more complicated to get around in. They have a new system of transportation for the students – little cars on a track that goes around the dome, somewhat like a rollercoaster. But it is very inefficient – moves fast but always drops you very far away from where you need to go, so you end up having to walk just as far anyway. I have just realized that everyone is taking these cars, and I have never done so, so I decide to try it finally.

At some point I am taking this transport system after basketball practice to the showers – which are completely co-ed, naked girls everywhere. I am stunned. For the most part it’s divided – there is one area where all the girls tend to shower and another where all the boys shower – but this is strictly a social phenomenon, not a rule, and occasionally people of both sexes shower next to each other. And, in either case, the girls have to walk by us to get to their lockers and to leave… It is awkward and exhilarating at the same time, and I’m not sure how I feel about it… But I the dream I have a massive penis, so I sort of don’t care if they see me naked.

At some point I’m in one of these little cars trying to get to the library, but there’s all sorts of junk blocking the way – it’s like a greasy repair shop, and the guy doesn’t give a shit that I can’t get through so I have to get out and move a bunch of massive engine parts and crates and buckets of parts.

At the library, finally – I’m trying to get a phone message from my sister, but they won’t let me because I’m not her and it was sent to her phone (for some reason she can’t check her messages so I’m trying to get it so I can tell her what it says). Security is very tight and everyone is suspicious – you can’t get from room to room without a pass card and someone checking you over…

In the library there are a bunch of books of mine – inked prints and weird collages and random art combined with poetry that seems to simply combine words together at random. They are all over the place, and I can’t understand why – although I rather like them (and had forgotten all about them), it doesn’t make sense that anyone else would… Then I overhear two people (foreign exchange students from some Asian country) reading and discussing one of my poems with fascinated reverence – studying and trying to interpret them.

Another part of the dream I think I’m in Glenburn (high school). There’s some sort of national emergency, and we have all gathered in the football field to listen to someone speak. I’m trying to climb the bleachers to the very back/top – extremely high up – but it’s packed and I can’t get past anyone. Several times I almost fall off, and have to grab onto anything I can to keep my balance. At the top now, I am climbing some sort of ladder – on which I remain, just holding on there so I can see and listen and not be cramped or pushed over.

I have no idea what is said. But at some point I am climbing higher, and at the top of this ladder there is another smaller sort of ladder with a strange intricate design – slats of wood interwoven into a pattern – and as I grab it this flimsy wooden ladder breaks under my weight and collapses. Somehow I manage not to fall.

Some men grab this small oddly designed ladder and all it’s pieces and me – and I am quickly but clandestinely dragged off. Apparently this “ladder” was in fact some sort of antenna, that was monitoring signals and had great national security import. (I complain about its flimsy and fragile design – and that begin made out of wood like a ladder someone was bound to climb on it – but it does no good. They are furious.) I must build a new antenna – in shop class – but of course have no idea what the hell I am doing. So I just try to imitate the design of the old one. Travis Anderson and some other people are helping me… I think we make the metal antenna and then conceal it inside of wood. Measurements have to be extremely precise – within a fraction of a millimeter – and I keep tell Travis there’s no fucking way it’s going to do anything, cause if we’re off by even a millimeter it won’t work. But he seems confident…

Another part of the dream I and some others were re-shingling the roof of the garage on the farm – and there was something really strange and mysterious about it but I cannot for the life of me remember what it was… So never mind.

THE END

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)

That's right, folks: it's a pet liver.

noreply@blogger.com (ungeziefer) — Tue, 04 Mar 2008 02:48:00 +0000

Isn't it cute?

He or she needs a loving home. So adopt him or her, you heartless so-and-so.

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)

Mac Mini - Victorian typewriter mod

noreply@blogger.com (ungeziefer) — Tue, 04 Mar 2008 01:13:00 +0000

Only one word for this: Superb. Very superb indeed.

Thanks to c. george for the link.

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)

itfountain ford (SPAM)

noreply@blogger.com (ungeziefer) — Tue, 04 Mar 2008 00:58:00 +0000

Even on that warm September morning....

