| This is a clip of a farting pig featured in a Belgian children's show. Merry Christmas! | |
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Belgian farting pig cartoon
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
S Colbert at the 2006 White House Correspondents Dinner
No commentary on this other than it's hilarious and I wanted a place to park this link so I wouldn't lose it.
The clip is rather long but worthwhile ... just be sure you set aside almost 30 mins to view.
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-869183917758574879
The clip is rather long but worthwhile ... just be sure you set aside almost 30 mins to view.
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-869183917758574879
Monday, December 11, 2006
Jesus sighted ...
This is absolutely stunning ... Jesus Christ makes an appearance in an unlikely place ...
Friday, November 10, 2006
The North Korean Beatles
The recent article appeared in North Korea's online "newpaper" - and, I swear, I copied and pasted the paragraph breaks as they appeared in the original article. I got to thinking if The Beatles were a North Korean band, a lot of stuff would have come out different: "Sgt Pepper's Glorious and Revolutionary Struggle," "Yellow Nuclear Submarine to Thwart the American Imperialist Pigs," "Hey Juche," etc. You get the idea.
Appealing Lyrics Popular among People
Pyongyang, November 10 (KCNA) -- The lyrics "Forgive Me", "Mother" and "My Fatherland" are being widely recited among the working people and school children and youth in the DPRK. The lyrics, which were created scores of years ago, still strongly appeal to the people for their rich emotion.
Famous poet Kim Chol had this to say: I wrote the rough copy of the lyric "Forgive Me" during the hard-fought Fatherland Liberation War. Looking back on their childhood when they did not realize how deep was the happiness provided by the great President Kim Il Sung, soldiers of the Korean People's Army on the assault line hardened their mind to dedicate their lives to the defence of the leader and begged from the bottom of their hearts the fatherland's pardon for having neither more gallantly fought nor done more things for the country.
The patriotic spirit of the soldiers in 1950s still deeply moves the people.
The Korean people have experienced that the Workers' Party of Korea and the socialist motherland are best and that they cannot live even a moment apart from them while overcoming the ordeals of history under the guidance of the Party.
It is the unbreakable faith of the Korean people and soldiers to believe in and follow the WPK as eternal bosom to be embraced and as the mother of the revolution. The Party shares blood with them and protects their destiny and future.
I have reflected their ardent feeling in my poem "Mother".
The lyric "My Fatherland" by Kim Sang O sings of the love for the fatherland providing the people with independence on the basis of the revolutionary outlook on the leader, not the love merely for the country where they were born and have grown up. It thus touches the heartstrings of the people.
As they truthfully depict the noble ideological and spiritual world of the people on the basis of experience, the poems always call the Korean people to fresh struggle and feats with great vitality and influence.
Appealing Lyrics Popular among People
Pyongyang, November 10 (KCNA) -- The lyrics "Forgive Me", "Mother" and "My Fatherland" are being widely recited among the working people and school children and youth in the DPRK. The lyrics, which were created scores of years ago, still strongly appeal to the people for their rich emotion.
Famous poet Kim Chol had this to say: I wrote the rough copy of the lyric "Forgive Me" during the hard-fought Fatherland Liberation War. Looking back on their childhood when they did not realize how deep was the happiness provided by the great President Kim Il Sung, soldiers of the Korean People's Army on the assault line hardened their mind to dedicate their lives to the defence of the leader and begged from the bottom of their hearts the fatherland's pardon for having neither more gallantly fought nor done more things for the country.
The patriotic spirit of the soldiers in 1950s still deeply moves the people.
The Korean people have experienced that the Workers' Party of Korea and the socialist motherland are best and that they cannot live even a moment apart from them while overcoming the ordeals of history under the guidance of the Party.
It is the unbreakable faith of the Korean people and soldiers to believe in and follow the WPK as eternal bosom to be embraced and as the mother of the revolution. The Party shares blood with them and protects their destiny and future.
I have reflected their ardent feeling in my poem "Mother".
