Zapp: "Whatever it is, I'll place wave after wave of men at your disposal. Right, men?"

(pause)

Anonymous Crewman: "You suck!"

Here's the skinny: I'm a loser. There's no way around it. I live with my parents and have not had a job for a month. My mom knows it. My dad knows it. My brother knows it. (I don't think my sister cares one way or the other, it isn't her field of interest.) But I'm cool, because I won't always be a loser. All I need is a plan, and not even a good one. My mantra, that one phrase by which I sustain myself, is from Alfred Bester's The Stars My Destination, "He was one hundred and seventy days dying and not yet dead."

Apparently, Friday was religious weirdo day here in the GB. Both the Jehovah's Witnesses and the Mormons came by the house, trying to sell salvation. I'm Roman Catholic, kids, I've got all the religious weirdness I can handle, thanks. I feel bad for the Mormons, though, because for the two years of a Mormon's mission, he is not allowed to use his first name; he is referred to as Elder. For instance, Daddy Dylweed was Elder Haney. I, were I to join that odd little cult, would be Elder Wilson. Hey, jackasses, a person's first name was archaically called their Christian name. How does it serve Christ to take away a boy's Christian name for two years? Still, one of the Jehovah's Witnesses was a really hot blonde girl. I hate hot religious girls, because you can look all you want, but you can't touch unless you marry one, and that's way too high a price to pay. Don't be drawn in by her hotness, it's a trick!

I hung out with the Mountain last night. By Jove, I miss that little punk!

"Hey, Bender, where's your bathroom?"
"My bath what?"
"Your bathroom."
"My what room?
"Your bathroom."
"My what what?"

I love the fact that robots need to drink constantly in order to be sober. It never gets old.

Family history can be cool. As proof, I cite the inscription on a trophy found among my late Grandma Wilson's things:

The Simla Open Tennis Tournament
1913 Men's Doubles
1st PRIZE
Presented By
RAJA SIR HARNAM SINGH K.C.I.E.
Won By
E.R. Gray
G.M. Coates

Dr. Ernest R. Gray, a dentist, was my great-grandfather, Great Granny Gray's husband. He died long before I was born. Great Granny Gray was my closest foreign-born relative, hailing from England. Ernest Gray was an American, but lived for many years in Imperial India, where he met, courted, and married Maude Pudaphott, the future Great Granny Gray, and also where they had my recently departed Grandma Wilson (born Priscilla Gray). She was a stubborn New England Yankee, but she'd been born in India. Perhaps I am so fond of Kipling because my family is only two generations removed from the Empire?

It's quite the contradiction: I am fiercely proud of my Irish Catholicism (hell, my name is Michael Patrick), but also fiercely loyal to England. England may have turned her back on Rome, but I cannot turn my back on her. "There'll always be an England"

I am uncertain as to for what K.C.I.E. stands, but I would guess Knight Commander of the Indian Empire. I wish I was a raja. (As the BTW boys know all too well, in Risk the Black Raj is to be much feared.)

On the phone earlier, Never Girl's voice took on a protective, almost fearful tone. She seemed concerned that there are things in my life going on without her knowledge. What exactly have I done to give rise to such suspicions?

Watch the new show I'm With Her. It doesn't seem to be anything extraordinary, except for the priviledge of seeing Teri Polo each week. You don't know Teri Polo? She played Rebecca Welles on Sports Night. You don't know Sports Night? You can go to Hell.

You know, in a way I like Futurama even better than The Simpsons. It's the sense of humor from the golden age of The Simpsons (circa seasons four through nine) combined with science fiction, one of my true loves. In my eyes, it's the perfect show.

Big O
Big Duo
Big Fow

What is the secret of the Bigs? The Big O appeared in the first episode (Act:01) of The Big O, "Roger the Negotiator." Big Duo, teamed up with Schwarzwald, attacked in Act:12 "Enemy is Another Big!" Big Fow appeared in the shadows of Act:20 "Stripes," but was not properly seen and did not see action, teamed with Alex Rosewater, until this week's Act:21 "The Third Big." The Big O is great; kudos to Cartoon Network for financing the second season.

Lot's Band
Yesterday, I was listening to The Hippos. The Hippos have broken up, yet Dave Matthews Band is quite possibly the biggest band in the world. We live in a musical Sodom and it becomes harder each day to find the two good bands needed to stay the Lord's wrathful hand.

See, that's the thing about secrets: if they are central to your story, they have to work. The alien at the end of Alien? That worked, and the film has become a classic. The alien at the end of Alien Resurrection? That piece of crap failed utterly, and thus so did the film. The conspiracy at the heart of The X-Files? Didn't work, because it never fucking happened; I watched that show for years, but eventually I'd had my chain yanked one too many times and decided that the big secret wasn't worth the price of sticking around.

I love the phrase "the secret of the Star of Canberra" as a driving force behind the Space Pirates Project, but I have no idea what that secret might be. Partially because we have little idea where the show is going. It has been decided by informal majority vote to make it an infinite show, i.e. no predetermined end, but rather we'll just follow the story wherever it takes us. Okay, so where do we go? In the first season, the stars of the show - the three friends who suddenly find themselves as space pirates - wrestle with the dilemma of not wanting to hurt anyone or steal anything. They wanted the adventure of being space pirates, they didn't want to kill anybody. But if they don't toughen up they are going to get killed. How do you survive in a cutthroat situation without losing your soul? Okay, there are lots of possibilities there, we can make that work. But where do we go after that?

It is in my nature to work backwards. Once I establish a character, my natural inclination is to discover how exactly they came to be that person. You could say then that I'm better at endings than I am at beginnings. I feel a compulsion to know how it all ends and right now that's simply unknowable, which I find crushingly frustrating.

Also, you know, I wouldn't have to work on playing nice with others if I naturally played nice with others.

Having recently been exposed to the glory of Anthony Burgess's novel, this afternoon I watched the film version of A Clockwork Orange. Sweet merciful crap. The only rational reaction is the massive and sudden application of violence; however, since that hack Kubrick is dead, I have no other recourse than to desecrate his grave. A real horrorshow novella was made into a malenky stinking film, one which I sincerely wish I had never viddied. By old Bog, it was awful.

A memorable quote from Saturday, at the depths of my misery, "Never love anything, it'll only disappoint you." A perfectly valid argument could (and has, many times) been made that I should not care so deeply about college football; nay, I say, for how can one feel unreasonable joy if one does not feel unreasonable anguish? Better to live a life of extremes than risk the sterility of feeling nothing. Love with all your heart, hate with all your soul.

The Space Pirates Project is moving along nicely, with a solid creative team of The Professor, the Guy, K. Steeze, and Your Humble Narrator. I wish the Mountain would contribute, but honestly this stuff isn't his preferred bag; he's never held that much interest in "universe creation," outside of a few exceptions. We've decided upon a medium, animation, and the "cast" is falling into place at a satisfactory pace. If you are interested, please check out the Forums; ideas are always welcome, email them to me at my Yahoo account, rebelblackdot@. Both to stir the creative juices and because I greatly enjoy it, I am rereading Treasure Island. Arrrh!

As I watch this debacle, the only possible conclusion is that the Michigan defense did not spend a single minute preparing for this game. If they didn't practice this week, which they clearly didn't, what did they spend their time doing? I would like to suggest that they spend the last seven days circle jerking. So, fuck Jim Herrmann for not doing ANYTHING to prepare his squad, fuck Braylon Edwards for dropping that last pass, fuck John Navarre for playing like John Navarre, and fuck Lloyd Carr for doing such a piss-poor job of getting his kids ready for this game. This may be our only loss of the season, but only because the Big Ten is weak this year. If we're the best team in the conference, it's a pussy conference.

During Braylon Edwards's freshman season, I said he should be cut for dropping too many passes. I stand by that today. (As I type this, Navarre just threw a picture perfect interception. Good job, Johnny!)

With 10:30 left in the second quarter of the Michigan-Oregon game: Fuck. John. Navarre. Two high passes and he missed an open man on a critical third down. Also, the defense looks porous. My prediction: Oregon 34, Michigan 17.

Wait, Oregon just scored, let me revise that: Oregon 42, Michigan 13.

It's the first mildly chilly day of the Fall; so, today is of course the day my mom chose to clean the windows. It's nice and chilly in the house, allowing me to break out my very favoritest piece of cold weather clothing: Plain Black Sweatshit! I love Plain Black Sweatshirt; even if it faded from true black to gray many years ago, Plain Black Sweatshirt has not faded any more than that! So warm, so comfortable, so able to be worn every day of the week without acquiring an overpowering funk. Hurrah!

"The ports ye shall not enter,
The roads ye shall not tread,
Go make them with your living,
And mark them with your dead."
--Rudyard Kipling, my favorite poet

Beneath the unfortunate racism in Kipling's "The White Man's Burden," there is an oft overlooked generosity. We, the self-proclaimed civilized world, have an obligation to help the less fortunate. We have an obligation to bring medicine to the sick and freedom to the oppressed. We may debate how best to improve the lot of the poor and I detest those who say we "owe" the developing world; this is not an obligation of the laws of Man, but an obligation to our own ideals, to the people we hope we can be.

Many young South Koreans wish American troops would leave their peninsula. The French oppose us often simply for opposition's sake, and to soothe their own bruised national ego. Does this mean we should have given the South Koreans over to the depraved cruelty of the North Korean Kims? Should we have left the French to rot under the iron heel of the Nazis? No, never. True virtue is its own reward, and expected thanks, even when deserved, is not a good enough reason to do the right thing.

It's three in the morning. I'm going to bed.

Sweet, I'm getting married to a freaky girl named Aisha with a Ryoko tattoo! Fun fact about Aisha: in high school, I asked her to the Prom senior year and she said yes, but the next day told me she couldn't go; so, I took good ol' Lauren G. instead.

On the Space Pirates Project, Steeze thinks I'm putting too much time and energy into the backstory at the expense of developing story arcs. I disagree. Without knowing our characters nor the world they live in, I find it impossible to say what manner of adventures might befall them.

Working on the space pirates project (until we have a title, I think I'll just call it the Space Pirates Project), I'm forced to stare right into the face of the fact that I don't work well in groups. Other people have great ideas, but it is so hard for me to accept that their ideas are better than mine, even when they are. I have to constantly rein myself in, lest I say something I don't mean. What's worse is that sooner or later we'll run into a situation where I say something incredibly cruel, because at that moment it is exactly what I mean, and I don't want to do that to my friends. So, I'm going to take this as an opportunity to work on playing nice with others.

