"We're not sure if he's evil or just unsettling on a genetic level."

Scary Go Round.

By now I've gone quite insane, and have decided that singing a bit of lyrics from a James Bond movie theme is fitting tribute to John Allison making me grin.

"Nobody does it better
Makes me feel sad for the rest
Nobody does it half as good as you
Baby you're the best"

I'm not sure what it means in this context. It's just what I feel.

God. What time is it?

Oh no!

If there was one comic strip that I didn't think would ever use ninjas, it was this one.

Way to prove me wrong, Ryan. Well done, sir.

Well done, indeed. *twists mustache and laughs nefariously*

God, what time is it?

Do-weep *warble* beep-beep! - Book IV of the Holy Chronicles

R. Stevens had this to say:

"That's when it hit me - the one mythological character I look to for guidance and protection is shaped like a garbage can. He can work miracles, never lets his fear get the better of him and always puts his ego aside to get the job done."

Thus did he make this shirt.

His other shirts are pretty hoss as well. Diesel Sweeties is one of the few webcomics I return to with any kind of consistency.

One of the others is Something Positive. I don't know what R.K. Milholland did to me. I don't even care if he's funny every day anymore, so long as he continues to tell me stories about these people. I mean, I know sometime soon Pepito will do something, or Choochoo bear will devour someone, or some jerk will be sodomized by (barely)intelligent vegetation, but I even considered the idea of going to Kamikazecon just to "Meet a Real, Live S*P Cast Member." Of course I realized that it would be creepy to go to a convention for enthusiasts of a genre I don't give a damn about just to meet a woman I only know as a fictional character and who has no particular reason to want to meet me. That is something that professional killers and less-than-professional stalkers do. Anyway, my point is that even when they are vulgar, violent, and engaged in reprehensible criminal action, I'm interested, and I come back to read about their disastrous lives just about every day.

I'd say more, but I'm not sure what it would mean. I described the shirts as "hoss"? Jeez, what time is it?

His book is called Lockpick Pornography; the cover design is offensive to fans of Sesame Street

I just want to reiterate: Joey Comeau. A favorite person of mine. You should also check out A Softer World and Overqualified, which you can get to by way of his journal because I am feeling exceptionally lazy right now. Still: Joey Comeau = neat fellow.

I went to lunch at Chili's with a friend of mine on the 14th. We forgot that it was Valentine's Day and that any two people eating together are on a date. I tried to call my girlfriend so I could loudly proclaim my heterosexuality to those who might be in doubt, but she didn't answer.

I really dislike Valentine's Day. I got Jennifer this shirt anyway. She found it offensive, yet comfortable to wear.

Two further items of note: 1) Houston skies, while typically gray, are a pretty rose color at night. b) My internet is disordered.

So long for now.

Having a favorite member of the Wu Tang Clan gets you "mad cred"

The guys next door listen to a lot of rap music. I've slowly become acclimated to rap music over the years as it has gained popularity. It doesn't inspire the automatic repudiation that it used to evoke in me and which is still invokes in my father. I've actually come to appreciate it as a musical genre, to a certain extent. At the very least I can see the appeal of a distinctly urban street sound. I have no idea what the names of these artists are or the songs. I don't like all of them and there are one or two that grate on my nerves, typically due to the lyrics. I'm not crazy about the lyrics. Gangsta rap in particular seems to glorify misogyny and racism, using a lot of unneccessary obscenities and violent metaphor, trying to evoke the metaphorical ghosts of N.W.A. But I'm not that interested in that aspect of it. I'm not street. I'm not sure I've ever even passed through a ghetto. I've lived mostly in rural areas, no street gangs to be heard of. So the lyrics, to me, are out of context. But even some of the more reprehensible songs are supported by what, to me, sounds like good music. Good rhythms, good beats. Good sound. And the lyrics, no matter how inane, abusive, or vulgar, just coast along on the music. I think that's why I've developed a passing fondness for the artist known as RZA. It's music. Quite clearly and brilliantly music. The lyrical talents of the artists don't always match the...

Well, now they cranked it way up. That's just rude.