The lyric "My Fatherland" by Kim Sang O sings of the love for the fatherland providing the people with independence on the basis of the revolutionary outlook on the leader, not the love merely for the country where they were born and have grown up. It thus touches the heartstrings of the people.
As they truthfully depict the noble ideological and spiritual world of the people on the basis of experience, the poems always call the Korean people to fresh struggle and feats with great vitality and influence.
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Celebrities on commercial flights
A few months ago, a good friend of mine got a flight attendant position with an airline. The following text (unedited) is from an 'in-house' newsletter between flight attendants - the comments posted below are on run-ins that flight attendants have had with celebrities.
The Slim Shady dude, one of the biggest a**wipe! He began cursing because he had "hurt" his shoulder, and I wouldn't carry his bag down to the aircraft for him. Slight problem since his bag was BIGGER than me!
Donald Sutherland- absolutely gracious and funny, if excentric, one of my favorites
Pia Zadora- on her own planet:she meditated in the lotus position with a blanket on her head the whole flight (LAX-YYZ)
Gary Sinise-very polite, understated, a true gentleman
Jonathan Frakes (Number One, Star Trek)- a riot! Very funny and personnable: he got on begging me not to show the movie he had seen about 10 times that month (some lame tearjearker, My dog Skip or something like that)
The GooGoo Dolls- weird, very weird...we exchanged beauty tips on nailpolish
Recently from ORD-LGA, had Rev. Sharpton on my flight. We were all glad that he fell asleep when he got on the plane and didn't wake up until we got there, because we weren't sure if any of us could serve him without having to perform foot removal surgery!
We usually always get them between LAX-JFK:
Betty White ("Rose" on The Golden Girls)...The NICEST passenger EVER! Pure sweetheart.
Regis Philbin (Pre-"Who Wants to be a Millionaire)...Arrogant fellow.
Gary Coleman...Annoyingly talkative. Almost reminds you of an inquisitive 13 yr. old (and not because of his small size either). But ok acting otherwise.
Glen Close...Stuck up, ugly woman. Acted as if we were about to beg and plead for her tired autograph.
Rob Reiner (with kids, wife and maid) ...They took up the entire First Class on that 767. ok attitude, but VERY messy. Left trash everywhere on that flight.
Calista Flockhart...Sweetheart. Absolutely polite & easy-going.
Barbara Walters...Very snobby chick. Would cut her eyes at ya if you even looked her way. Very snobby-acting woman.
Robin Givens...A little tipsy and silly
Jennifer Lopez from LAX-MIA. Boy is her A$$ big, but not as big as her head. She scolded me when I refused to leave the aircraft and purchase some magazines for her. Guess she's to frugal to have an assistant travel with her.
In J. Lo's defense, one of my co-workers has had her twice, his roommate, once. They declared her delightful and down-to-earth. Maybe she has bad days just like we do!
I hear Dolly Parton is the best! Her niece is a F/A for AA. Dolly apparently wanted to be a F/A (so did Grace Jones!!!) They hang out in the galley with the F/As. Dolly served the cookies on a friend of mine's flight and they sang songs from "The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas" in the galley! I would have paid money to work that flight!
Bobby Bonilla (MLB Baseball Player)...Nice, easy-going guy.
Now for the less memorable, Joan Collins... should be made to check her Ego in before boarding the plane. Prince Andrew... blows hot and cold. One minute can appear nice enough, the next, treats you like a moron. Ertha Kitt... a bit bonkers I think.
Golda Meir (Prime Minister of Israel): This was during our bicentennial. She was boarded with her secret security as well as a detail of secret security from the US. We were going from LGA to BOS. On final approach one of her secret security guards got up and stood next to her f/c chair. I got off the jump seat and went over and asked him to take his seat. He told me he was "standing here for landing." I told him that was not allowed and told him to please take his seat. When he told me "no," the Prime Minister turned to him and said, "Do what she tells you." He took his seat and if looks could kill, I would have come off that flight on a gurney.
I don't see celebs in-flight too often, but I've checked in plenty of them!