The biggest problem we've run into is how to give our heroes possession of the Scarlet Narwhal. We're got a card game situation (an intentional parallel to the Millennium Falcon) and a police raid gone bad/chaotc situation. I'm a fan of the first, though I admit it needs work; The Professor and Steeze are fans of the police raid scenario. There are problems for both; so, we may require a third scenario. But what? We're also debating Earth's stature in the interstellar community and the number of different alien species we're dealing with, but those are pretty preliminary discussions. I've just posted my latest version of the cast on the Forums (topic: "Space Pirates!", genius) and I'm eager to see reactions.

The Mountain has yet to chime in, but that's because he is ridiculously busy during the school year.

{Deep Space Piracy For Fun and Profit}
My plea to make the space pirates a pan-BTW experience seems to be working. So far The Professor and K. Steeze, my co-creators, have contributed, as well as the Guy. Admittedly, all of this was only as a direct result of a plaintive distress call, but I am optimisitic. I have stated a topic on the BTW Forums for Kevin's comic book, Serma 6; so, I hope a healthy exchange of ideas for both projects will soon be underway.

What's in a name? Quite a bit, to my way of thinking. Yes, a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, but John Kennedy would not have the inflated reputation he does if he had been born Horace Oglethrorpe. (Truth be told, though, I like the name Horace, at least for a character. Or maybe the Egyptian Horus....) By the same token, I am more likely to watch a show with a respectable name like Stargate SG-1 than it's internal parody Wormhole X-treme!; so, the space pirates idea needs a good name. To this point, the only suggestions are:

Space Pirates - Kevin

Deep Space Piracy For Fun and Profit - Your Humble Narrator

To my way of thinking, I'm not certain that either is acceptable. Space Pirates is far too anonymous, it could be referring to any number of shows. And Deep Space Piracy... is, well, both long and weird. The length is a bigger problem than being weird. Weird is good. Example: Cowboy Bebop. True, bounty hunters - Bebop's protagonists - are called "cowboys" in their world and music, though not necessarily bebop, is a huge part of the show, but still that combination of words, Cowboy Bebop, is weird. Because it is, though, it makes an impression, even before you realize just how damned good the show it.

Brainfart, this is just me writing down ideas as they come to me:
Pirates of the Stars
Piracy For Amateurs
All I Ask is a Tall Ship and a Star to Steer Her By
I'm a Pirate!
Pirates of the Scarlet Narwhal
The Dread Pirate Jason?
The Stars Are For the Taking
The Voyages of the Scarlet Narwhal
Scarlet Narwhal

And now, we bring to a close our triumvirate of triumphs trumpetting the birthdays of a trio of tantalizing temptresses, Her Noir-Hearted Majesty Queen Skeeter, Mrs. Ham 'n' Eggs Blinky, and the oft overrated Never Girl: Happy Birthday!

***Seriously, when I posted the above, I thought it was Monday. The birthday is the fifteenth, not the sixteenth; I thought I was posting on the fifteenth. I'm so sorry.***

I'm taking a break from preparing my KSAOs (Knowledge, Skills, Abilities, and Other characteristics) statement for the National Archives. Under pressure from my mom, who is ignoring my lack of qualifications, I am applying for a job at the Gerald R. Ford Library in Ann Arbor. Mom, exactly what experience do I have preserving historical documents? But, as I live under her roof (and subtle iron boot), her wish is my command. Note the difference between "her wish is my command," which signifies obedience, and "as you wish," which signifies fealty.

Of course, my mom is quite right, I really do need a job. Sigh. My post-graduate year in Ann Arbor may have been financially irresponsible, but by Jove it was fun.

My sister is in Spain today, having finished up almost two weeks of holiday in Germany. When she returns to D.C. - in two more weeks - she'll start a job where she will earn over 400% more than she did last year. Meanwhile, I live with my parents.

Suicide looks better every day.

Everybody knows the Real Can of Yams smash radio hit "Lobster of Truth (Wanted Me For Him)," but you may not know the whole family of Aquatic This of Thats:

Lobster of Truth (inspired when David and Kevin say a wacked out episode of Farscape)
Salmon of Doubt (courtesy of the late great Douglas Adams)
Trout of Blame
Oyster of Deception
Jellyfish of Insecurity
Brine Shrimp of Good Intentions
Starfish of Self-Loathing
Sea Otter of Crippling Emotional Problems

Also, don't forget to check out my excellent proof THE BIG O is the Japanese BATMAN, available for your reading pleasure below.

THE BIG O is the Japanese BATMAN
The Big O, an anime produced by the fine folks at Sunrise and Bandai (the geniuses behind all things Gundam), stars Roger Smith, who is the Japanese equivalent of Batman. How can this be, you ask? Roger Smith "teams up" (his words) with the giant robot called the Big O. Bruce Wayne, the Batman, stalks the night in tights with his underwear on the outside. The Big O has laser beam eyes, hidden missiles, a compressed air megapunch, and is the giant freaking robot! Batman has a utility belt, an attitude, a small army of loyal zealots, and is the world's greatest detective. Obviously there are going to be differences, both because Bruce Wayne was created in 1939 and Roger Smith in 1999 and because there are vast cultural differences between America and Japan. But sit back, read on, and I will explain all...

Roger Smith = Bruce Wayne Bruce Wayne lives in an enormous mansion - stately Wayne Manor - joined only by his balding, loyal manservent Alfred and a succession of young sidekicks/apprentices; Roger Smith lives in an approximately twenty story former bank building joined only by his balding, loyal manservent Norman and his young sidekick/apprentice, Dororthy. Bruce Wayne, fueled by the trauma of his parents' brutal murder, fights a one-man war on crime and injustice; Roger Smith quit the inadequate Military Police when it became obvious they were tools of the Paradigm Corporation and now wages a one-man war on evil and injustice with the Big O. Batman does not use guns nor allow anyone around him to use them; Roger Smith refuses to carry a gun, despite a life of constant peril and Angel's frequent incredulity. Bruce Wayne usually wears black; as a rule of Roger Smith's house, which even the master observes, everyone wears black. The Batmobile is a powerful, black car equipped with armor and all manner of sophisticated devices; Roger Smith drives a powerful, black sedan equipped with armor, missiles, machine guns, and a sophisticated communications system. Batman carries grappling hooks and other tools in his utility belt; Roger Smith summons the Big O through his watch, which also contains a small grappling device and a laser cutting torch. Very few people know that Bruce Wayne is the Batman; very few people know that Roger Smith pilots the Big O.

R. Dorothy Wayneright = Robin Both Dick Grayson and Jason Todd, the first two Robins, were orphans, taken in by Bruce Wayne and given a purpose in life by the Batman; Dorothy is an orphan, both of her fathers - the man who built her and the man for whom she was built - having died in the first two episodes, and she has been taken in by Roger Smith, to whom she has recently expressed a desire to be, like him, a Negotiator. Robin (true of all three Robins) is a trained martial artist and detective, as much an asset to Batman as a sidekick; Dorothy, being an android, possess great strength, speed, and stamina, as well as a keen eye for observation and sharp wit, and is often a great help to Roger Smith.

Norman Burg = Alfred Pennyworth Both men are British, balding, and expert in the use of weapons and the maintenance of sophisticated machinery. Both men serve a solitary, bachelor master set upon waging a one-man campaign for justice, until a little light is brought into both masters' lives by a teenaged orphan. The only difference is that Norman has an eyepatch.

Colonel Dan Dastun = Commissioner Jim Gordon Jim Gordon's best friend is the Batman, even though he does not know it is billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne beneath the cowl; Dan Dastun shares his frustrations and suspicions with his friend Roger Smith, even though he was hurt when the latter resigned from his beloved Military Police. Gordon goes outside the official channels of the GCPD to bring Batman in an difficult investigations; Dastun consults Roger when he thinks might arise a situation beyond the powers of the Military Police, necessitating the intervention of the Big O. Gordon believes in the law, but knows that justice is more important; Dastun believes in the Military Police, but knows that protecting the citizens of Paradigm City is paramount. Both Gordon and Dastun utilize their extralegal allies when needed, but resent the fact that they are needed in the first place.

Big Ear = Oracle {This is my least favorite, but it still works.} Brabara Gordon, the first Batgirl, was paralyzed by The Joker. Determined to keep fighting the good fight, she became Oracle, the world's greatest hacker and finder of information. When Batman needs records accessed or obscure clues looked up, he turns to the seemingly omnipotent Oracle; when Roger Smith needs information, he journeys to the bar called the Speakeasy and consults the man in the back called Big Ear. We don't know where Big Ear gets his knowledge, but for a roll of twenties he'll answer your questions and point you in the right direction.

Angel = Catwoman Catwoman isn't a good girl, but neither is she a serious threat like The Joker or Two-Face; Angel isn't on Roger Smith's side, but neither is she working against him. Catwoman is a thief, but most often she steals from mobsters and rich fatcats, never from the disadvantaged; Angel works for the evil Paradigm Corporation, but she also seems to be trying to take it down from the inside. Catwoman is the only woman to whom Batman seems attracted; though Roger Smith is a connoisseur of beautiful women, no other fascinates him as does the woman who calls herself Angel.

Beck = The Penguin The Penguin is a mobster, a criminal and a murderer, but not a deranged mass murderer like the Scarecrow; Beck is an extortionist and kidnapper, but not a sociopath like Alan Gabriel. The Penguin runs his criminal empire out of a legitimate nightculb, he's a run-of-the-mill gangster with a weird nickname; even when Beck had access to the Megadeus Dorothy II, he didn't try to level the city, but rather tried to steal the printing plates from the city mint.

Schwarzwald = Two-Face Before he became Two-Face, Harvey Dent was Gotham City's District Attorney and an ally of both Jim Gordon and the Batman; before he became Schwarzwald, Michael Seebach was a reporter working to recover Paradigm City's lost memories, making him a tangental ally of Roger Smith. Depending on the flip of a coin, Two-Face acts as either a villain or a twisted version of Harvey Dent; though twisted and malevolent, Schwarzwald's goal remains the defiance of the Paradigm Corporation's wishes: the reawakening of lost memories.