He woke up one morning and realized that he had to be at his job at the SPACE STATION

Right as I go to bed, I'm occasionally struck with brilliant ideas. I'm sure it says something about my psychology that I come up with my best ideas at the precise moment that I'm least willing to sit and write them down. Anyhow, a few nights ago, my brilliant idea was what is sure to be the next movement in avant-garde literature:

Deliberatly bad writing.

Poorly conceived poetry and borderline incoherent short fiction. Writing with a complete disregard for good grammar, proper spelling, or appropriate style. I'm thinking there's something there.

I may give more thoughts on this later. My room mate is watching @#*$ing Access Hollywood or something and my brain power is almost entirely devoted to defending itself from the damaging Stupid rays that the show emits. Right now I'm interested in your thoughts. So

Thoughts?

Always Us and Them

In a speech to the Atlanta Exposition, Booker T. Washington offered a compromise to the white man. He said, essentially, that the black race made up roughly a third of the population of the South. He also said that the black race was, in general, willing to work and be a productive part of the community. He said, "Nearly sixteen millions of hands will aid you in pulling the load upward, or they will pull against you the load downward. We shall constitue one-third and more of the ignorance and crime of the South, or one-third its intelligence and progress; we shall contribute one-third to the business and industrial prosperity of the South, or we shall prove a veritable body of death, stagnating, depressing, retarding every effort to advance the body politic." He stood there, with his arms outstretched, saying, to paraphrase, "Accept us as brothers and we will prove our worth. Allow us humanity and we will shower you with prosperity and gratitude." He stood there smiling, hopeful, Booker T. Washington, nothing if not an optimist. And the white man, well, as we well know, he gave him a good look right in the eyes and then spit right in his face. So much for optimism.

I mean, he offered a pretty clear choice: years of ever increasing prosperity or years of economic struggle and social unrest. And those ignorant sons of bitches chose struggle and social unrest. We should remember this when white racialists or supremacists talk about black urban violence or the high number of crimes committed by African-Americans. We should remember that Booker T. offered a different option, and the white men of the time threw it back in his face with a big "Fuck You."

Of course, it's possible that Washington's vision would never have worked anyway. Reading History has made me cynical. Oh, so very cynical. Whenever there is a chance for two cultures, two people, two nations to interact and benefit from each other, somebody, some group has to screw everything up and make everything about violence, domination, and slavery. It's damn depressing.

I don't really have an uplifting note with which to end this. In case there are any present who wish to take issue with what I've said, please feel free to do so. I always welcome fresh views. Bear in mind, however, that I am well aware that race is a much more complicated issue than could possibly be hashed out in a single entry in a single blog. Or in any number of blogs, or, maybe, anywhere.

In case that's got you feeling down, like it's got me feeling down, I urge you to go look at a softer world. Myself, I have more history to read. Tralala.

Gah, I look terrible

Hrruuugh. I just ate a whole pint of coffee ice cream. Before I bought the ice cream, I knew it was a bad idea. I got it anyway and ATE THE ENTIRE THING.

This may have been a mistake.

So while my digestive system panics at this unnecessary and excessive consumption of dairy based dessert, I'm going to write myself a new blog. I'm not sure about what though. I'm kind of in the mood to destroy the world, but I said before that I wouldn't do that. Crushing enemies is okay. But destroying the world just to unburden my sadness? That is for other blogs. And livejournals.

I'm going to try to get a picture soon. Or three. One of them may even have a sword in it; I am a man in need of props. I will probably hold it in a casual and lazy manner, ostensibly to show how cool and indifferent - yet dangerous - I am, but really to avoid demonstrating how completely ignorant I am regarding the weapon's use.

Yes, I did go to a Renaissance Fair once. I still bear the mental scars of its sights and smells. A land entirely filled with verbally abusive folk in ill-fitting "period" costume. Gather the horde, General. Their kind must be purged from the Earth.

On a completely unrelated note, I hate flipflops and if I were a tyrant and a warlord, I would probably condone the practice of slavery. Particularly for people who wear flipflops; they are offensive to me.

Anyway, that's all for now. Tune in next week for the burning of heretics (otherwise known as people who were disagreeable to me) and our annual feature, "Arthur Mundane Gets a Haircut."