Keanu Reeves (actor) - ASS!
Jewel (singer) - needs to get over herself.
Nedra Carroll (Jewel's mom & manager) - very, very sweet lady!
Joe (singer) - SEXY! Oh yeah - nice, too!
Ivory (WWF wrestler) - she is such a doll! Actually made friends w/her and now we send each other holiday wishes and she sends me WWF tickets whenever we're going to be in the same city!
Catherine Harris (Florida Secretary of State) - this lady is incredibly sharp, pleasant, and rather nice.
Gov. Howard Dean (Vermont) - what a pussy! Always travels with one bodyguard and one assistant. Demands to be preboarded. Gets off the aircraft if the temperature doesn't meet his fancy.
Senator James Jeffords (Vermont party jumper) - AWESOME guy! Wish he was my long-lost uncle!
Congressman Bernie Sanders (Vermont) - bumped him off his flights and called security on him for being a dick on September 13, 2001.
Yves Couette (CEO of Ben & Jerry's) - very cool guy who gave out free ice- cream coupons to all the staff!
Jamie Lee Curtis (actress) - she has got to be the world's biggest bitch. I think she may have been the original creator of the phrase "Do you know who I am?".
Jack Nicklaus (professional golfer) - ASS. ASS.
Bill Clinton (former U.S. president) - very pleasant. Hard to think ill thoughts about him when he's in your presence, despite what you hear on the tube.
Sandra Bullock (actress) - very nice!
B.B. King (Blues guitar god) - nice, nice, nice!
Bill Cosby (actor/comedian) - has his own plane, but I worked at an FBO that he parked in. Nice guy. Even nicer plane!
Miss America 1999 - WAY TOO MUCH BAGGAGE! Didn't say 2 words to any of the airline staff.
Jean-Jacques Cousteau (oceanographer) - very nice guy despite cancelled flights.
Chris Isaak (singer/actor/songwriter/my future husband) - very nice guy, stunning eyes. Someday he'll come out.
Ernie Kent (UO Men's Basketball coach) - nice guy. Very serious.
Kevin Johnson (NBA Player) - very annoying.
Harry Connick + Wife (kind of an ass)
Jermaine Jackson (nice, but so gay that I couldn't get to close because the flames might have scorched me!)
Fergie (what a luv!)
JFK JR + Caroline Bissette (sat in coach, and declined an upgrade, he said "the people in first aren't getting to LA any quicker")
Eartha Kitt (an icon who has gone round the bend!)
William + Steven Baldwin (indifferent)
Carson Daly + Tara Ried (pigs, I tell you. Pigs!)
Jules Asner (very nice, has a nose ring!)
Britney Spears (very polite and very quiet)
Ivana Trump (words cannot express the nastiness of this woman)
Macaulay Culkan (came in the coach galley trying to find his seat....3A)
Emma Samms (sat in coach with her kids, while her nanny sat in first...and so stunning in person)
Jennifer Lopez (I CANNOT STAND THIS WOMAN)...she yelled at me because I couldn't make her a double espresso, and then told me that my shoes looked cheap!!!!!! can you believe it!? so I replied "well at least they match YOUR bag!"
Mariah Carey (pre breakdown, and not very nice)
Richard Gere (he used to be a FA for AirCal....nice, nice nice)
Tony Danza (very nice)
Robbie Williams (wanted to lick him from head to toe)
Oprah Winfrey (one of the nicest, contrary to popular opinion)
Judge Judy (what a tiny little thing)
George Clooney (wanted to bust out with the lap dance and blow job service!)
Ben Stein - Just like on TV...whine, whine, whine
Lou Rawls - Very nice...I've served him on 5 flts in 2 yrs.
Pink - quiet, was asleep before the gear came up.