And then went on. There was a rope hanging from of the steep
sloping ground above the river. She be known that i owe
something to you over this de belgique, 1887). He distinguished
five ossiferous just come through the window and was standing
same general hue, gave me the idea that they, just liked
to have someone a bit ' different,' a large kettle hung
from a chain over itfountain ford, and quietly took the
press and types and he has killed her. The disappearance
of the clothes, that gentleman's favourite haunts, mostly
bars, sudna hae keepit me waitin',' says she. The lad to
commit suicide, usually wish to reveal the hated her father
and is glad that he is dead, even on that warm september
morning it was damp.

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)

Dream: Soldertooth

noreply@blogger.com (ungeziefer) — Wed, 27 Feb 2008 13:38:00 +0000

While I am asleep, my brother Shane decides to try something out on my teeth. There is a skull with fangs on the floor, and he removes the two big fangs and tries to attach them onto my teeth with super glue. Now he is using some kind of heat gun to harden the glue (similar to a dentist casting a filling).

I start to wake up. The heat gun clicks every so often (he clicks it to send a surge of heat into the metal to keep a certain temperature), and with each click he seems to be putting another drop of glue onto the tooth, also.

Now it starts to feel really hot -- especially since I have cavities in most of my teeth -- and I realize he is now just using a soldering iron to solder the fangs on.

I am fully awake now -- freaked out, but still trusting that he knows what he's doing... I help by holding my mouth open as wide as possible (again, just like at the dentist).

When he's done, my mouth feels very strange -- the amount of glue he used was more than excessive. I look in the mirror and realize these fangs are massive, and would have worked better as horns than as fangs. He managed to get them to stick, but they look ridiculous and are sticking upward. He agrees that this experiment has failed.

Apparently it is Halloween soon, and he was just trying to help me get a better, more authentic costume.

He uses the heat gun yet again to melt the glue/solder and remove the fangs -- which takes a long time...

I am relieved to have the fangs out, but now my tooth feels really strange -- and when I look in the mirror I see that most of the tooth is simply gone -- between pieces being burned or shaved off or having stuck to the glue and chipped off, there is basically a sliver left, with some silver solder around the edge by the gums.

I complain, but Shane points out that while he was working in there, he used the solder to fill one of my cavities for me -- so actually he did me a favor, free of charge. I accept this, and thank him for the free dentistry.

END

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)

"small sins are solution" (SPAM)

noreply@blogger.com (ungeziefer) — Sat, 16 Feb 2008 01:44:00 +0000

God dag,

Out and over the glassy surface. Then they felt hanging in
this hole is he that hath adopted asceticism came, 'slay,
rush, wait, see, see!' of those brave back to say something
to the boy, and then they platform, not a doubledfaced oneone
face to the error, and in consequence of which one knows
not and coarse like a horse's mane. Her greenstained bhishma
continued, 'hearing these words of the purpose, that son
of mine, pradyumna, of great to say that, under her patronage,
small sins are solution as simple as that of columbus's
eggriddle. There was much chattering and scraping of feet
show himself in utiky with impunerty by a darn in singing,
and which is fit for the residence two officers saw something
more of the effect.)

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)

The Queen of Understood (SPAM)

noreply@blogger.com (ungeziefer) — Sun, 10 Feb 2008 19:19:00 +0000

"
He want me for! He's a man bolton, said the doctor, manner,
not a trace of it i wish there was, for you predate them,
you must never, neverah, qu'estce done.' 'what! Bring the
dead to life?' 'no but doors and windows were rambling,
though the frames from an old sailor standing by his boat,
'how the same frivolous gossip over blighted human we have
not, it is true, ascended the plateau, poirot. 'is it pierrot?'
'yes,' we all cried. Dear, only one thing could result i
see that. He often spoke of the sloppy dressing of dr. Mcganum
close to him and seized his arm. You promised, let me bear.
upon this banner let the queen of understood the question.
oh yes, mrs. Banks. All patriot! Yes, i heard you talking
to sam clark.
"

Don't know why, but I am endlessly amused by these.

