I know: I just wrote one of these yesterdayish. Probably. Whenever it was that I was awake before I took a nap and wound up stuck in today, which was kinda odd on its own, the past notwithstanding. Which is half the reason I’m back here already, writing more of whatever it is I write into this largely meaningless site. The other half is that, meaningless though it might be, it’s actually less weird than the world outside.

Wanna few examples? Okiedokie....

To begin with, I’ve been up for a few minutes when I get to the computer and restart the chatroom which unfailingly fails after exactly three hours. And the first line I see is...to be precise, I’ll go grab it....

m.t_blackwell: [105] robert l deakin 907 376 2905 = b_rad

Supposing that might not make any immediate sense to the people who hit this site but avoid the messageboard, other sites, the chatroom, and anyplace else they’d get to hear about dra_b: dra_b is a troll, a fraud, a criminal, a ’tard beyond precedent, and various clinical terms I’d hate to confuse searchengines with.

To put this all into perspective, this is also dra_b:

3:09:34 AM b_radmetropolis: gremlin i am going to decapitate you

So, you see where I have this deal where the guy is both stupid beyond precedent and also fodder for any opinion I might have. Incidentally, that threat and more can be found in the eternally biggernising casefile at http://gotards.com/drab, for those masochists who might wanna suffer through—to date—442 kilobytes of dra_bian idiocy. If his kilobytes were cubic inches, dra_b would be a musclecar: manufactured in 1969, rusting and faded, and sadly outrun by modern competitors half his weight.

The funny part comes later where, given that smattering of data with which to play intarweb detectivist, we tracked down the imbecile’s address and found it on a satmap [glorified outhouse with corrugated roof on the outskirts of an inkspot nearly within hitchhiking distance of Anchorage], place of kindasorta employment, criminal record [larger than satmapped outhouse], et cetera. Meaning that, in point of fact, the idiot threatening to, among other equally laughable crimes, decapitate me has to his credit been charged at least twice with beating up a chick or two.

So, that made my day, before it had barely begun.

To celebrate—or, really, to get the hell outta here and process a few things I was trying to think about, with or without Zombi the Siren screaming at me about something in Felinese—I went out for another limp. Hunter was right there with me, after twenty minutes of debating the best choice of shoes, my own input being unimportant since it was limited primarily to don’t care; grab two; possibly of the same brand; leaving now; I hate you so much; door get out door into world go damnit to hell. Or something to that effect.

Then a quick kilometre to Starbucks, which hurt my knee only lots, to grab some coffee; and next to the barber to do that stupid thing where I get my hair cut so I can wonder what I was thinking for the next six weeks until it grows out enough to make me think that cutting it might be, you know, a good idea. Usually, I’m really wrong about that. But, it was short enough even yesterday that the clever idea of ignoring it until it’s a couple feet long again is a journey of several years; and getting there is half the suck. Or, really, around seventy-eight percent. Ish.

And off to the authentic English pub with the food everyone but me hates, since I’ve got an acquired lack of taste for boiled meat and potatoes. And now, though Hunter is less than zero help, but loud about it, I ponder what I’d wanted to think about the whole time the cat wouldn’t shut up, which was whether I really wanted to get into the murky gig of playwriting [see yesterdayish’s What’s New] granting that it’s something of a slippery slope toward going Hollywood and becoming pretty much everything I hate about the obese midgets already doing that sort of job. Hunter’s meaningless input was that I should do it simply because I’d get paid a lot for it, all ethics aside; which is why I’m pleased to announce my forthcoming service of sleeping with any chick but Hunter, just for the cash it would generate. Incidentally, this service will be performed exclusively within rural Nevada, for those who think they’ve just caught me in a conspiracy to commit some meaningless, victimless crime. Neener. Offer expires when I post this What’s New, so Call Now.

As for the playwright gig: once I was actually allowed to think about it, I pretty well decided to be okay with it. It’s just funny, to me, since the whole business is weird. If I write a book, and it’s forty bucks, I get a dollar or two; if I write a play—which is shorter, simpler, and possibly easier, and it’s seventy-five to get in to see it, I get a decent percentage. So it’s a little like the music industry, except that the people actually thinking things up are the ones actually getting paid, not the egregious morons signing deals behind their backs to sneak their stuff into films and adverts.

I know people in bands; I don’t really envy them.

Then I drank a gallon of coffee for a while, and we limped on.