David Spade - nice, but likes to draw attention to himself
Charlton Heston - very polite and cordial
Phyllis Diller - just as funny in person as on the screen
Mia Hamm (Women's US Soccer) - friendly yet reserved
Matt LeBlanc - good natured and humorous
Sigourney Weaver - intelligent, quiet and polite
Former PM Margaret Thatcher - polite but likes her privacy
Adam Corolla and Jimmy Kimmel - partiers and good humored
Reese Witherspoon - delightful
Debbie Allen ("Fame") - very reserved but nice
Jerry Lewis! Complete and utter idiot! Rude, crude.I now change channels whenever he's on. Ditto for comedian Alan King.
I just had Richard Simmons on my flight (he is a weight loss /excercize guru) and he was just a HOOT! He made everyone cheery, he just brightened my whole year. The whole flight was like a big party ! He is such a sweetheart and a rascal too! If you have him on smile! I was eating a mouth full of ice cream (that the captain bought us) when he came on... very very no no... I ran fast to the bathroom...
Ed Marinaro (Hill Street Blues): Had Ed and is gorgeous brother, Richard, on from MIA to LGA. Due to weather all over the east coast our non-stop (2hr and 40 minute) flight turned into a 12 leg where we diverted 5 times. At first Ed and Richard just wanted to keep a low profile and be left alone. I was working first class and I had to beat the female passengers off with a stick. After sitting on the ground in PHL for a couple of hours, the Captain announced that we were going to take off for LGA. He also informed the passengers that the crew as going to go illegal soon. Ed told me that if we ended up having to spend the night in PHL he and Richard had decided that the 3 of us were going to share a room. I didn?t miss a beat?.I said?..?I can handle it? Had a few celebs in my time (not in the biblical sense of course) Probably the nicest was Shania Twain. Very polite, please and thankyou with a smile, basicly very unstarry. She even Had Wayne Gretzki's manager/agent. Tried to be upgraded. He told me who he was in no uncertain terms. I told him that I was sorry but I didn't follow football all that much! He must have thought I lived on a desert island but, it did the trick! He went back to Y with his tail between his legs!
Boris Becker-at door to f/a on boarding: "I don't want to be disturbed. I don't give autographs. I'll let you know if I want something!" F/a:"Certainly Sir! What's your name and seat number?"
A#$hole who wrote "Tuesdays with Morrie." Indignant. Didn't speak to the hired help. Challenged every last crew direction. Sat in first class, refused to turn off his computer and cell phone, indignant about bringing his seatback and tray table up prior to landing, very pokey about restowing his carry-on luggage prior to landing. Should have had security meet the flight. Wanted to tell him that his book sucked!
I did not work this particular flight, but I heard about Dick Van Patten, the father on television's "Eight is Enough." Sitting in first class. Ate his breakfast. Obviously still hungry after eating. Demanded another first class breakfast. FA said there was not another fc breakfast. He got nasty. She then suggested that he demand a breakfast from another first class passenger. He
could even pick the passenger. Good move on her part for it shut him up.
Senator McCain (UGH!!! He wouldn't respond to me until I addressed him as "Senator McCain" then he would smirk. He never asked for anything. He just wanted to be left alone. I guess it was a good thing I never asked him why he had a bandaid on his forehead!)
My favorite ever though has been - Leah Thompson from Caroline in the City. This past year was in the musical "Cabaret" in the lead role, which I happened to see on Friday night. On Sunday morning, she's right there in 3D from ATL to HOU. She stood up in the forward galley drinking Budweiser for the entire flight. When she left the aircraft, I stepped on to the jetbridge, and said "Goodbye Sally Bowles!" (her character's name in Cabaret), and in her most dramatic and british accent, she turned, through her arms in the air, waved, and yelled "GOODBYE DAHLING, I'LL NEVER FORGET YOU!" It made my friends who had seen the show jealous for a month.
George Clooney ?! ! He da MAN ! ! He is as pleasant and polite as he is good looking. And his voice!?to die for!
Tina Turner: When I told her that my brother-in-law's birthday was coming up and asked if she would mind signing an autograph so I could give it to him as a present, she wrote him a 1/2 page letter. Nice lady.
