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4 out of 7 scientists prefer Chewbacca's crossbow
meanwhile, behind the facade of this innocent looking doghouse...
copyright 2002-2011 ultrablognetic |
Saturday, March 26, 2005
It’s a chilly, windy, mid-morning here in Honolulu. I haven’t looked outside yet, but the dark shade of the light through the frosted louvers indicate a long day of blasting force most likely brought over from the west, points like Russia, China, Japan, possibly down from the Arctic. Points unknown. 99 days out of a 100 on this island, the tradewinds blow in from the east, on the windward side of the island, sliding over Kailua, Kanoehoe, and points north and south from Sandy Beach to Turtle Bay, slide their way over the Koolaus, and come cascading down the pali and Likelike and points untraversable, past the dens of wild pigs, into Honolulu, even after the trip carrying a fair force. The last few days, however, have brought the Kona winds, and with them skies full of Vog. The weather makes me miss my native Los Angeles, the crispness that comes into the air when a bit of pollution is introduced, it almost seems like an oxymoron. The Kona winds blow in from the west, past the volcano on the big island, bringing with them the smoke and brimstone from it’s fiery crevasses, sweeping the vog (volcano + fog) over the rest of the chain. I like it. I miss my home. I’ll be there soon, if only for a short time. It’s been too long. It is a strange thing, though, that whenever I leave this island, it is not too long before I itch to come back. I guess this island is my home now. I woke up this morning having had dreams of the headlines of Terry Schiavo’s death. Sadly, she’s still alive, supposedly in her “last hours.” I assume these are same last hours she was enduring almost 15 hours prior. This business is barbaric at best. I stand by my former suggestion that some maverick or other type of metaphorically hooded individual make haste to Florida and put this woman out of whatever misery she may be encountering. What have we done with our weaving of laws in this country which forces us into the only outlet for letting a long suffering person die is to let them painfully starve to death. Pitiful. And pitiless. The depressing times are far from over, part of me doubts they will ever come to an end. Jeb Bush’s grandstand play was exposed for all it was: hot air. And like the hot wind that blows over the Hawaiian volcano, it produced an unusual and interesting, but in the end temporary and quickly dissipated, spectacle. Friday, March 25, 2005
 Some good Samaritan should do the noble thing and wander up to Terry Schiavo (which would be almost impossible now, with the media attention, there’s likely an armed guard 24/7, in fact, I’d like to get a press pass and get into the town, wherever it is, and verify this for myself) and shoot her through the head. Put everyone out of their misery. This whole grandstanding thing with Jeb Bush (PR, cough) and the parents is just, like, please folks, let this woman die. 15 years seems long enough to sit in bed and stare at space (has that even been proven, not that she’s staring but that she sees anything) when doctors for aforementioned 15 years have basically verified over & over again that she’s in a vegetative state quote unquote and they drag up some quack from Nantucket (made up, check your resources, dammit, Alfred, there’s a whole world wide web out there, use it) to say, “well, she might not be TOTALLY vegetative, so let’s plug her back in” and since when does Jeb Bush have any authority on what a vegetative state is except for possibly those moments under the shroud of night when his wife goes into a self-induced coma to overcome the sickness which envelops her when he slides his tainted member. Ok that was just uncalled for. Sorry, jeb. Ok, you caught me, no I’m not. It wouldn’t be so bad if I knew half of which I spoke. I need the following, basically now, plane fare to florida and carte blanche to interview Jeb Bush, full & complete access to the Schiavo “waiting for death” site, wherever that may happen to be, yes, I’m too lazy to look it up, this is lazy time, and third, uh, season clippers tickets for next year, but, no, I can buy those, I need full access and press pass to the clippers’ inner workings. NO, no, no, this is the story, this is where it’s at. Follow around Shaun Livingston all summer long, for his workouts, see how he’s eating, how it feels to have the weight of LA on your shoulders, and it is, even though neither him nor LA knows it yet. The lakers are in obvious decline, when your coach, interim though he may be, is throwing you under a bus, well-deserved, I