Alex Rosewater = Ra's al-Ghul Ra's al-Ghul is centuries old. He controls a vast, shadowy empire dedicated to culling the human population and restoring nature; Alex Rosewater, as the head of the Paradigm Corporation, controls Paradigm City - the entire known universe - though he seems intent on reviving enough memories to destroy everyone outside the domes. Ra's al-Ghul possesses almost unique knowledge of the Lazarus Pits, the means by which he sustains his immortality; Alex Rosewater seems to possess almost unique knowledge from before Paradigm's mass amnesia of forty years ago.

Alan Gabriel = The Joker The Joker doesn't want money, power, or revenge, he just likes killing people; Alan Gabriel, who is a new character in the second season, seems to do very little other than menace Roger Smith at Rosewater's behest and execute androids. The Joker had pale skin and the world's creepiest smile; Alan Gabriel has pale skin and smiles just enough to make you uneasy.

Giant Robots and Androids
Of course, there are differences. Gotham City is the quintessential picture of American urban decay; after a cataclysm forty years ago, all memory and record of the past was erased from Paradigm City, which seems to be all that's left of the entire world. Bruce Wayne travelled the world honing his body and mind to the limits of human potential; Roger Smith teams up with a giant, heavily armed, possibly sentient robot - a Megadeus - known as the Big O. Batman's apprentices possess no super powers, but instead rely on their superb training; the unflappable R. Dorothy is a sarcastic, piano-playing android. The Batman franchise has been going for sixty-four consecutive years; the original season of The Big O was thirteen half-hour episodes. Batman is a classic piece of Americana; The Big O is a slick, stylish Japanese anime. Still, it's undeniable that Roger Smith is the Japanese Batman.

Two years. Two wars. And in very real terms, nothing has changed. Arguably, the strength of America is reflected in the pettiness of our politics. A United States Senator says that he voted only to "threaten" violence against Iraq. The President of the United States pushes for massive tax cuts at a time when we require increased defense spending and a commitment (for the first time ever) to homeland security. Why? Because our greatest threat is a private organization armed with RPGs, car bombs, and box cutters. Al Qaeda is a threat to American lives and peace of mind, but al Qaeda is not a threat to America. We forged this nation across the length and bredth a continent, and as a nation we withstood the mortal threats of the Confederacy, the Nazis, and Communism. We shall withstand this trial, fear not.

I must confess to a certain frustration with the so-called 9/11 families. I sympathize with your loss, but just because someone you loved died in a terrorist attack does not make you a policy expert. It does not make your opinion on what to do any more valid than that of anyone else. You are not special and exceptional. I am not asking you to get over your loss, I just want you to get over yourself.

God bless America.

Hey, I hope this works. By and by, I think it was the light pink hair answer that produced this result. What can I say, I've had pink hair before and it looked damn good on me.


You are Guu! You are a very strange young
girl that can eat anything, and you grant
wishes and dance the disco. You are confusing
yet wise and very powerful, but do control your
chest hair afro fetish, and try not make your
friends spaz out.


Which Jungle wa Itsumo Hale nochi Guu character are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

The only thing better than Jungle wa Itsumo Hale nochi Guu is Jungle wa Itsumo Hale nochi Guu Deluxe. All together now, DELUXE!

Continuing with the triumvurate of birthdays for lovely lasses, all of them turning twenty-four: Happy Birthday! Somewhere, I hope someone is playing "1979." Birthwise, it was a hell of a year.

The new season of Enterprise premieres tonight and I am very excited. Both DS9 and The Next Generation made quantum leaps in quality during their third seasons; here's hoping that pattern continues on Enterprise. You know, one of these days I really should finish Odyssey. In more Star Trek news, Zach Nie! has returned my first season DVDs and is now plowing through DS9's second season, courtesy of the Mountain. This is excellent news.

Can someone please explain to me the big NPR hard-on for Pinochet? The man was an undeniably brutal dictator, but they speak of him as if he were the greatest villain of the 20th century. Hitler? A bad seed. Stalin? He had issues. Pol Pot? Not a nice fellow. But Augusto Pinochet? This was the worst human being who ever lived! How is it that Pinochet is a bad guy and yet Che Guaverra is treated as the gentle champion of the people? Oh, wait, because Guaverra was a communist and violence carried out in the name of left-wing ideals is somehow inexplicably palatable to the otherwise dovish folks on the left.

And now we begin a triumvirate of birthdays, those of three lovely ladies, all between today and the 15th: (in the order that I met them, not the order of their birthdays) Mrs. Blinky (circa 1985), Skeeter (1993 or 1994), and Never Girl (2001). Happy Birthday!

Trivia Night at Conor O'Neill's last night, the team of the Not-So-Bald Mountain, Guy Zach Nie, blast from the past Chris Motel (Zach's amigo), and yours truly. Wonderment of wonderments, we finished in 2nd place, the only time we've ever placed, thus winning $20! We hit up the Fleetwood and on the way to the Back Room, to sate Chris's jones for pizza, he found another $20. Holy Toledo, Batman, talk about improbability! A good time was had by all, even David, who suffered through his first and very likely last Guinness.

I reading Chuck Palahniuk - Lullaby - which means I really wish I had a hippie handy. Admitedly, solely for the purposes of smashing his face in with a brick, but still there's just never a hippie around when you need one.

K. Steeze and the Professor will soon be gone. Things around here are about to become incredibly depressing, especially since both the Mountain (Ann Arbor) and the Guy (East Lansing) are a) busy with school and b) at least an hour away.

I'm starting to hate the cat. Look, asshole, I'm trying to pet you, but I fucking won't if you walk away, sit down, and then come back two minutes later expecting me to pet you. I loved the old Sam, the surly, rat bastard of a cat who didn't have any use for us except feeding him and letting him out on demand. I loved that self-centered, cruel son of a bitch. To me, cats are supposed to be mean. That's their charm.

{Deep Space Piracy For Fun and Profit}
I keep working on the space pirate project, unsure how to proceed. Do I continue to consult with Steeze and the Professor (and possibly Zach Nie!), making all decisions by consensus? Or proceed on my own, in whatever direction strikes my fancy? Or perhaps two very similar, parallel projects, one developed with the group, the other on my own. It is critical to agonize over the details of a television show that will never get made. Critical.

{Anyway, here's an extremely preliminary cast}
Our Hero - a college kid who wins a pirate starship in a card game and realizes his lifelong dreams of instersteller raiding and pillaging; Jason or Sean, maybe...
His Best Friend - his best friend, along for the ride, probably a fat kid named Toby...
Their Other Friend - not as close a friend, but up for the adventure, he desperately wants to steal Our Hero's girlfriend, who has been left behind and all but forgotten...
Girlfriend Back Home - still in love with Our Hero, even after he becomes a pirate; Tawny, perhaps...?
Toll Booth Girl - the "victim" of the crew's first raid, who enthusiastically joins up; she's only 16, but disturbingly hot; Alex, Parker...
Old Engineer - the only remaining member of the old crew, "Old Nick" doesn't have enough money to retire with his comrades; once the master of the Scarlet Narwhal, now he's the drunkard of an engineer; the Professor describes him as essentially a seventy year-old Nick Neu...
Snobby Alien - his (his? do they have genders?) race is a bunch of uppity jerks and while he's more tolerable than most, he's quite crabby about being stuck on the ship; Lorix? maybe they're all named Lorix? naw...
Robot - what's the point of making sci-fi if you don't have a robot running around? Pewter, who really keeps the ship running...
Pilot - do you know how to fly a starship? Because I certainly don't. Aditi, a devil may care Texan beauty, maybe ex-IASA (which is the united Earth space force?)...
Indie Pirate - the shaddiest member of the crew, he's the only one who knows what's going on in the pirate world; perhaps a 1/4 Sirlakin, beneath his gruff exterior be he friend of foe...

Once one thinks about it, the chances of the crew of the Scarlet Narwhal doing any actual pillaging are pretty slim. These are, well, at least Our Hero and his two friends are, ordinary kids who stumble into something extraordinary. They aren't theives, much less bloodthirsty killers. Yet, here they are on an armed pirate ship, wanted by the law - for allegedly kidnapping Toll Booth Girl - what are they to do? I think they'd start playing Robin Hood, raiding pirates and protecting the innocent, in their own incompetent way. Plus, searching for the nigh-mythical pirate ship the Star of Canberra.

I'm bleeding from three different spots and I have grease and dirt in two of my wounds, but at least the Mousemobile has new brake pads and rear shocks.

As far as the space pirates are concerned, so far these are the three leading candidates for the name of the ship: the Scarlet Narwhal, the Bloody Narwhal, and the Jakarta Narwhal. Other names considered include the (insert modifier here) Shark or the Soyokaze. The latter is a reference to the hilarious anime The Irresponsible Captain Tylor, which takes place in space, but features no pirates.

Which spelling is preferrable for an alien race: Sirlakin or Sirlaken? As in the Sirlakin/Sirlaken Plague. I think Sirlakin. Yeah, definitely.

Ooo, Sirlakin or Sirlokin?

I want to have space pirates on the brain. The Professor, Steeze, and I came up with an embryonic idea for a TV show about space pirates. We haven't yet decided what kind of show it will be, and by "kind" I mean in what medium we'll produce the show: live action, cartoon, or anime. Personally, I think faux anime would be the best, along the lines of Teen Titans. We aren't Japanese, we don't speak any Japanese, and we are on the opposite side of the world from Nihon, all of which might be genuine obstacles to making an anime show, but I'd like it to be less episodic than American animation.

So far we have sketchy details of five characters: our protagonist, a naive, wannabe pirate; his loyal best friend; less close friend with designs on our hero's girlfriend back home; a girl they kidnap from a toll booth; a snooty, hyperintelligent alien; and the old drunkard of an engineer. The characters don't have names, backgrounds, anything. Still, there is great potential. I did have an idea for the ship, though, let's call her the Nick Neu.

The Anniversary
Mom and Dad have been married for thirty-two years today. Wow.

Who would have thought that of both my parents, my mom would be the far more annoying of the two. I've been here two weeks and she's driving me batty. You know the old song, "I want a girl just like the girl who married dear old dad"? Yeah, I'll shoot myself in the fucking head before I marry a girl remotely like my mother. She lives her life exactly how I do not want to live mine. I live at home, I'm allowed to whine about boring shite like my parents.