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)

Dream: Guns

noreply@blogger.com (ungeziefer) — Fri, 08 Feb 2008 12:56:00 +0000

I'm in a strange town I've never seen before. It's vaguely like downtown Minneapolis, but not. I'm in a kind of bar/club, and discover there are all sorts of doorways and stairwells leading to various [hidden] sections of it -- so I explore. At some point I feel like I've been going down, down, down on one particular stair well for a very long time -- it twists and turns now and then, but I don't feel like I'm approaching anything... The building seems to become more decrepit, damp and cold the further down I go -- but now I start seeing some posters nailed to the concrete walls, a few objects strewn about -- old clothes, a chair on its side, a bunsen burner, a shoe, an electric heater... It seems that homeless people have squatted here, but it's now abandoned.

Now I can hear distant voices below -- clearly it's not abandoned at all. I feel I should not really be here -- someone lives down there. I don't feel like I'm in danger, just that I'm imposing. But I do not turn back. There is an assault rifle propped up against the wall. Now more guns, of various sizes and calibers, all along the walls of the staircase... Finally I reach the bottom of the stairwell, and it's very dark but I can hear a couple voices, and see a few figures in the distance (the basement is vast, and broken up into a variety of "rooms," though there are no doors, just concrete walls acting as dividers). I am getting some very dirty looks. More guns, and lots of drugs, and young men in tattered filthy clothing, all staring at me, wondering who I am and what the fuck I'm doing here... Now more and more people -- thugs and drug dealers, it seems -- start coming out of the woodwork...

I don't know what happens here, exactly, but somehow I am (or feel) threatened -- like they're going to kill me. Do they actually attack me? -- I'm not even sure. But I run out and back up the stairs, grabbing each and every gun along the walls as I go, until my hands are full, the weight is immense and almost more than I can carry and remain standing, let alone run. But I keep running, up and out and down the street -- people everywhere, and here I am with perhaps 15 guns, including a shotgun and two automatic assault rifles slung over my shoulder...

I don't know if I see anyone chasing me -- or if I even look back -- but I seem certain that they are after me, that they will catch me, and will certainly kill me.

I duck into a large building -- a restaurant, as it turns out. Fancy, upper class type. Run through it, trying not to run into people or draw attention to myself, but without slowing down either. It's connected to a huge mall, many levels and countless stores... I keep running -- up stairs, through shops, etc. I'm completely lost now -- but at least that means I might be hard to find, too...

Now I find myself in yet another stairwell -- down into a seedy bar. Graffiti on every wall. A foul smell. Inside, it's pretty subdued -- but there are maybe 5 or 6 shady looking fellows, massive biker types, all with beards, drinking. TV is on, muted, and no music is playing -- it's quiet and a bit eerie. Once again, guns everywhere. For whatever reason, I grab one of the assault rifles, cock it and point it at them. I steal as many of their guns as I can carry (how I can carry any more is mysterious), and leave again. No one tries to stop me.

I'm trying now to find my way out -- to just leave and get the hell out of there, to go home (wherever that is). But I keep going in circles. I'm climbing down drain pipes, scaling fences, going up escalators, everywhere, end up outside but in a kind of enclosed foyer -- a dead end -- and have to go back and search again for a fucking exit... I'm starting to feel very trapped, very conspicuous, and am starting to lose my mind with frustration and anxiety...

I go through a series of glass doors, back into the mall -- everyone is looking at me, including a couple of security guards up ahead.

Suddenly the drug dealers are right there behind me, entering through the glass doors, guns drawn and pointed at me. I run -- towards the security guards, who now also have their guns drawn, pointed first at me and then at the group of thugs behind me and then back at me, no idea what the fuck is going on.

I dash into the midst of a crowd to hide, throw all my guns down (so I can blend in and not look like a criminal, and in order to move faster), keeping only one small one in a leather case. I duck down behind something, prepared to take a stand if necessary. (The cops are in a gun fight with the thugs at this point -- maybe I'm safe.) I open the leather case, and it turns out not to be a gun at all -- not even a little pistol; it's a camera.

At this point bullets are flying everywhere, and people are screaming, staring, running, hiding... Many people, though, are taking photographs -- many of them seem to be reporters, others just shoppers who want pictures... I take off my ski mask (at some point I started having this on) and put on a hat (fedora type -- not sure where it came from) -- take off my white coat, and throw it aside. I stand up, start taking pictures, acting as natural as I can -- like a reporter. I even move in closer -- trying to get a better shot (or pretending that is my intention). The security guards see me, look suspicious, but they buy it and ignore me. I keep taking pictures, and try to move toward an exit to escape......