might add, and you’re losing like dogs in the state in which your so-called leader had a much publicized rape trial, and earl boykins, all 5 feet three inches of it is dunking on your head, not that that really happened, it’s time to reevaluate. LA doesn’t like this team anymore. I need to be in LA right now. Badly. I need full clearance to interview Donald Sterling and get under his grill and figure out exactly what his priorities are. My guess would be money, money, and fat tittied bitches, in that order. Beyond the clippers, though, and nice tangent it was, how bout I pitch to the Honolulu advertiser a full expose on the Indian casinos and the new hustler club in the LA area, because, this could be fantastic, you don’t even know, local people here on Oahu are obsessed with gambling and especially Vegas, that whole want what you can’t have, gambling being illegal here, I could get the local perspective, the LA perspective, the numbers on Hawaii people coming to these casinos, but I need time, & money, and access to a wide variety of narcotics to keep me at various stages of awake and asleep as well as the backing of a major metropolitan newspaper or magazine to even begin to consider accomplishing any of these tasks. Which means I have to get off my ass. Wednesday, March 23, 2005
it’s time to twiddle my fingers and make the magic come out. Not that this shit is magic, it sure as hell ain’t, and I’m wondering as to the wisdom of imparting it in the manner of which I do. In fact, I’m wondering about this whole dillio in general and the usefulness of it and, well, not necessarily this being this, but this being that and that and that other thing too. Umm, in milder terms, shit, how could it get milder, I’m imparting nothing. Fuck. Why do I do it like this. What the fuck am I afraid of. Giving away the milk and then the cow can come crash on my couch for a week? Actually that may be a valid concern.
Monday, March 21, 2005
 It’s a big fukn year. The good kind. I mean, the wolves are circling, the good kind. That’s what I meant to say. I had it all rehearsed. My grandmother is an incredibly good person. Shit, shinola, etcetera acres, all that kine stuffulaplus. Both of em. Both my gramps have since departed. One left a, well, that need not be said, but put it in the good column. It all comes down to that, doesn’t it? Good or bad. Actually, it’s a trifecta. You can’t forget the nonchalance factor. I just wanta impart so much knowledge but there’s no time. A certain internet god said don’t ever apologize for not posting, but let me indulge myself anyway, I’m so full of love, I just wanna say, sorry, I had time, I really did, but I was either working, playing video games, or watching aqua teen hunger force, or engaging in other activities, like dancing my ass off while a chick frying on acid poured me like 3 shots of crown with a dash of coke and shoved it to me and said, “just go” and wouldn’t let me pay, cuz it was like that, or like, dancing with my baby, or like, talking to my fam, or like, you know whut? Fuck apologizing, I don’t apologize for shit, not for shit, you hear me? Not for one goddamm thing, cuz everything I did got me to this moment, and for that you can call long beach and ask em, I don’t regret a goddamm thing, I really don’t, at some moments I do, yes, I’ll admit it, but at this moment, ya know whut? Nothing. Not one thing I did wrong nor one thing I did right. I’m completely happy with every moment in my life at this moment. Don’t ask me why. Drink fukn bud dry mothafucka. Shit, bobby knight was the man with that whip at that press conference. Where did that come from? Just ignore the monkey with the pajamas in the background. But seriously, fuck saying “but seriously.” You know and I know how important this is, or how anti-important. This is, truly, though a big year, like I was saying, I mean, I can’t deny, lots of my peeps are making life long decisions, and seriously, it’s like, it’s so all good, and if you don’t wanna make a lifelong decision, that’s ultimately all good too, the right situation might not come along until you’re 99 years old, and if it does you should rush it like a champ. Anyway, I just wanna say I gotta shitload of love for all y’all. Seriously. And if you think I’m fukn frontin’, come out to Honolulu, I’ll tell you what it’s like, I’ll fukn pick your ass up at the airport, I’ll show you whut it’s like, ya heard? I mean, obviously, if you’re just some schmuck that I don’t even know there will be mitigating circumstances, but mitigating circumstances rule tha world, right? Can I get an amen. Oh yeah, and my dog is fukn Harry Houdini. |
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