And now a drooling kitty is obstructing the keyboard.

Okay, I guess at seventeen there is no way Sammy comes close to qualifying as a kitty, but "a drooling kitty" sounds better than "a drooling cat." And sweet merciful crap, his drool isn't watery, it's this godawful syrupy horror. Ewwwwww.

"The Hour In 30 Seconds" words by M. Wilson
"Drink drink drink
As fast as you can!
Drink drink drink
Be you woman or man!
Sure you'll puke
That's part of the plan,
Drink drink drink
The Hour's at hand!

Drink drink drink
As fast as you can!
Drink drink drink
There'll be 'Puking, man!'
Hawai'ian Punch:
The sacred brand,
The Hour That
Nobody Wanted, man!"

If you haven't experienced The Hour That Nobody Wanted, man, you haven't lived. Nothing makes you appreciate what's really important in life like watching your brother drink four Liters of Hawai'ian Punch in ten minutes or watching little Liz Ele fight her way through the power squat.

Grand Funk Forever
Happy birthday (Wednesday, in my mind it's still Wednesdya night) to Grand Funk Railroad's Don Brewer, known to me primarily via Homer Simpson. "You kids don't know Grand Funk? The wild, shirtless lyrics of Mark Farner? The bone-rattling bass of Mel Shocker? The competent drum work of Don Brewer?"

The Steeze and I finished "Hyperintelligence," last night. Words by M. Wilson, music by K. Stermer. I'm also helping him with words to a song for which he has already written the music, "Instantation Teleportation." Brand new Real Can of Yams, coming soon to a Virgin Megastore near you.

Also, two-man Risk, even when you are victorious in three of three games, is highly unsatisfying. Of course, I bet losing three of three highly unsatisfying games is even worse.

Watch the brand-new custom-made second season of The Big O on Cartoon Network. It's not what you think, you gutter-brained cretins, it's better.

I watched a lot on TV in Ann Arbor, I watch a lot of TV in Grand Blanc. I love watching TV.

From an unfinished song about Never Girl...
"The part that makes me question why,
The part that makes me want to cry,
I'm standing shaking my fist at the sky!
Because the worst part is I still like her,
The worst part is I still want her,
The worst part is I let her under my skin...
The worst part is that I let her win."

Yeah, I've got nothing. It's raining and the only tasks I have been assigned are outdoors; so, I can't do them, but I can still tell my dad's a little resentful.

I think I want my kids to call me Pop. I've always called my dad Dad; so, that would be fine, too. Father and Pa are entirely unacceptable. Da would be fine, but a little poserish (unless their mom is British, which would be awesome). By the way, I would love for their mom to be British, because then they could call her Mum and have slight accents. Plus, a beautiful British girl is beautiful in a way no other kind of girl can match. Examples: Rachel Weiss, Keira Knightley, Naomi Watts.

From Pop to Naomi Watts in one paragraph. I love blogging.

The single best indictment of blogging every written? By Ed Brubaker, of course.

There's this Aussie twit who has titled his blog "Wilson's Almanac." Notice how this site is so forgettable I shall not even bother hyperlinking to it. Trust me, were a true Wilson to have an almanac, it would rule.

On that note, it's almost too bad my last name is Wilson, because I think it makes a pretty sweet first name.

Saturday night, it was Guy Zach Nie!, Sarah, Steeze, and me at the world famous BJ's, home of "Dancing Sandwiches." We played euchre (because we are Michiganders) and then returned to my house for Risk into the wee hours. I defeated Steeze, somehow the best Risk player I know, to win the game. I had neither the Black Raj nor my beloved African continental bonus, but I pursued a combination Australian Gambit/Asian Simmer to victory. There were several nasty knife fights in Caracas and Zach died chasing the elusive North American Dream.

Via Mr. Bell's fantabulous invention, I spoke with the Mountain twice and also Sardine.

I have determined that my mother has no sense of humor: 1) she finds both The Flintstones and Happy Days funny, 2) she dislikes Jackie Gleason... Mom, your beloved Fred fucking Flintstone was a cheap rehashing of Gleason's Ralph Cramden, and 3) she doesn't like Futurama, not at all, not even a little bit. If you can't laugh at "the lost city of Atlanta," man, why even get out of bed in the morning?

"You were a loser in the year 2000 and you're a loser in the year 4000."
"Yeah, but in the year 3000 I had it all: several friends, a low-paying job, a bed in a robot's closet. I envied no man."

Also today, I operated a chainsaw for the first time! I'm a big boy now.

Two three four? That's awesome!

"Hey, Julie, look what they're doing to me
Trying to trip me up, trying to wear me down
Julie I swear it's so hard to bear it
And I'd never make it through without you around"
--Fountains of Wayne, "Hey Julie" from Welcome Interstate Managers

You know, my sister is cool. Not her taste in music or anything like that, she's just cool. How in the hell did Rick and Joyce produce kids as cool as my brother and my sister?

I watched the Michigan-Central Michigan game today. As it was a creampuff pre-Big Ten season game, I wondered around the dial whenever I got bored. I caught a glimpse of the just passed MTV Video Music Awards. Those cunt rags Good Charlotte played their poser anthem "Anthem," after which Chris Rock quipped, "Good Charlotte? More like mediocre Green Day." Chris Rock is a wise, wise man.

On the subject of Chris Rock's wisdom, rent Comedian. He's got some great insights in it.

I really should shave today, but I don't think I will.

I finished the DS9 fourth season DVD set last night. The fifth season doesn't come out until October. By Lucifer's beard, what am I supposed to do until then?

Never Girl is coming back to Michigan next week, with her boyfriend of now over a year. So, no, I won't be seeing her. Also, I'm more confident than ever those two are going to get married. It's no longer a prognostication of doom, just the way things are. Never Girl had her chance.

Note to self: hey, asshole, are you ever going to return Olga's email?

Blogger and my dad's computer refuse to play nice. Hmmm, I may have to convince him to let me hook my machine up to the cable modem.

How does one recognize the moment when one is no longer an important part of a dear friend's life? How does one know when one's role becomes secondary or tertiary? How can one discern when one is being kept around for nostalgia's sake?

Just a quick suggestion to Sam, our cat: hey, dumbass, if you want to be petted and I'm sitting in a chair, it'll help things significantly if you stay within arm's reach. Sammy's full name is Samuel Bubbles Cat Sink Wilson; we've had him since the Fall of 1986.

On Fish
My sister once had a goldfish that lived for over three years, a beautiful, elegant lady named Fish. My brother once had a goldfish that lived for over three years, a stout, aggressive pugilist named Arthur. My goldfish, a small, funny fellow named Fishy is now about three years old. However, because I received Fishy secondhand from the Phantom Frantom (who also named him) I have always kept him in the small tank the Phantom gave me, whereas both Fish and Arthur resided in those big five gallon jobs. Thus, Fishy is much smaller than either Fish or Arthur were by this age. (I think that Fish is an absolutely amazing name for a fish and quite possibly the most creative thing my sister's ever done. However, I feel that Fishy is rather lacking. Nonetheless, that is his name and will be for the remainder of his life.)

The first fish I buy on my own, I think I'll name Aquaman. Or maybe get two and name the other Black Manta.

Your Own Worst Enemy
Superman = Lex Luthor
Batman = The Joker
Wonder Woman = Cheetah (I think; it's a problem that this is not more clear cut)
The Flash = Captain Cold
Green Lantern = Effigy* (this is tough because the character is not even ten years old)
Aquaman = Black Manta
J'onn J'onzz = Malefic

*The current Green Lantern is Kyle Rayner. He became GL (in real time) in 1994 and has only been on the job a few years. His predecessor, Hal Jordan, was GL for almost thirty-five years and had a very definite archenemy, the evil Sinestro. Kyle has never had that singular enemy. Effigy was created as a dark reflection of Kyle, but he has not been used extensively, despite being perfect for the job of archenemy. A Sinestro-type villain names Nero was also introduced, but he was not very effective. So to this point, sadly, Kyle Rayner had no clear cut archenemy, though in my estimation Effigy is the logical choice.

The Mountain is home. All is right with the world.

A short skirt.
A Gimmes shirt.
A Jones Soda.
Ain't life grand?

Is it too much to ask to just see Sardine?! Damn it, thwarted at every turn! Okay, okay, the actual mechanics of seeing her will pose something of a problem; I'll have to be pleasant and conversational while resisting the nigh-irresistable urge to kiss her each time I see her face. Nevertheless, I really want to see her. And I think she wants to see me, too.

I don't give a fuck what you think, I like Avril Lavigne.

Also, I've just discovered The Brendan Leonard Show. It's awesome. If you are unfamiliar with BTW, if we had a TV show it would be a lot like this.

I've just become aware that my friend Olga is attending grad school in Boston (Tufts) this Fall. Suddenly, without lifting a finger, I know people in Boston. Mike Wilson Luck, people, you wish you had it.

Discrimination!
Why is it that there is both a Batgirl and a Supergirl, but no Wonder Boy? Batman and Superman each have a younger male sidekick, Robin and Superboy, respectively, and so Wonder Woman has a younger female sidekick, Wonder Girl. Quid pro quo. But, so as to avoid the appearance of discrimination (and because the characters work... though Supergirl is in flux these days), they each also have a younger female sidekick, Batgirl and Supergirl. Yet where is Wonder Boy? Why is it that the Dark Knight and the Man of Steel had to let a girl into their "boys' clubs," but the Amazon Princess can maintain her matriarchy without being labelled a discriminator? Hmm? Hmm? Because it is okay to practice sexism against men, that's why. No peace until there is a Wonder Boy! (Of course, were there a Wonder Boy, he'd get mercilessly teased for joining the girls' club. Damned if you do, damned if you don't.)

Dreamer*
Last night I was aware of a dream, which is an uncommon experience for me. Saturday Night Latham had been caught in some kind of accident so that his touch was lethal, like a comic book supervillain. For everyone's safety, he was kept in a big vat in my parent's massive living room, though in real life there is no room like this in my parents' house. This living room looked like something out of Goldfinger's lair, with the vast partially underground pit full of an extremely thick liquid where the coffe table should have been. Anyway, this girl I know from intramurals (I don't know her name, just her face) came up with an antidote to Saturday Night's condition. She poured it in the vat and then tried to touch him. I tried to stop her, because I thought it was still dangerous. Satruday Night came out and touched her. I was certain she'd die, but the antidote had worked! She and Saturday Night embraced and kissed a big Hollywood ending kiss. fin Dreams are weird. I mean, I wasn't even the star in this one!

