So it’s Monkey Tuesday; my boss is more than a touch strange, and every Tuesday involves activities like drawing a monkey, thinking up a name for a hypothetical moment of monkey ownership, and other such nonsense. As the owner of a number of plush monkeys (don’t ask, i just like monkeys), I occasionally bring one into work for the brownie points, and of course the opportunity to make a spectacle of myself is something not to be missed.

I grew up in the country. Our house was on a small dirt road with three neighbors. One of those neighbors was a dairy farmer.

When I was little we used to walk down to their house to get milk and eggs. Best stuff on earth. If you have never tasted raw milk you are really missing out (not that we ever called it ‘raw’ milk, to me it was just milk). Same with fresh eggs from an old school farm. Not the fake free range things they sell in the supermarket, and definitely not those from a factory farm. Those are disgusting. Taste like cardboard.

I have often pontificated that english is an evolving language, much to many an english teacher’s chagrin. But this article put me back when I read it.

It is just that the language that they propose is so….. inelegant. Talking like a caveman would be fun for a bit, but what would it do to our collective psyches? What would this do to poetry? Or music?

ok; i’m almost sorry, so . . .

if you think the concept of a . . .

“poop-flingin’ monkey”

is funny . . .

keep reading : -)

otherwise,

ABORT ! ! ! ! ! ! !

(disclaimer: there are no “poop-flingin’ monkey”s in this post, however I do feel the image serves as a suitable warning for those who don’t feel up to reading about fecal matters [hehe] - finite)

So there i am, dog-sittin’

good dog . . .

Today I learned that my friend is being forced to leave his job. He has worked with dedication for this company for over 5 years. I know he has learned to; operate, maintain and repair a variety of complex printing and copying machines. He can keep masses of people supplied with the necessities of office existence; staples, papers, folders, in-boxes, pens, calendars, pencils and their matching amenities. He is keeper of a massive library of engineering drawings of a very complex production and research facility.

Picture a psychiatrist at her desk reviewing a case file. The report describes a young, teenaged male who, with several others his age, killed nearly a hundred victims. The case is astounding—not only because of the intensity and magnitude of the violence, but because nothing remotely like it has ever happened in the community before. Not even a single murder. As the psychiatrist turns the pages and reads on, the pieces of the puzzle start to come together. A few years before, the young killers had witnessed the massacre of their families and been orphaned. Afterwards, although still very young, they were relocated to another community with few adults to raise them; importantly, it was absent of older, mentoring males.

It sounds like he took lessons from William Shatner’s style of singing, but this video footage of good ol’ ‘W’ spliced together to make him sing U2’s ‘Sunday Bloody Sunday’ is absolutely hysterical.

My personal favorite bits are the parts where he appears to be dancing, or his facial expressions provide lovely splashes of commentary to the lyrical content.

Somebody put alot of work into this; enjoy!

George Bush sings ‘Sunday Bloody Sunday’

Some folks up in the EU are thinking long term. While they might be decried as the ultimate type of pessimist, thinking ahead like this is rarely a bad thing.

It sounds like something from a science fiction film — a doomsday vault carved into a frozen mountainside on a secluded Arctic island ready to serve as a Noah’s Ark for seeds in case of a global catastrophe.

The following is in response to talking plant’s retort to a post of mine. You may wish to read the original posts first, but certainly don’t have to.

Links: (for those who want ‘em)
- living this life of illusion (my original post)
- allow me to retort (plant’s response)

To the extent that a mere exercise in semantic brain-flexing can be called a controversy; the controversy stems from the various implications to be taken from a quote . . .

I had just stepped outside for a cigarette, since i don’t smoke indoors. It was a dreary day, had been spittin rain earlier. My son had followed me out as he often does and he was playing with his emty pool, flipping it over and rolling it on its edge. As I was finishing my smoke, my son came up on the deck and was pointing at the road.

This wasn’t written to convince anyone of anything
This wasn’t written to be a great work or to explain anything

This was written because I had to write it
This was written because I hope someone will read this, and be reassured
This was written because writing is so often all I have . . .
In these modern times.

I swear it’s not doom and gloom, and I hope you’ll agree with me.
-finite (do me a favor and play along) jester

There is a group of native south americans who don’t speak of the past being behind them. Rather, they say that the past is in front, and it is the future that is behind them…

Tell an old Aymara speaker to “face the past!” and you just might get a blank stare in return – because he or she already does.

New analysis of the language and gesture of South America’s indigenous Aymara people indicates a reverse concept of time.

The Jester and I have been bandying about in regards to the definition of The Artist for some time. In his most recent post he had a quote from Nietzsche concerning what an artist is (or in this case isn’t).

Whoever is completely and wholly an artist is to all eternity separated from the “real,” the actual
- Nietzsche

will you miss me when i’m gone?

when i look at life
with a wide angled lense
i can tell you honestly
that i won’t be here much longer

and as i look at this world i’ve made
all these possessions
the things that stay behind
i won’t miss them
and they won’t miss me

so what is there left
where have i touched this world
enough to leave a lasting mark

Today I was walking around,
Doing my usual: paying attention to everything that looks even remotely interesting, dodging in and out of traffic with my usual sense of alacrity, all while keeping up my standard (here read fairly fast) pace;
When it strikes me -

the thing i do most when i’m walking is Dream

weird little pipe-dream motifs
the occasional bit of fantasy
integrating all these
interesting elements,
(mostly human)
that i won’t actually engage with,
into the flow
of what exists
only in my mind

The Internet has managed to inspire all manner of interesting behaviour for at least as long as it has been capable of allowing us the safely voyeuristic thrills that it - well that it is.

In this vein we bring you an amazing video of a man, well, just watch it, details after the break.

The whole series has some delicious moments, but I think this vodka shot is by far the best. He’s also keeping a blog on the experiment, check that out here - The Last Angry Young Man

Finally! After far too long of a wait, I finally got to hear Zaireeka the way it was meant to be heard: playing on four stereos simultaneously. This is no mere album, this is an experience.

I’m a music fanatic, but today I haven’t had any interest in listening to any music, simply because I’ve still got the tones of Zaireeka floating in my head. At turns haunting, hypnotic, beautiful and disturbing; Zaireeka is . . . well, before I find myself simply gushing out tired clichés of praise, I’ll just say that . . . . Zaireeka is quite simply incredible.

Ok, drop the ‘0′ up there, remove the dashes and forget that it’s just a date in the Gregorian calendar, by which, to quote Wikipedia (italics mine) -

years are numbered using the anno Domini era, based on the perceived birth date of Jesus Christ.

All the same, do the math, tilt your head sideways, and you’re bound to see it . . .

666

Everybody ready to freak out now?

there is a doorway in the middle of nowhere
an object in white space

the jester has his back to the only solid
point of reference –
and that door has just
come ajar

unexpectedly it would seem
because
the jester is falling
backwards
into utter darkness

he doesn’t have his footing
but that’s alright

at least
he’s
laughing

first off, it’s a very dangerous thing to sit around and talk about socialism immediately prior to heading for the bar. although in general it’s also a dangerous thing to sit around and talk about socialism while drinking vodka, it’s just that if you head out to the bar immediately after; the effect can be devastating.

the american night
looks different
after a few stiff drinks