Jerry Stiller: Played George Costanza's father on Seinfeld. Is the real life father of Ben Stiller. Stayed in the galley and talked to us for the longest time.
Bill Cosby: He was seated in F/C but after the meal service he decided to hang out in the back of the coach cabin where it was almost empty. Very personable man. He invited all of us out to dinner, but we weren't staying in NYC over night so we couldn't.
Boy George and Culture Club: Remember them? Their hits include "Karma Chameleon" and "Do You Really Want to Hurt Me." I really liked him. We traded make-up tips. When I told him that my teenage (at the time) niece would love to have his autograph, he sent me back to their manager to get an 8x10 glossy for him to sign.
Marie Osmond: Very nice. She came to the galley to talk for a while. The only unpleasant thing was that there was some man in F/C that kept making unkind remarks about her, and celebrities in general, loud enough to make sure he was heard. Why do some people feel the need to do that??!!
Mohammad Ali: This was before he was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease. He strolled through the coach cabin, stopping to talk with passengers. Very unassuming.
Hulk Hogan: Wrestler (and sometimes actor). Laugh if you want to, but he is one nice man, well spoken, and HUGE.
Jay Leno: Very nice and funny. He's really an attractive man in person.
Tammy Faye Baker (In FULL make-up)?She seemed nervous and very child like. She was traveling with her second husband Roe Messner.
Sandra Bullock-Very nice, complimented my service.
Claudia Schiffer-Pleasant, but kind of demanding. (Slept almost entire flight and then woke up 45 minutes prior to landing and wanted entire dinner service at once.)
Regis Philbin-Was very nice to me, and to other passengers who engaged him in conversations.
John Lithgow-Very nice and eager to talk.
Tom Brokaw-Nice enough guy.
Joan Rivers-Very classy, friendly lady.
D.L. Hughley-Probably the most unfriendly of them all. But after I made it clear that I'm not easily star-struck we had an understanding, and he was OK after that.
Goldie Hawn-My favorite celebrity ever. She looked awesome, was so nice, and even chatted with me like I was a friend. I love her!! Super-nice lady.
Let's see....In the 'nice' category: Martin Short (very down to earth), Wynton Marsalis (terrified of flying - a doll), Wayne Gretzky (ditto), WWF including Hulk Hogan (a pussycat), Sam Neill (very sexy), Tim Conway (a hoot), Mary Wilson (the Supremes), Julianne Moore (a great Mom), Kim Alexis (ditto), Celine Dion (very sweet, but completely and creepily dependant on her
husband) and recently Bryan Adams (very nice considering our airline #**$#* him royally on his ticket and vegan meal).
On the 'not so nice' category: Rosie Perez, Cher and Mark Wahlberg
Kevin Bacon (needed a shower and shampoo)
Coery Hart (Sunglasses at Night singer, weird, played with his food and brought large carry on bag full of junk food)
OK.....hmmmm let's see:
Ivana Trump (I-vanna-hurl) Horrible woman (would say lady but...well, woman is the nicest word I can find) Very self obsessed. Always sits in 5A (front left seat in A zone on 747-400) Have seen her a few times, last time she sat there reading Hello about HERSELF!!????? Puleeeeeeeeaaaaaasssssse. UUURGH.(LHR-LAX
and LHR-JFK)
David Bowie - Really nice guy. Looked a little hippy/trampey but all the same. Nice chap.
Hulk Hogan (Professional wrestler): What a jerk! Screamed a 6-year-old little boy that wanted his autograph. Acted like an animal.
the turkish minister of tourism from frankfurt to osaka: low-lifer
some american gospel band from frankfurt to tokyo. i forgot the name. very nice and very, very gay.
Barbara Bush, iah - can't remember Very gracious woman, didn't speak with her much though.
Spike Lee ewr-lax, nice guy, cuter in person than on TV...the lady next to him was upgraded from coach at the last minute, she had absolutely no idea who he was and I think he liked it that way.