*Dreamer
Because I can connect anything to comic books, I should mention that Dreamer (secret identity: Nura Nal) is a member of the Legion of Super-Heroes, the protectors of the 31st century. I love how many neat little nooks and cranies there are in the DC Universe. It's fabulous.

The Futurama episode featuring "the lost city of Altanta" is great anyway, but you know what's the best part? Parker Posey as the voice of Umbriel.

"Now I've had my head inside an elephant, a hippo, and a giant sloth."
--courtesy Homer Simpson

Why break the day's streak of unoriginality?

A note to Daddy Dylweed: Jaden Scott? Dude, that's just mean. A of all, you are never going to hear the end of this. B of all, I am NOT going to call the kid Jaden. I don't know what his nickname will be, but it'll be an improvement. (They don't call me The Last Angry Man for nothing.)

"And it may be the whiskey talking,
But the whiskey says I miss you every day."
--Fountains of Wayne, "No Better Place" from Welcome Interstate Managers

***
And now, Lucinda Rosenfeld's contribution to Esquire's feature "Ten Things You Don't Know About Women":

1. Think lips, not larynx, and nice things might happen to you.

2. Put your wallet back in your pants and let us pick up the next round.

3. We order our salad dressing on the side because we are control freaks. We'd like to control you. Because we can't, we control lettuce.

4. We are not all that enthusiastic about men who have extensive knowledge of female reproductive health. Men who tell us what exercises we can do to ease our menstrual cramps and who know the best course of treatment for recurring yeast infections freak us out.

5. We don't actually care what you look like so long as your looks don't constitute a social liability. If you can figure out how to make us laugh, we'll find a way to ignore your steadily decreasing head-to-back-hair ratio.

6. We dislike it when you pound on the bathroom door and ask, "Hey, is everything okay in there?" You don't want to know what's going on in there.

7. We're suspicious of your relationship with your sister. She's roughly our age and has seen you naked.

8. Just let us cry.

9. We're not just pretending to be annoyed when you keep changing the channel.

10. Unless a previous girlfriend has told you you've got great taste in jewelry, chances are, you don't. Think about it this way: Do you ever see us wearing the weird bracelet you bought us? We haven't returned it because we love you too much. And we really do love you.
***

Thus far, it's not really so much a day for original content. Hey, at least when I steal I steal from the best.

This evening, I don't want to do anything. I don't want to read The Emperor's Codes, the book I'm working on. I don't want to read comic books. (Part of this is that I finished my massive DC pile and I'm not nearly as keen to plow through my Marvel and indie piles.) I don't want to commit to watching a movie, but there isn't anything on TV. (Well, Dark City is on now, but I missed the beginning and don't want to put in the effort of really paying attention. I like the movie too much to half ass my way through it.) I've tried the Internet, but it's not nearly as fab as it might seem. The radio just sucks and I can't just listen to a CD; I'm not happy enough to dance and if I'm not dancing I need to be doing something else. Gah, I don't want to sleep, but I don't want to do anything else, either. I don't want to call anybody.

Well, that's not true, I want to call Sardine, but it's far too late.

"A short skirt.
A Gimmes shirt.
A Jones Soda.
Ain't life grand?"

Do You Have Any Books For My Mobile?
Sardine has my copy of About A Boy. Skeeter is holding my What She Saw... hostage in New York. (Is it too much to ask to want to know when Lucinda Rosenfeld's next book is being published?) The Bald Mountain has A Clockwork Orange, which was loaned to me by Guy Zach Nie!, and I have The Watergirl's Where Is Joe Merchant? Books books books books.

I'm bored tonight, can you tell?

Did you know that if you google "zach nie" all you get is weird foreign sites? I've got to find a less crappy search engine. Unfortunately, they all suck, like the vast majority of ye olde Internet.

If your blog is titled "A Day in the Life," you need to stop. Don't stop temporarily, you know, to reexamine what it is you've been doing, stop permanently. You are painfully boring, utterly cliched, and there is no way anything else you might come up with would be any better. Stop, admit that you are a hack, and never blog again. I'm not saying that you can't do anything right, just that this avenue of expression is out of your depth. Stop now before you further embarrass yourself.

I watched several hours worth of Excel Saga over at the home of the Pikachu Tamer this afternoon. Prior to that, we talked for a couple hours, primarily, as is our custom, about music. Our tastes differ, sometimes greatly, but our views on music are nearly identical. He explained to me the technical difference between hard rock and metal and I tried to define the currently blurred line between punk and hard rock. (Examples are easy - Green Day is punk, Soundgarden is hard rock, Audioslave sucks ass - but definitions are hard.) As he has a large poster of Kurt Cobain, may he rest in peace, in his living room, we of course discussed Nirvana, which evolved into us making fun of jackasses who wear flannel in the Summer and sandals with wool socks in the Winter. For the record, YOU DO NOT WEAR SOCKS WITH SANDALS - EVER - IT DEFEATS THE PURPOSE OF WEARING SANDALS.

I had Wheaties for breakfast this morning. There is no better early morning reading than the back of a box of Wheaties; today, it was about Jesse Owens.

No new Teen Titans yesterday, curse it all.

Also, just so you know, there is no more inflammable substance on Earth than bunny rabbit. Blasted things go up faster than school buses. So, you know, be careful. This theory was developed in part by the Professor, the finest mind of ours or any age; so, you know it has to be true. Thanks to Avoid One Thing, the side project of Mighty Mighty Bosstones bass player Joe Gittleman, "the Bass Fiddleman," for first alerting us to this safety hazard in our midst.

Curses, foiled again!

And now... asylum humor!
"I haven't had a full night's sleep in years... Always some idiot on the phone with some new problem... 'Dr. Arkham, the Scarecrow's trying to hang himself!' 'Junkyard Dog flushed something, now all the toilets are broken!' 'The Joker got hold of the cleaning supplies. He's going to kill us all!' It's always something. But tonight? Quiet as the grave. This can't be good."
-courtesy of Dr. Jeremiah Arkham, adminstrator of Arkham Asylum, Gotham City

On the one hand, it's kind of pathetic that John Stamos is doing television commercials for a 10-10-number. On the other hand, he gets to go home at night to his wife Rebecca Romijn-Stamos; so, no matter what he does, he's won. Compared to every other dude on Earth, he's won. Good for him.

On the one hand, it's kind of pathetic that I'm watching TV on a Friday night. On the other hand, it's really pathetic that I'm watching TV on a Friday night. I mean, there are people I could call, but I'm actually quite content in my patheticness. Of course, I'd be more content with Rebecca Romijn-Stamos in my bed, but while I'm at it I might as well wish for the Moon and stars.... I wish I had the Moon and stars. (Looks around expectantly.) It was worth a try.

And now... Jaffa humor!
"Three Jaffa met. It was a tense situation. The Serpent Guard's eyes glowed, the Horus Guard's beak glistened, and the Set Guard's nose dripped."
-courtesy of Jaffa Master Teal'c, former First Prime of Apophis, whom he now regards as "A false god. A dead false god."

I'm making decent progress plowing through my ever-expanding backlog of comics. So far today, I have given second readings to issues of Action Comics, Wonder Woman, H-E-R-O, The Legion, JSA: All-Stars, and JSA.

I have discovered I possess an uncanny knack for looking up links to prep track results. How this is, I have no idea; I didn't even like track in high school when I had friends on the team! But that's neither here nor there. If you want to know about the results of each state's prep track championships, I, apparently, am your man.

It's a full life.

The Not-So-Bald Mountain will be back in ten days. Hot damn. At the same time, I know he'll miss his Seagle friends and justly so. For years, my brother has been the Bald Mountain. Why? Because he is 6'2" with broad shoulders and a shaven skull. Of late, though, he has lost a good deal of weight and grown his hair out. He is a shadow of his former self and yet still a massive human being; so, the "mountain" portion is still accurate. But "bald"? I think not. When he grew a mohawk, he was briefly known as Mount Mohawk; now that he has bogarted my haircut, sideburns and all, what is he? The Hairy Mountain? The Not-So-Bald Mountain? Mount Pampador? Hmmm, I'm sure it will come to me once I get used to the new look. In the meantime, it'll be fantastic to have him back. I've missed the little guy.

Only two things have ever been said about my eyes: long ago, a girl told me I have sad eyes and relatively recently Pelsky told me I have mischief in my eyes. So, I have no idea what I see there. But, about my smile, let me say this: I have one damned infectious smile. I mean, look at it, it's amazing. Genuine to the core, that's what my smle is. My whole face contributes, leading to crow's feet at the corners of my eyes at the young age of twenty-four. I smile a lot and it is a fantabulous thing to behold.

I wish I had a portal as seen in Being John Malkovich. Not for me, but for you guys. Everybody should have the opportunity to know for fifteen minutes what it's like to be me. It's luminous in here.

My new mantra:
"A short skirt.
A Gimmes shirt.
A Jones Soda.
Ain't life grand?"

You Don't Know What You're Talking About
Never Girl thinks The Ataris are fucking amazing live. My question is: why? Historically, I like The Ataris, but I saw them live for the first time on Sunday (Warped Tour) and while their show was adequate, it was nothing to write home about. ***I'd think this even if I hadn't had my ass rocked off by both Less Than Jake and Flogging Molly, the world's two best live bands, in a three day span. But I digress.*** I say that I historically like The Ataris because I have concerns about their new album. I haven't bought it yet, but I have heard it... on MTV. Their big single is called "Boys of Summer." It is a cover of a song from the '80s. (Don't ask me by whom becasue I don't know.) There is nothing more sad than when a band's biggest song is a cover. It's better to never make it big than succeed through a cover. Based upon their excellent earlier albums, I am incredibly disappointed. Additionally, because they are getting MTV airtime, the crowd at their show was filled with teenaged girls, the kind who only sang during the songs that they've heard on MTV. Dammit, these creatures aren't fans of The Ataris, they've just been told that The Ataris are cool. (Which reflects poorly upon The Ataris.) I'm sorry, but it's hard for your live show to be awesome when the pit is overrun with trendy moron kids.