Don't know what happens next. Think that might have been the end of it.

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)

Primary results in the tri-state area...

noreply@blogger.com (ungeziefer) — Wed, 06 Feb 2008 03:52:00 +0000

This is what you might call an "Intermittant Blog"...

But -- tonight -- yea, it shall be a veritable blogging frenzy...

O.K. I'm from North Dakota, but now live in Minnesota (and have since 2001).

So, here are some "local" results as of a few minutes ago, as relates to "Super Tuesday" :

We trekked out to vote -- not realizing we would end up standing outside in sub-zero weather for close to half an hour... But, we stuck around to at least drop our Obama votes in, before ducking the hell out of that caucus madhouse and getting the fuck back home....

(Yeah, lots of places apparently had traffic jams, really long lines, and/or ran out of ballots.)

Not sure why anyone really likes Romney. And, for the record, I do NOT like Ron Paul. With the one exception of his stance on the Iraq war, he pretty much represents the exact opposite of my political ideology. Nevertheless... I do like to see a "subversive" candidate do well -- and am proud of the Ron Paul support in Montana. (But then I guess when you live in a compound, constantly thinking the "Feds" are coming to get you any day now, voting the Anarchist ticket is not really a stretch...) Dr. Paul did quite well in North Dakota and Minnesota as well.

Mainly I guess I'm just proud of my home state, North Dakota, for A. voting STRONGLY for Obama and B. for NOT voting for Hucklebee. (Ron Paul actually beat Huckabee, 21% to 19%.)

Still, though... Romney????? WTF??

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)

An 8-year old email: why?

noreply@blogger.com (ungeziefer) — Wed, 06 Feb 2008 02:25:00 +0000

A very good question, indeed.

No reason, really.

Perhaps because I can -- as I have officially accepted, now, the self-absorbed and pointless nature of this here blog. And thus it is more of a personal journal -- (which just happens to exist for anyone in the world to read, should they so desire).

While searching for something completely unrelated, I happened upon this old email ("Spotlight" is a strange and beautiful thing...).

So, without further ado: An 8-Year-Old Email To My Brother:

"

Date: Sun, 11 Apr 1999 19:09:47 -0700 (PDT)
From: "Dustin Hansen" <------------------> | Block Address | Add to Address Book
Subject: tuna-salad recipe declassified to the elite
To: "Shane A Hansen" < ------------------> >

High, they're, Coloradicalisticals. First[ly] (and perhaps
foremost[ly], though I'm not convinced), I wish (and am gratified to
have been granted the opportunity of fullfilling forthcoming wish
thanks to the glories of modern technology, without which I would be
forced to lick glue for greater than .8 seconds) to thank you with most
of my heart (the rest having been leased out to my pet gosling or
reserved for special occasions, such as birthdays, funerals, attacks,
aches, murmurs, or when snuck up upon from behind unwittingly) to thank
you muy mucho for the gift bestowed upon me recently in celebration of
my not having been aborted. It drew me into a lengthy consideration of
art invovling aesthetics and form vs. or following function--but after
a minute 48 seconds I resolved to suspend judgment and thereupon
snuffed out a butt in it. It seems fully operative. (Though it has
some trouble with the really high notes.) Welt, I am theoretically in
the middle of researching for a 12-page sociology paper that is due in
two days, so . . . Incidentally, the following are snippets of
pseudo-philosophical rabbit-hole-link-sites I ran across (or fell into)
while hypothetically researching, and thought you might get a kick in
the teeth or the pants out of one or both of them, so here you are.
(The site is worth checking out too, if you still have access to the
Net somewhere; just type in "virtualschool" on whatever search engine.)
So enjoy and back to work then you slovenly 'crassinater.

dustiny

Women, Fire, and Dangerous Things

What Categories Reveal about the Mind

by George Lakoff

The University of Chicago Press; (C) 1987.
Lakoff, George.
P37 .L344 1987
Psycholinguistics. Categorization (Psychology), Cognition.
Thought and thinking. Reason.
Chicago, IL : University of Chicago Press, c1987.
86-19136

Page 92

Borges attributes the following taxonomy of the animal kingdon to an
ancient Chinese encyclopedia entitled the Celestial
Emporium of Benevolent Knowledge.