George Michael, he was a complete prat on my flight. The late Michael Hutchence was quiet and morose and looked frighteningly unhealthy. President Clinton, regardless of your opinion of him, was charming and posed with each crew member for a photo despite his apparent exhaustion. Rod Stewart was a delight (going back a few years) he changed his childs diaper saying that he wanted to let the nanny sleep! Never thought I would see him with a diaper bag slung over his shoulder. Prince Andrew does run hot and cold. Iman was charming and even more beautiful in person than in photographs.
The Slim Shady dude, one of the biggest a**wipe! He began cursing because he had "hurt" his shoulder, and I wouldn't carry his bag down to the aircraft for him. Slight problem since his bag was BIGGER than me!
Donald Sutherland- absolutely gracious and funny, if excentric, one of my favorites
Pia Zadora- on her own planet:she meditated in the lotus position with a blanket on her head the whole flight (LAX-YYZ)
Gary Sinise-very polite, understated, a true gentleman
Jonathan Frakes (Number One, Star Trek)- a riot! Very funny and personnable: he got on begging me not to show the movie he had seen about 10 times that month (some lame tearjearker, My dog Skip or something like that)
The GooGoo Dolls- weird, very weird...we exchanged beauty tips on nailpolish
Recently from ORD-LGA, had Rev. Sharpton on my flight. We were all glad that he fell asleep when he got on the plane and didn't wake up until we got there, because we weren't sure if any of us could serve him without having to perform foot removal surgery!
We usually always get them between LAX-JFK:
Betty White ("Rose" on The Golden Girls)...The NICEST passenger EVER! Pure sweetheart.
Regis Philbin (Pre-"Who Wants to be a Millionaire)...Arrogant fellow.
Gary Coleman...Annoyingly talkative. Almost reminds you of an inquisitive 13 yr. old (and not because of his small size either). But ok acting otherwise.
Glen Close...Stuck up, ugly woman. Acted as if we were about to beg and plead for her tired autograph.
Rob Reiner (with kids, wife and maid) ...They took up the entire First Class on that 767. ok attitude, but VERY messy. Left trash everywhere on that flight.
Calista Flockhart...Sweetheart. Absolutely polite & easy-going.
Barbara Walters...Very snobby chick. Would cut her eyes at ya if you even looked her way. Very snobby-acting woman.
Robin Givens...A little tipsy and silly
Jennifer Lopez from LAX-MIA. Boy is her A$$ big, but not as big as her head. She scolded me when I refused to leave the aircraft and purchase some magazines for her. Guess she's to frugal to have an assistant travel with her.
In J. Lo's defense, one of my co-workers has had her twice, his roommate, once. They declared her delightful and down-to-earth. Maybe she has bad days just like we do!
I hear Dolly Parton is the best! Her niece is a F/A for AA. Dolly apparently wanted to be a F/A (so did Grace Jones!!!) They hang out in the galley with the F/As. Dolly served the cookies on a friend of mine's flight and they sang songs from "The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas" in the galley! I would have paid money to work that flight!
Bobby Bonilla (MLB Baseball Player)...Nice, easy-going guy.
Now for the less memorable, Joan Collins... should be made to check her Ego in before boarding the plane. Prince Andrew... blows hot and cold. One minute can appear nice enough, the next, treats you like a moron. Ertha Kitt... a bit bonkers I think.
Golda Meir (Prime Minister of Israel): This was during our bicentennial. She was boarded with her secret security as well as a detail of secret security from the US. We were going from LGA to BOS. On final approach one of her secret security guards got up and stood next to her f/c chair. I got off the jump seat and went over and asked him to take his seat. He told me he was "standing here for landing." I told him that was not allowed and told him to please take his seat. When he told me "no," the Prime Minister turned to him and said, "Do what she tells you." He took his seat and if looks could kill, I would have come off that flight on a gurney.
I don't see celebs in-flight too often, but I've checked in plenty of them!
Keanu Reeves (actor) - ASS!
Jewel (singer) - needs to get over herself.
Nedra Carroll (Jewel's mom & manager) - very, very sweet lady!