On that note, I hate the current popularity of pop-punk. These trendy kids are at the shows when they have no real business being there. Dammit, it was assholes just like you kids who made high school miserable for the bands, thus prompting their latter day songwriting angst. While I do appreciate and enjoy the irony, it is damned annoying having them at the shows, flavor of the month-loving jerks that they are.

So, essentially what I'm saying is that Never Girl has no idea what she's talking about. Before I introduced her to the scene, she'd never been in a pit. Relying on her own piss-poor taste, she likes Matchbox 20 and Aerosmith. I would argue that liking MxPx and liking Aerosmith are mutually exclusive; so, she's lying about liking one of them. Given these developments, maybe I should have never invited her to that first Mustard Plug show....

I was looking at my reflection in a doorknob. The ol' skull-and-crossbones stood out bright and proud. "Wow," I thought to myself, "I'm a badass!" Then I remembered I'm wearing my brand new Me First and the Gimme Gimmes T-shirt. I love Me First and the Gimme Gimmes, but one cannot be a badass wearing a Me First and the Gimme Gimmes T-shirt. Eh, you win some, you lose some, at least I'm wearing a Me First and the Gimme Gimmes T-shirt. Life is good.

I'm presently drinking a Blue Bubble Gum Jones Soda. The fortune: "Your social life could be glamorous and rewarding now." Could be? Like it could be and I don't even know it? Or it could be if I did one specific thing? How can I be sure? Is this an intuitive thing? I'm drinking a Blue Bubble Gum Soda and wearing a Me First and the Gimme Gimmes T-shirt. Life is sweet.

Sardine called earlier and we talked for a hour and a half while she walked around lower Manhatten and changed clothes to go paint the town red. Mmmm, Sardine changing clothes... (insert Homer's drooling sound). It was just a really good conversation and we were both intensely amused throughout. She's coming back to A2 this weekend. What to do, what to do.... I'm thinking about Sardine with her shirt off wearing skin-tight jeans while I'm drinking a Blue Bubble Gum Soda and wearing a Me First and the Gimme Gimmes T-shirt. Life is super rad.

We all know it cuts deep when a girl sez, "We'll always be friends, though." At the Warped Tour yesterday, the Professor and I divined the single cruelest thing any girl can ever say to any guy: "You're my best friend."

A few weeks ago, after the Reel Big Fish show, I said I felt as if the greatest thing in my life was coming to an end. Please forgive my pessimism. The greatest thing in your life can only die if you let it. Give me one good reason why any of this has to come to an end? Ha, you can't because there isn't. To briefly sound like a greeting card, life is what you make of it. The Professor and I are going to see Flogging Molly tomorrow, and the greatest thing in my life is far from over. And now, I'm listening to "Hey, Julie" while thinking about Sardine with her shirt off wearing skin-tight jeans while I'm drinking a Blue Bubble Gum Soda and wearing a Me First and the Gimme Gimmes T-shirt. Life is the best thing ever.

E Pluribus Unum
The following is an open letter to all my politically liberal friends. A large number of my friends, quite possibly a majority, are actually of the liberal political persuasion. These are good people, though terribly misguided. I love them dearly, and simultaneously sincerely pray they are never given the reins of power.

I am a Republican. Why? The funny answer, courtesy of Aaron Sorkin, is, "Because I hate poor people." Hee hee. Seriously, though, we all know the Republican Party is evil; so, why throw my lot in with these monsters? A complicated question. First of all, it is important to understand that we are all villains to each other; the way you guys feel about President Bush, a lot of people, myself included, felt about President Clinton. Thus, it is entirely possible that Republicans are not the monsters you believe them to be, just as you may not be the idiots they believe you to be. Second of all, I call myself a Republican, but I do not agree with everything in the official GOP Platform. I am pro-choice; I favor gun control; I did not approve of either recent tax cut, excluding those provisions which eliminated the Death Tax/Estate Tax. What I do believe in is the two-party system. Seriously. You show me a well-functioning democracy, I will show you a two-party system. (For an education in multi-party chaos, please see: the State of Israel.) Third parties in America soley play the roll of spoiler: Theodore Roosevelt in 1912, Ross Perot in 1992, and even arguably Ralph Nader in 2000. Thus, as the patriotic fellow I am, I felt it necessary to identify with one or the other major political party. Based upon a wide spectrum of issues and ideas, including examination of the rise of each party's present doctrine, I chose the Grand Old Party. Thus, I am a Republican.

That wide spectrum of issues and ideas I was talking about, here they are in a nutshell. Well, two nutshells: NAFTA and welfare reform. The North American Free Trade Agreement is a pact between the United States, Mexico, and Canada that all but eliminated tariffs and associated trade barriers between the three countries. Free trade is a good thing. Why? Because free trade has historically meant more jobs and higher GDP for all involved. The high tariffs and other protectionist measures of the Great Depression? Yeah, they made things worse. The single greatest thing President Clinton did in his entire administration was go against most of his own party and ally with Republicans to push NAFTA through Congress. Have there been job losses associated with NAFTA? Obviously, yes, but there have also been significant job gains. (Another benefit, worthwhile even at the cost of short-term American job losses, NAFTA is good for Mexico. The US and Canada are both members of the G-8, meaning they have two of the eight largest industrial economies in the world. Yet, just south of two of the world's richest nations is a third world economy. Why has Mexico, which has a longer history than either of the norteamericano nations, not achieved the same level of economic development? That's a question with a very long answer, i.e. the entire history of the New World from 1492 to the present. Regardless, if we can raise the standard of living in Mexico, we can sell them things. Things that may be made in Mexico, but by American companies, which means the profits come back home. There are only thirty million Canadians, but we do more trade with them than any other nation. A Mexico as relatively rich as Canada would be a major boost to the US economy.)

The 1996 Welfare Reform Act was a flawed piece of legislation, but it did offer one irrefutable benefit: it represented a coherent ideological framework. As conceived in the Great Society, what exactly is the exit strategy of the welfare system? If people are allowed to stay on public assistance indefinitely, and earn more money by having additional children than they would in the job market, where is the incentive to leave the public dole? The argument could be made, and is, by me, that over the first thirty-one years of its existence, the welfare system did naught but actively encourage the perpetuation of an American underclass. In the short-term, the Republicans appear to be harsh and uncaring, but they are trying to get people to stand on their own two feet in the long run. To use a very appropriate piece of common wisdom, the status quo approach favored by Democrats involved giving people fish; the Republicans want to teach people how to fish. FDR said, and I'm very much paraphrasing, "When you are confronted with a problem, try to fix it. If what you try doesn't work, try something else. But do something." The Democrats were quite content to ignore the words of their own patron saint and do nothing.

And now, the pie-in-the-sky part. In very, very ideological terms, which are sometimes lost in the maestrom of politics, the basic underpinning of Republican philosophy is that people can achieve any goal if they work are smart, work hard, and seize opportunities when they present themselves. Democrats seem to lack that basic faith in people to be able to take care of themselves. Of course, these are just broad philosophical strokes and certainly do not encompass every member of either party. My sister is a Democrat because she hates the Republicans; as much as anything else, I am a Republican because I hate the Democrats. But in all of our mutual loathing, we must not lose sight of that fact that most of us truly do love America, especially when we disagree; if not the America we see around, then the America we believe can be.

Let me close with two thoughts regarding the 2004 presidential race. a) Please please please please nominate Howard Dean and b) run, Ralph, run!

The Gods Must Be Crazy
Online, you can find all sorts of information regarding the gods of Egypt, the Greco-Roman pantheon, and the Norse Aesir. However, if you make the mistake of looking for the Canaanite religion, all you get is a fistful of crazy Bible sites. Yeah, great, see, the thing is I just want the skinny on the gods Baal and Mot, not read from Judges and 1 Corinthians. Grr.

Whom would you rather fight: Thor or Jupiter?

Posers
I'm finally writing the story "Killing Osiris," formerly know as "The War of the Five Caesars." Cool. Of course, still no progress on In Search of the Perfect Lesbian. Sorry Margaret, no Kari Putterman for you. Not today, at least.

After spending Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday nights out, I'm not even going to try to find something to do tonight. I'm just going to sit around the apartment and veg, watch the new episode of Stargate at 9pm and read some comics.

The order in which you place discs in your CD player is important. For instance, it is very jarring to go from the end of Guster's Keep It Together, "I Hope Tomorrow Is Like Today," to Fizzy Banger's eight-second rock-out at the beginning of Short Music For Short People.

Butterfly
I'm a social butterfly. Tuesday, I went to Leopold Bros. and Conor's for Pelsky's birthday (the big deuce-deuce). Of course, his jackass friend Malis (pronounced: malice) made him smoke a couple cigs, causing Pelsky to sick up in the Leopold's bathroom. Yesterday, I was up in GB at the US23 drive-in with Skeeter. Her unabashed enthusiasm made Tomb Raider: The Cradle of Life sufferable, much to my embarrassment. I'm praying for rain tonight because I really don't want to go to work.

Today's just not my day. Nothing's gone wrong, but I can tell that I'm just not going to get the hang of today; so, why bother trying.

Right now, Stargate SG-1 is a better show than Enterprise. I hate to say that, but it's true, and I'm not sure that's ever going to change. Because the folks behind Enterprise are more the fuckos responsible for Voyager than the geniuses behind Deep Space Nine. They just don't seem to get it, and so, like Voyager, we're just going to stumble from meaningless encounter to meaningless encounter. It's called a theme, guys, you might want to get one.

Meanwhile, on Stargate, I hope we and the Asgard can figure out a way to beat Anubis.

Tonight, I watched Punch-Drunk Love. The Not-So-Bald Mountain has billed this movie as being better than the Second Coming. I found it to be an utter waste of my time. I did not think it was possible for a movie to feature the great Luis Guzman and still be so mind-numbingly boring. Thus, I make the following declaration: I will put out my own eyes before ever seeing another Paul Thomas Anderson movie.

"Stacy's mom has got it going on
She's all I want and I've waited for so long
Stacy can't you see
You're just not the girl for me
I know it might be wrong
But I'm in love with Stacy's mom."
(Fountains of Wayne, "Stacy's Mom" from Welcome Interstate Managers)

Sardine called the apartment over the weekend; I called her back tonight. I have no idea what, if anything, is going on. I might as just accept the fact that, for all practical intents and purposes, I'm a eunuch.