On those remote pages it is written that animals are divided into

those that belong to the Emporer
embalmed ones
those that are trained
suckling pigs
mermaids
fabulous ones
stray dogs
those that are included in this classification
those that tremble as if they were mad
innumerable ones
those drawn with a very fine camel's hair brush
others
those that have just broken a flower vase
those that resemble flies from a distance
(Borges 1966 p 108).

Borges of course, deals with the fantastic. These not only are not
natural human cateogires -- they could not be natural
human categories. But part of what makes this passage art, rather than
mere fantasy, is that it comes close to the
impression a Western reader gets when reading descriptions of
nonwestern languages and cultures. The fact is that
people around the world categorize things in ways that both boggle the
Western mind and stump Western linguists and
antropologists.

An excellent example is the classification of things in the world that
occurs in traditional Dyirbal, an aboriginal language
of Australia. The classification is built into the language, as is
common in the world's languages. Whenever a Dyirbal
speaker uses a non in a sentence, the noun must be preceded by a
variant of one of four words: bayi, balan, balam, bala.
These words classify all objects in the Dyirbal universe, and to speak
Dyirbal correctly one must use the right classifier
before each noun. Here is a brief version of the Dyirbal classifcation
of objects in the universe, as described by R.M.W.
Dixon (1982):

Bayi: men, kangaroos, possums, bats, most snakes, most fishes,
some birds, most insects, the moon, storms,
rainbows, boomerangs, some spears, etc.
Balan: women, anything connected with water or fire, bandicoots,
dogs, platypus, echidna, some snakes, some
fishes, most birds, fireflies, scorpions, crickets, the stars,
shields, some spears, some trees, etc.
Balam: all edible fruit and the plants that bear them, tubers,
ferns, honey, cigarettes, wine, cake.
Bala: parts of the body, meat, bees, wind, yamsticks, some
spears, most trees, grass, mud, stones, noises,
language, etc.

It is a list that any Borges fan would take delight in.
"

And, well, there it is.

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)

Dream: Other Worlds, A Million Corpses

noreply@blogger.com (ungeziefer) — Sun, 03 Feb 2008 05:04:00 +0000

So I've been taking Chantix (a pill to help you quit smoking) for about 3 weeks now -- and, oddly enough, one of the side effects listed (along with "nausea, trouble sleeping, and gas and/or vomiting") is "vivid, unusual, or increased dreaming."

"Well," thought I, facetiously. "That will save me a great deal of money per month -- just less Acid I have to buy."

Turns out, they weren't kidding. (Though to what extent I can attribute this dream to Chantix, obviously I can't say for sure...)

At any rate, here is last night's dream:

1. I am being chased. (By whom, as usual, I am not sure.) We're in a kind of run-down inner city area. Many of the buildings are decrepit and/or outright condemned. I am with two others -- not sure who. We run. We hide inside a building -- which, turns out, is not really a building at all, just a facade -- one large brick wall, full of "windows" (holes, where windows ought to be), and nothing behind it. We hide behind this nevertheless. At least it's a hiding spot...

They (apparently) know where we are, so we're stuck. I run. I jump inside the back of a massive truck, parked inside a garage nearby. Safe.

Then, the truck starts up -- and before I can even register what's going on, we're moving.

Oh well -- at least I'm hidden, and surely they won't find me now.

We're on the freeway -- off to god knows where...

It is unclear whether I'm inside the back (cargo area) of the truck, or if I'm underneath the truck, close to the road and holding on for dear life...

The truck stops, finally, out in the middle of nowhere. It's a farm. We're in North Dakota. I know the people (in real life, and in the dream). Their dad (in real life, and in the dream) has recently died -- accidentally backed over by a huge truck.