EDIT: Fun Fact. I write these things in Microsuck Word. Since it's got a spellcheck. Which guarantees that I won't misspell any words. Of those I don't invent as needed. Accounting for up to seventy-one percent of the words I use. One word I tried to use was Walgreens. Word assured me I'd misspelled Walgreen's. So I let Word change it to Walgreen's. Having just gone to walgreens.com to look it up, since it's seemed really weird all this time, it actually is Walgreens, Word's lies notwithstanding. So I fixed it. Also, I kinda hate Word. I kinda hate it a lot.

One stop, since I’d wanted to get a shot of something no one believes I’d seen there, was Walgreens. Which sucked, since they no longer had the thing I’d seen there. So, I can’t prove it now; but, if you’ll take my word for it: I saw a cool little BlisterPackOpener. Which, just to disprove any and all intelligent designers, came packaged trapped within—what else—a fucking blisterpack. That it’s no longer available somehow fails to shock me; it’s almost like other smart people saw it and doubleyouteeeffed a bit about it. Just, you know, maybe.

But that’s okay. I gotcha something else instead. Because, right about now, that gallon of coffee is getting bored and wants to go on without me. So, being crippled and only six and a half feet tall, I con this envested chick into opening the biosafety three mensroom electronic lock and letting me in to wish the coffee on its merry, mutated way. And then, wondering how stupid my hair might look, being now dry, I try to look in the mirror.

Now. Before I really get into the adjectives about this idiotic device, let’s talk about one specifically: tall. Because, really, I’m not. I know—just at the moment—dozens of guys [and, given heels, one or two chicks] who are my height, being six four to six six. I know a handful over six seven, and a couple nearing seven feet. People my height you’ve heard of? Steve King. George Romero. Jeff Goldblum [don’t say it]. Conan O’Brien. Half the guys in SlipKnot. Penn Jillette. Christopher Lee. Vincent Price. Douglas Adams. The other guy in Deophagy. All of these people are within an inch either way of my increasingly common 194 centimetres. Okay? I am not in any sense freakishly tall. I’d hazard to claim that I’m perfectly average, and an inordinate number of you little nuts are uncommonly short. This ain’t my fault.

Now, we have this mirror. And it’s actually set into the wall on an inclined plane, pointing itself floorward at a twenty degree angle. Meaning that, while I’m only 194cm, the following shot was snapped while I was in fact holding the phonecam beneath my eyelevel, putting it at, say, maybe six feet off the floor exactly.

Mirror, Mirror, on the wall: Who's the floorest of them all....

So. You see now how I know indisputably that I am perfectly average or shorter in height. Or, as you might guess, the mirror wouldn’t be criptacularly pointed down to a level at which the meekly infinitesimal midgets standing only five foot eleven could fare some remote chance in hell of seeing themselves in this thing. Meaning that, in a burst of multifaceted irony, I could see my cane in this stupid sideshow mirror, but not my hair. Because, evidently, my hair is not crippled, and therefore must look okay after all. To be honest, in fact, I still haven’t actually seen it now that it’s dry. Just for You, I limped precisely the hell in here to entertain you with my endless plight. I hope you’re happy; and that’s as sarcastical as I can be while relying on text, you thankless bastards.

Of course, I don’t fully have to rely on text. Obviously, there’s the snap above illustrating the one point. Better still, once Hunter snakes it off her DigiCam, gets it to me to upload to the server, which can then brainlessly process the .mpeg into a .flv [or whatever it does to it; I haven’t bothered with fullmotion here in a while], you should ultimately get to see what I’ll ultimately have crammed in here next, even if it means posting this nowish and editing it later to include it. Supposing that might take more than a minute or two, it’s possibly better [stupider] than the BlisterPackedBlisterPackOpener I didn’t get a shot of. So, now’s the time to hit F5 a lot, which at the least increases your chances of seeing an advert up in the upper right you’re curious enough about to click on and get me anywhere from a nickel to ten bucks, since I can’t according to the contract outright ask you to do that if you weren’t planning to do it anyway, as if I’d know what you were planning—you’re probably short, and therefore not entirely to be trusted, you mirrormolesting twerps.

Assuming that the fullmotion footage came out as good as I’m hoping, and cuts off where I hope it did, that itself should be a good note to end this thing on. So, until I see something else worth exploiting: more later....

Tags: Cripples | dra_b | Snaps | Video | Writing