All of a sudden, I really really want to see American Wedding. More than either Pirates of the Caribbean or Bad Boys II. Cripes, I'm not a eunuch, I'm a pussy.

Best thing I've written during an AIM conversation in a while: "Hi, I'm Mike. Um, I'm not really sure if AA is the right group for me, but I really wish I was an alcoholic. Do you folks have any tips?"

Also, in a Genus III showdown yesterday (Saturday night), I bested the Professor 3 games to 2 in Trivial Pursuit. On Friday, I beat Skeeter in single elimination. "I am so smart. S-M-R-T."

Sam, our cat, keeps whining that he wants to be petted, but then he keeps walking out of arm's reach. Dumbass.

Mom and I saw Seabiscuit this afternoon. I recommend it highly. Also, Elizabeth Banks is beautiful, sort of like a non-evil Parker.

Stay On Target, Stay On Target
Okay, we just did cake and presents for my birthday (which was yesterday). Dad got me a gaggle of his paranoid anti-Muslim books. What the fuck? First of all, my birthday is not the proper time to be spreading your Nazi philosophy, you goose-stepping prick, not that there is a "proper time" to preach hate. More importantly, was this shit on the list? FUCK NO. How many times do we have to go over this? I make a birthday list FOR A REASON. I make a list because I want the things that are on the damned list. This is not rocket science. Please give me the things that are on the list, please do not give me things that are not on the list. The things you give me which are not on the list may be nice (though not in this case), but I made the list expressly because I cannot have the Sun and the Moon and the stars; so, I've had to prioritize. Thus, the ever-loving list of previous mention. This is a simple fucking concept we're dealing with here, folks.

Weirdest thing. When I was a kid, I watched a lot of MacGyver. I loved that show. Richard Dean Anderson was the man. However, after plowing through all of Stargate SG-1 this summer, he's no longer MacGyver. I just caught five minutes of a MacGyver episode, and he looked freakin' ridiculous. That awful '80s mullet, the lack of gray in said mullet, the non-wrinkliness of his face. Wow. MacGyver is like G.I. Joe, it was great at the time, but if you go back and watch it you've horrified. Strange how MacGyver is no longer MacGyver, now he's Jack O'Neill.

Ever notice how many of my posts deal with TV? Man, I love watching TV.

Last night, there was a large fire in Ann Arbor. The plume of smoke first appeared shortly prior to seven o'clock and continued to rise until the dark of night obscured it. As midnight descended upon this pretentious little burg, an acrid cloud slithered through the streets and alleyways. A haze gathered around streetlights; the smoke was diffused enough not to inhibit breathing, but thick enough to cause mild burning in the eyes. But it was the haze around the streetlights that most caught my attention. Yes, friends, that's right, last night in Ann Arbor things got a little murky.

I am left wondering if the fire was in any way related to some kind of transport disaster.

On a completely unrelated note, thanks, Dylan.

It's a very Reel Big Fish day:
"I'm a big fucking star, oh yeah!"

If you haven't heard Why Do They Rock So Hard?, for fuck's sake, man, you haven't lived.

Dude, seriously, check out the Teen Titans website. It's rad.

It's a very Reel Big Fish day:
"I think somebody loved me once
I think somebody loved me once
I think somebody loved me once
But I cannot remember why"

The last two mornings I have been woken up by these workmen doing some loud thing or another to the landscaping in front of the building. They arrive at 7am and park their truck directly below my window. Oddly, it really isn't that upsetting. At least it gets the day started, if somewhat earlier than I'd deigned appropriate the previous night.

Dinner with Skeeter on Friday night and then cake and presents with Mom and Dad on Saturday. It'll be the first time I've seen Her Majesty all summer; certainly tragic, but I suppose I've just gotten used to her not being around. Such is the way of the modern world. I don't know why, but we leave our dearest friends behind to make "a life" amid strangers. I don't want to go to Boston, but I cannot stay here and we do not yet have the wherewithal to found the Blue Tree Whacking House; so, happy trails, my beloved home and fellows, until we meet again.

I'm also discovering that nobody's on AIM in the middle of the day. Yeah, like you people have jobs.

Wilson
My sister dated a gentleman named, spookily enough, Michael Patrick O'Shea* for all of law school. I only met the guy once, at their graduation. Is that weird? Never Girl (does that work?) thought so. She could hardly believe that Evil Lisa had never brought him home in all that time. Huh, how about that? A of all, Her Evilness doesn't come home much herself. B of all, if you liked a guy would you want him to meet Rick and Joyce, especially Rick? C of all, all of this seemed perfectly normal to me. I mean, it wasn't like she was going to marry the guy. Wilsons: we may not seem normal, but we're every more bizarre underneath.

*This is spooky because my name is Michael Patrick Wilson, dimtwit.

Question of the Day: When did Malaya become Malaysia?

Talked to Lindsay tonight. She seemed a little pissed that I hadn't called her in so long. Um, hello, you've got my number, too. Sheesh. Also, toying with the idea of giving her a blog nickname: Never Girl.

Read Roman Dirge's Lenore. By the way, with the subtitle it's Lenore: The Cute Little Dead Girl. Hee hee.

The Legions
The 3rd Infantry Division is officially the whiniest unit in the United States Army. Jesus H. Christ in a fucking chicken basket, guys, you're in the cotton-picking Army! The President has made it very clear he intends to fight a "War on Terror," with occasional tangents like the conquest of Iraq; where in that do you think it says you will be sitting in your barracks at home? We don't need the Army to police the streets, we have law enforcement and internal security forces to do that. The job of the Army is to go kick ass and take names in the rest of the world. "We've been here for four months, and away from home for ten." Ooo, ten months in Kuwait and then Iraq, what tough guys; compared to all the guys who were drafted in December 1941 and didn't see home again until late 1945 or early 1946, the boys of the 3rd ID, as it is so affectionately known in the media, are on a brief excursion. It's an all-volunteer army, boys and girls, you went out of your way to get where you are.

Basically, my position is the old soldiers' axiom: ours is not to reason why, ours is but to do and die.

On Bald Mountain
Founded in 1915 by Oscar Seagle, the Seagle Music Colony is seated on top of a heavily wooded hill (known as "the Hill") in pleasant Schroon Lake, New York. The campus is composed of about ten buildings, housing a theater/rehearsal hall, a dining hall/lounge/rehearsal room, and living accomodations for the eighteen staff and thirty "students," known as young artists. The important thing is that the entire place is filled with bugs. Gigantic fucking biting flies and more mosquitos than you can shake a stick at. It's atrocious. The Mountain assured me that after a week you don't even notice them anymore; bullroar, I say.

David's roommate in "The Nod" (part of the three joined bungalows known as Wynkin, Blynkin, and Nod) is a quirky gentleman named Seth. He is perfectly suited to the Mountain. Neither of them would get on very well with all kinds of other people, and yet they are so cosmically perfect for one another. It's amazing. I wasn't sure about him at first, but he won me over most immediately. He's exactly my kind of dork; I sincerely hope he and David remain in touch.

The Not-So-Bald Mountain's self-proclaimed "twuest friend" is Tawny, a dazzling and charming young lady. No, that does not do her justice. Miss Tawny is a most magnificent creature, a true lady among commoners, a goddess among mortals. I fell in love with her upon first glance; in a world of silly girls, this is a princess. Quite sensibly, the Mountain fell for her right away, but learning that she had a boyfriend, he has directed his affections to another, the shy beauty Rebecca. Apparently, she's "confused." Gah, fer the love of Pete, if you don't want to go out with the lad, just say so. Also, there is his Figaro co-star, the vivacious Lydia. Methinks all the world's a soap opera on the Hill.

My beloved brother is having a ball at Seagle; for his sake, I almost wish the program was longer than just two months. I miss him terribly, but I'm genuinely glad he's so happy.

On All Things Teen Titans
Did anybody else see (and/or tape) the premiere of Teen Titans on Cartoon Network? Man, it was wicked sweet. Starfire the friendly, naive alien and Raven the brooding, world-weary Goth girl; hee hee, what fun! If we can just get new episodes of Justice League, I'll be happy as a pig in slop.

On the other hand, I was not thrilled with the first issue of the new (entirely different than the TV show) Teen Titans comic; the characters are very different than they were at the end of Young Justice, much to their detriment. (Wonder Girl feels like a freak? Where the frell did that come from?)

Still, Teen Titans (TV) was fab. The theme song rules! "Teen Titans!" (in artificially high-pited Japanese voice)

Soon to come, "On Blad Mountain," my report of this past weekend's visit to Schroon Lake, New York (the Adirondacks, near Vermont), home of the Seagle Music Colony and, for the summer, the Not-So-Bald Mountain. His fellow opera weirdos are awesome.

On the phone with Sardine and I'm in love.

An apple a day keeps the doctor away. Or, an apple a day gets you expelled from Paradise post haste.

Yum.
Yesterday, Lifeguard Girl and I went to Stucci's for ice cream. (Yes, I got Superman.) I've always had a little crush on her, but sweet fancy Moses, there are not words in the English language to describe what a vision of beauty she was last night; given the right cultural context, I would have launched a thousand ships for her.

Posers
Margaret remains Margaret Dykehouse. Parker and Mary remain Parker and Mary Peppard a.k.a. Mary Cannibal.

In Other News
The thought occured to me the other day: what if I'm over Lindsay? Pragmatism would dictate such a course of action, as she a) has rejected me, b) lives two thousand (soon to be three thousand) miles away, and c) has been dating the same chode for eleven months. I could very well be much better off "without" her. My primary evidence is that I keep finding little excuses not to call her, but that could also be a simple exercise in ego, ergo, I want to force her to call me. Hmm. Certainly, no resolution will be forthcoming tonight.

Lately, I can't get enough apple sauce. Also, plain bagels, uncooked with nothing on them. Yes, yes, I know, dry white toast....

Ben Folds's Rockin' the Suburbs. Undeniably wussy, but undeniably good. If I don't get Keep It Together for my birthday, I'm going out to the store to buy it the next day. Same thing with Welcome Interstate Managers.

Posers
Last names may be changed. Which option is better, before or after?
Margaret Peppard or Margaret Dykehouse
Mary Seneca or Mary Peppard
Parker Seneca or Parker Peppard

Pete Winter, Kari Putterman, and Anya Kamenskaya remain their inimitable selves.