They know me. Invite me in. I am polite; hug each of the four kids, who I went to school with, and say things like "Sorry about your dad." For the most part, they are made uncomfortable, and just want me to shut up and get away from them. But I can tell they appreciate it, all the same. It's just hard for them.

At some point, the truck is leaving again -- and I am not on it. I run out, trying to act casual while also running as fast as I can... If I don't make it, I'm fucked: I don't really know where I am, or where I am going or how to get there if I did know...... I can't exactly wave to the driver to stop, can I? I do wave. The truck driver sees me, and slows down -- seems to realize, suddenly, that I had been a stow-away on his vehicle. He takes off. I chase after him, but he's gone. I am left -- alone. No idea where I am, or where to go....

Somehow I find another truck, and I steal it. I am driving (extremely fast), and all is well now except that I am completely lost.

Gravel roads. Fields. Scarcely a tree. I don't even know what direction I'm headed in.

I'm afraid to ask for directions -- apparently because I am a sort of fugitive, and it will cause suspicion...

At some point here, this is where the dream shifts.....

I have now, without having realized it, entered into another world....

And someone else is with me, in the passenger seat of this massive truck.

We are driving through this military camp, in North Dakota -- but, the North Dakota in this other world, so it's not precisely the same...

It's some kind of massive yet secret military installation.

Planes and helicopters are flying overhead, dropping bombs -- just testing them, apparently, to make sure they will work. But the whole area is a bombed-out demolished wasteland. It's bizarre, because they're basically bombing themselves -- yet the destruction they cause doesn't bother them...

We are in a school bus now -- long, yellow, packed with kids. A field trip of some kind.

This military camp is bigger than I could have ever imagined. It is quite clear that this is Top Secret -- we're NOT supposed to be here, and if anyone sees us, we'll be shot on site. (How can North Dakota have kept this place a secret?? I am asking myself...)

Aside from the multiple humvees and parked bomber jets, etc., the camp is mostly a vast wasteland filled with haphazardly constructed buildings and tents. We are driving as fast as we can -- not being sneaky, now, just trying to get through there and get the hell out as fast as humanly possible without being seen or rolling the bus and crashing. We gouge through narrow alley ways, between sheds, we run over small huts, through huge canvas curtains used as walls of ramshackle outposts, .....

The bombs are dropping closer and closer and closer.... We can't figure out if they're just running typical training exercises, and we just happen to be in the way -- or if they have spotted us, and are bent on destroying us.....

We are driving so fast, over and through so many things, I feel like we are in an armored tank. But, no, just this school bus: we could tip over or roll at any moment.

One of the bombs hits close, and we are thrown over -- rolling, flipping -- everyone flying around, cracking skulls against the windows and screaming....

Yet, somehow, the bus flips over completely, back onto its wheels -- and we are driving again....

Now we're in an area that is more isolated -- quite. We see NO ONE. It's like a military ghost town. All these huge, elaborate (yet quickly built) structures everywhere, but no one in sight, and not a sound to be heard -- but for the (now very distant) gun shots and bombing practice runs........

The stillness is very unsettling.....

The area is even more rugged -- ditches, hills, crevices everywhere -- though whether this is the work of mother nature or of the military is unclear...

We are still driving over, between, and through buildings and tents -- just going wherever we can to get the fuck out of there as fast as possible....

Now we see a box in front of us -- we're going to run over it. Shit -- it's a wooden coffin....

We smash over it and continue on. Nothing to be done.

We scrape through a tight alley, between two black-painted buildings. Now we find ourselves inside the building, driving through the alley -- it's quiet and dark. On either side, we see row after row after row of narrow cells, more like cages. The doors extremely tall and glass, but the glass is all black -- we cannot see in... We decide these are where prisoners of war are kept -- and just as we cannot see in, they cannot see out.... They're designed specifically for isolation......

We wonder what has gone on in these cells/cages... Are there people locked in them still -- right this very moment? Are they screaming in agony against sound-proof walls?...

Everything looks so old, ancient even -- abandoned....

Now the school bus plows through a massively high black curtain, into the largest enclosed space I have ever encountered or even dreamed of.... It's like a quonset -- times 100. A huge, huge, as far as the eye can see, concrete floor enclosed by a tin shell....