New ideas include: a story about Mary's daily attendance of Mass, "Merry Cannibals," and a story about the multi-layered web of lies that is Parker's life, "Blind. Stinking. Panic." Of course, before any of that I need to finish In Search of the Perfect Lesbian. Another new idea, "Whatever Happened to Red China?," but I haven't figured out if it's a Pete or Parker story yet.

Wilson
I keep waiting, searching for the perfect way to say this, but the end result is that I say nothing. No more waiting. Since 9/11, my dad had become a racist. He's a Nazi, only his Jews are Muslims. If asked directly, he denies hating all Muslims, but then launches into a tirade about how the Wahhabi sect - admittedly, a bunch of really bad guys - are secretly taking over every mosque in America. He claims not to hate all Muslims, but then he describes them as mindless tools of radical clerics. He believes it is only a matter of time before "the enemy within" tries to impose Taliban-style Islamist law (no music, mandatory beards, burqas, etc.) here in the U.S. I try to tell him the idea is absurd, that the Supreme Court just struck down a law that barred sodomy on purely moral grounds, that the people of Dearborn are not trying to take away my sister's right to leave the house unescorted by a close male relative, but he refuses to listen. My dad has always been an asshole, but at least he used to be smart. I tell him that his current beliefs are beneath a man of his intelligence, that a few years ago he would not have tolerated in his house the kind of hatred he now preaches, but he simply responds that now his eyes are open. He keeps our front door deadbolted because he thinks his persistant letters to the Flint Journal might someday make him a target for our local Muslim extremists. When President Bush repeats over and over again that we are not at war with Islam, my father scowls because he thinks we should be. Since 9/11, my father has become an unwitting accomplice of Osama bin Laden; both men see an inevitable "race war" between Christianity and Islam and are doing all they can to bring it about.

Until I was seventeen, I worshipped my father. There is a line from the movie Fight Club about our fathers being our models for God, and for the first part of my life this was largely true for me. Now my father is a Nazi. My father is everything he raised me to oppose, moreso now than ever before. I fear it is in lot of every Wilson to go mad in his old age. If this is so, it will be a mercy to die at sixty.

Extraordinary
This evening, Pelsky, his friend Dave, and I saw The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen; it was fantastic. It was everything an adventure movie should be. The additions of Tom Sawyer and Dorian Grey, neither of whom appears in the original comic book series, were brilliant, as were the modifications to the characters. The comic is written by Alan Moore, a man very much in love with the "sound" of his own voice and far more interested in historical accuracy and obscure trivia than in telling an entertaining yarn. The film's characters may not be quite as loyal to their literary roots as Moore's, but they were brilliantly brought to life by a remarkable cast.

Allan Quatermain, the great white hunter; Captain Nemo, master of the Nautilus; Mina Harker, unwilling bride of Dracula; Rodney Skinner, the invisible man; Dr. Henry Jekyll, alter ego of Mr. Edward Hyde; Agent Tom Sawyer, youthful rogue now an American spy; and Dorian Grey, immoral immortal. I cannot wait to see it again.

Hopeless Savages
You should be reading Jen Van Meter's Hopeless Savages. It is the brilliant chronicles of aging punks Dirk Hopeless (born David Sterling) and Nikki Savage and their children Rat (son), Arsenal (daughter), Twitch (son), and Zero (daughter). Thus far, there have been two miniseries, Hopeless Savages and Hopeless Savages: Ground Zero, with a third having just begun, Too Much Hopeless Savages.

Dirk Hopeless
Nikki Savage
Rat Bastard Hopeless-Savage
Arsenal Fierce Hopeless-Savage
Twitch Strummer Hopeless-Savage
Skank Zero Hopeless-Savage

I hope I have equal courage in naming my children. It must be remarked that I had never met a hyphonated name I liked before Hopeless-Savage.

Arsenal's boyflesh is Claude Shi, while Twitch's boyflesh is his brother, Henry Shi. Ground Zero is about Zero falling in love with and winning the heart of her boyflesh, Ginger Kincaid. At present, Rat does not have a girlflesh.

I wish I had a girlflesh.

Another day gone in the blink of an eye. Man, I didn't even have that much fun and the time still flew. Then again, every day is fun when you get to walk around as me; honestly, I don't understand how you people can stand being so incredibly not Mike Wilson.

The Future of Star Trek
I like Enterprise, but I cannot shake the feeling that the only way for Star Trek to survive and thrive is to move forward; set a century before Jim Kirk's days of pot-bellied glory, Enterprise is inherently a step backwards, at the same time bold and conservative.

Between the first season of Star Trek: The Next Generation and last year's film Star Trek: Nemesis, we have seen fifteen consecutive years of continuity in the 24th century. The Next Generation, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, and, alas, Star Trek: Voyager (give me the money to make Star Trek: Odyssey and I'll blow your fucking socks off!) comprise the "TNG era," the single most elaborate and rich period in the history of the future. It would be foolish and short-sighted to not take advantage of that rich legacy. The Next Generation began as a new epoch, the first time Star Trek had taken place beyond the confines of Jim Kirk's era and contemporaries; thus, one could make an argument that the way to properly go forward would be to advance to yet another epoch and once again start from scratch.

I think this would be a mistake. When it began, The Next Generation sucked assballs. The series pilot, "Encounter at Farpoint," is very possibly the worst two hours in the franchise's now 37-year history. The TNG era did not reach its height until a decade later with DS9, the greatest of all Treks. Taking advantage of the framework of the TNG era does not guarantee a quality show (exhibit A: fucking Voyager), but it does save you a great deal of work, allowing the creators more time to concentrate on developing intriguing, complex characters and compelling, multi-faceted situations.

Following this logic, the Bald Mountain and I have spawned three ideas, one or all of which I may develop as I have Odyssey. These are extremely basic concepts at the moment, easily identified as titles:
Star Trek: Dominion
Star Trek: New Tomorrow
Star Trek: Farthest Star

If you hate this facet of my blog, sucks to be you. Of course, if you don't like this kind of stuff to begin with, it already sucks to be you. Loser.

Wilson
On Saturday, to help take his mind off Grandma, Dad and I went to see Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines. During the incredibly annoying Survivor-themed theater etiquette presentation, we saw an image of an elephant. Dad turned to me and said, "You know, I agree with Mom (my mom). Whenever I see an elephant, I think of Lisa, and I just want them all to die."

In 1999, my sister travelled to Tanzania to visit her best friend, Natalie, in-country serving a tour with the Peace Corps. For reasons that will soon be apparent, I have never asked precisely what happened, but at some point they decided to go on a short safari. An elephant charged their vehicle and while both Lisa and their guide escaped unscathed, Natalie was killed.

I had no idea my parents hated elephants. I mean, sure, one almost killed Lisa, but it's never really seemed to me that she almost died. The very idea is preposterous. I wonder if Lisa hates elephants. Of course, I'll never ask; even I am not that insensitive. Should I hate elephants? Wow, I never knew that about my parents.

Rest in peace, Natalie, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.

Holy Shit
They just stitched Dave's finger back together on TV. The ten year old boy in me thinks that is just the coolest thing ever. Man, Leno fans fucking suck.

Wilson
Priscilla Gray Wilson, my Grandma Wilson, died on Friday. We were digging around the sump pump at the time the news reached us and couldn't very well stop; work continued Saturday and Sunday until it was done. Some of you may remember her as the grandmother who was born in Imperial India, to an English governess and an American dentist. My Great-Granny Gray, may she rest in peace, was my closest foreign-born relative. Grandma Wilson was English enough that her four children forever called her Mum rather than Mom.

I'm not sure how my dad's taking it. He's not as angry and hostile as when Grandpa Wilson died in 1999, but I can't be certain as to whether that is a good or bad sign. Regarding Grandma, my regrets are legion; I should have gone down to Texas and spent a week with her. I wouldn't have enjoyed a minute of it, but I should have done it anyway. Damn me for leaving an old woman to die alone.

She's to be cremated; so, Dad and Aunt Meg have yet to decide what, if any, ceremony we will have in Austin. A gathering of Wilsons; angels and saints preserve us.

RETROACTIVELY MAKING STAR TREK: VOYAGER GOOD, Interlude
Before her death in season three's "The Joining," Lt. (j.g.) Tari Prix had been romantically involved with Lt. (j.g) Daniel Kim (on Odyssey, people get promoted, dammit). After the "birth" of Seventh Prix, Dan finds it impossible to feel for her as he had for Tari, but the two of them remain close friends. (Note: the same actress who played Tari Prix will, under the mask of a Praelor robot, play Seventh Prix, or at least provide the voice.)

Last night (Thursday night), the Professor and I saw Reel Big Fish in Pontiac, at Clutch Cargo's. The first ska show - and really, the first real show - I ever saw was Reel Big Fish in Pontiac, at Clutch Cargo's, in February of my sophomore year. How in God's name was that only four years ago? It seems as if I've lived my entire life in that span; I cannot remember a time when music and rock shows were not such a monumental part of my life. It seems as if I've retroactively revised all my memories. I never went to rock shows when I swam, but it seems as if I did, I'm sure. I must have.

I have lived and died in those four years and somehow yesterday felt like a last salute. Like the end of something great. But it can't be the end because this is the way it's always been and oh, God, I don't want to go to Boston because how can I drive to Pontiac for a show if I'm in Boston? And the only important thing in life is your friends, the people next to whom you skank in the pit and later stop for fuel at the T-Bell in Waterford, the one we always stop at. We always stop there, but I can never remember where it is.

I feel like the greatest thing I have ever known is dying.

In less high concept matters, the show itself was fucking amazing, obviously, because Reel Big Fish doesn't know how to put on a mediocre show. And, of course, I ran into Jason Coliadis, one-time member of Comeuppance and Murky Transport Disaster and for a time after I went off to college the Bald Mountain's best friend; I randomly see that kid everywhere.

Arsenal
In the English Premiership, my team is Arsenal. Yessir, the Gunner are my boys. Why? Because the Guy chose Man U as his side and I can't stand those wankers. Every proper lad knows the pitch at Highbury is the home of football.

I Seem to Have Acquired a Taste for Sardines
Today, Independence Day, I couldn't get Sardine off my mind. I think I may really like her. In any event, I have to call her next week, as soon as I get a chance. I was up to my elbows in sludge for large portions of the day; so, perhaps my mind just needed a pleasant thought upon which to fixate.