We see rugs -- or grain -- or dirt, or old furniture -- what is all this garbage? Stacks upon stacks of stuff, rows between which people could walk. Thrown together yet organized, sort of like a recycling plant .....

It's like cloth, piles of junk, it reeks -- we all have to cover our noses and mouths, hold our breath....

Bones. Flesh. Some almost intact bodies. But corpses: we are driving over them, between the rows of them.... Everywhere we look, corpses.

Surely more than I could ever have imagined. The sheer volume of corpses makes the photos from Auschwitz look like incidental casualties of war -- nothing to be concerned about. This is layer upon layer upon layer, stack upon stack, of dead bodies -- dumped here -- at first, apparently, stacked neatly in piles and rows, well-organized, perhaps even labeled. But now, simply a city-sized garbage dump for corpses..... It looks as though they're being stored -- but, no, they are being hidden.

This is the part that is -- quite literally -- the most terrifying, disturbing, grotesque dream I have ever had in my life. We were all staring -- screaming -- then gaping again in silent horror. No one wants to say anything -- to point out what is going on, where we were, what we are driving over and between....

Most of the bodies are mangled, mutilated, in various stages of decomposition. It is obvious that many, if not most, were tortured before being executed -- or simply tortured to death.

We all keep thinking: how has this been kept secret for so long?..... And our own government has been doing this all this time........

The sheer scale and scope of what we have done is so overwhelming that we cannot even comprehend it. It is genocide on such a massive scale that it's almost surreal.

We drive through another enormous black curtain, and are now outside. The horror only become greater: more and more and more bodies, everywhere you look. More than inside the structure. It's as though they had been hiding them inside this super-stadium-sized building, but finally ran out of space -- and/or simply could not bear the smell -- so they started dumping the bodies outside.

It is just like a car lot -- the biggest you have ever seen -- except that the cars, and car parts, are not steel but flesh. Bodies and body parts, and blood and bone and fat and gristle, are everywhere. We crunch over them in our bus -- everyone now either throwing up, covering their faces with both hands, or simply staring awe-struck -- unable to look away. Shocked into catatonia....

We drive on....

We're almost out now -- but more planes and helicopters are up ahead -- dropping bombs and firing missiles, still practicing and testing (or so we hope)....

As soon as we are out of the military camp and onto a regular highway, the driver (not me, at this point) guns it -- the engine revs so high that I think it will explode, and I consider telling him to take it easy, so that we're not stranded....). We are driving probably 100 mph on a shitty gravel road, in the middle of nowhere, in an old school bus -- tipping side to side all the time...

Somehow we make it out.....

The dream starts to make more sense at this point......

Apparently we had transversed into another world entirely -- and now we were back.

It was like our world, and parallel to it, but slightly different. (In the dream I compare it in my mind to the film "Children Of Men" -- so completely alien and foreign, futuristic and dystopic, yet SO similar, eerily so, predictably and emotionally effecting....)

We are back now, safe (?) in our own world......

I am at a party now -- in a trailer park, in an unbelievably shitty neighborhood, where all anyone ever does is drink beer, smoke crack, and party. There are homeless blacks, white trash whites, drug-addicted hippies, and junkies of all stripes -- and then there are these "geniuses" who take any and all drugs that they can find, but calmly -- rationally, intentionally, with clear intent and foresight, deliberately..... These people walk around and preach, trying to educate the people there -- yet not condescendingly, or as though they are outsiders or don't belong; just, naturally; more like the preacher in a church, or a missionary......

At some point here I find myself, yet again, in another world completely -- and I am not only confused and pissed off, but having a nervous breakdown...

Like believable dreams, this world is too similar to be completely ridiculous (and thus I cannot dismiss it or laugh at it), and yet too strange for me to understand what's going on or to cope.....

I don't know how I got here....

There are people everywhere -- it's like a fair, or a carnival. Everyone else -- while looking intense and strange -- seems to know where they are, and what they're doing here. I am completely lost. I think I have lost my mind....

Now I discover that people take this trip between worlds intentionally -- and that it is not only desirable, but so desired that people go to great lengths to make the trip.....

The fellow I am with (Francis -- a black fellow) explains some things to me now, but I am still confused....

Apparently one of my friends decided to take a trip to this other world, and to take me along with him, without me knowing...

Now we are doing it again.

A group of us -- maybe 6 people -- sit cross-legged in a row or small semi-circle, as though for some kind of ritual. A thin rope, or string, is passed around.... At first it seems as though it is a meditation technique in which one inserts the string into his mouth, swallows it down into his entrails, through his digestive tract, and excretes it out of his anus -- but that is not the goal here.... Now, instead, I realize what's going on: the first person in the row wraps the string around one of his/her teeth, and then passes the string on to the next person, who proceeds to tie the string around one of his/her own teeth, passes the string on, and so forth.... The idea is, in order to achieve this state of transcendence, one must force their brain to enter a very intense mystical state, and the best way of doing this is to cause oneself extreme, excruciating agony -- even if (or especially if, it would seem) only for a moment.....

After all have wrapped the string around one of their teeth, we are ready. The instructor pulls the string: there are no screams, no grunts of pain, nothing -- except for me. (I have at least two very bad cavities in my teeth -- and have deliberately NOT tied this string around them, out of fear of the sheer agony that would ensue and the fear that the tooth would actually be easily pulled out; instead, I have loosely wrapped it around another, solid and painless tooth...) It hasn't worked right... A woman comes by to me, takes the string out of my mouth.. -- I fear she is going to wrap it around the toothache, of not simply jab at the cavity with her fingernail; but instead of the tooth, she wraps it around my left earlobe (I have very large and very sensitive ear lobes)... She pulls. The agony is more intense than anything I have every physically experienced.......

I black out -- without realizing it.

I have lost time. I cannot see. I don't know who I am, even. Or where. Or who I am with. ... But all of this happens in an instant....

And now we are all in another world completely.

(Apparently, this has to be a group effort -- everyone at once, or none at all.)

The scene now is one of a carnival or sorts -- everyone walking around, looking at odd things to buy, talking to each other, hitting on one another and looking for girlfriends/boyfriends, or just for sex, etc. -- but, mostly, searching for the next doorway -- how to go from here into the next world...... It was like a fair with rides, except that it was a confusing labyrinth in which no one knew quite where they were or where they were going or where they would end up, and in which each ride actually lead to another universe.......... Apparently, you couldn't predict, when doing this traveling, where you would end up; and once you were there, you couldn't be sure how to get back, or even how to get to another world... Some doorways only existed in one world, so you had to go through several others in order to find the doorway into the one you wanted to get to.....

It's all pretty hazy after this. I remember there were some sex shows, some prostitution (we paid with these gold coins -- which were apparently from one of the worlds we had visited previously, and while they were laughed at as worthless in some worlds, here they were considered extremely valuable)...

There was a little shop selling trinkets -- one of them was a large rubber centipede of sorts, which moved and felt like a real centipede on the skin. I was showing it to Abbey and trying to get her to buy it, but she was not interested (since I had suggested it -- if she had discovered it on her own, she would have bought one and excitedly shown it to everyone around).

My parents are there at some point -- and we're all trying to find our way out, to go home and sleep. Somehow we find this doorway -- seemingly just by chance. It's two glass doors -- as you might see at any mall. We can see that beyond them, outside, is our regular old world. Shane is there also (my brother) -- and for some reason we are waiting for him, and for my sister; we all want to go through at once.

Dad is buying some goddamned souvenir -- a large pillow, with the name of this carnival place embroidered on it. He finally shows up to where we are waiting, and we all go through the glass doors (though there are attractive scantily clad women, and voices on speaker, trying to tempt us to stay...).

In the car, it is unclear whether this has really happened, or if it was a dream or what... But we ALL were there, so it could not have been a dream or hallucination... Dad cites the pillow as proof -- and gets it out. Only it no longer has the embroidery on it -- it's just a pillow.

We sort of vow to simply never mention any of this again -- but we all silently look at each other in knowing agreement that it really happened.

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)

Onion News Network: Is the Government Spying on Paranoid Schizophrenics Enough?

noreply@blogger.com (ungeziefer) — Tue, 01 Jan 2008 18:58:00 +0000

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn't I.)