Joe (singer) - SEXY! Oh yeah - nice, too!
Ivory (WWF wrestler) - she is such a doll! Actually made friends w/her and now we send each other holiday wishes and she sends me WWF tickets whenever we're going to be in the same city!
Catherine Harris (Florida Secretary of State) - this lady is incredibly sharp, pleasant, and rather nice.
Gov. Howard Dean (Vermont) - what a pussy! Always travels with one bodyguard and one assistant. Demands to be preboarded. Gets off the aircraft if the temperature doesn't meet his fancy.
Senator James Jeffords (Vermont party jumper) - AWESOME guy! Wish he was my long-lost uncle!
Congressman Bernie Sanders (Vermont) - bumped him off his flights and called security on him for being a dick on September 13, 2001.
Yves Couette (CEO of Ben & Jerry's) - very cool guy who gave out free ice- cream coupons to all the staff!
Jamie Lee Curtis (actress) - she has got to be the world's biggest bitch. I think she may have been the original creator of the phrase "Do you know who I am?".
Jack Nicklaus (professional golfer) - ASS. ASS.
Bill Clinton (former U.S. president) - very pleasant. Hard to think ill thoughts about him when he's in your presence, despite what you hear on the tube.
Sandra Bullock (actress) - very nice!
B.B. King (Blues guitar god) - nice, nice, nice!
Bill Cosby (actor/comedian) - has his own plane, but I worked at an FBO that he parked in. Nice guy. Even nicer plane!
Miss America 1999 - WAY TOO MUCH BAGGAGE! Didn't say 2 words to any of the airline staff.
Jean-Jacques Cousteau (oceanographer) - very nice guy despite cancelled flights.
Chris Isaak (singer/actor/songwriter/my future husband) - very nice guy, stunning eyes. Someday he'll come out.
Ernie Kent (UO Men's Basketball coach) - nice guy. Very serious.
Kevin Johnson (NBA Player) - very annoying.
Harry Connick + Wife (kind of an ass)
Jermaine Jackson (nice, but so gay that I couldn't get to close because the flames might have scorched me!)
Fergie (what a luv!)
JFK JR + Caroline Bissette (sat in coach, and declined an upgrade, he said "the people in first aren't getting to LA any quicker")
Eartha Kitt (an icon who has gone round the bend!)
William + Steven Baldwin (indifferent)
Carson Daly + Tara Ried (pigs, I tell you. Pigs!)
Jules Asner (very nice, has a nose ring!)
Britney Spears (very polite and very quiet)
Ivana Trump (words cannot express the nastiness of this woman)
Macaulay Culkan (came in the coach galley trying to find his seat....3A)
Emma Samms (sat in coach with her kids, while her nanny sat in first...and so stunning in person)
Jennifer Lopez (I CANNOT STAND THIS WOMAN)...she yelled at me because I couldn't make her a double espresso, and then told me that my shoes looked cheap!!!!!! can you believe it!? so I replied "well at least they match YOUR bag!"
Mariah Carey (pre breakdown, and not very nice)
Richard Gere (he used to be a FA for AirCal....nice, nice nice)
Tony Danza (very nice)
Robbie Williams (wanted to lick him from head to toe)
Oprah Winfrey (one of the nicest, contrary to popular opinion)
Judge Judy (what a tiny little thing)
George Clooney (wanted to bust out with the lap dance and blow job service!)
Ben Stein - Just like on TV...whine, whine, whine
Lou Rawls - Very nice...I've served him on 5 flts in 2 yrs.
Pink - quiet, was asleep before the gear came up.
David Spade - nice, but likes to draw attention to himself
Charlton Heston - very polite and cordial
Phyllis Diller - just as funny in person as on the screen
Mia Hamm (Women's US Soccer) - friendly yet reserved
Matt LeBlanc - good natured and humorous
Sigourney Weaver - intelligent, quiet and polite
Former PM Margaret Thatcher - polite but likes her privacy
Adam Corolla and Jimmy Kimmel - partiers and good humored
Reese Witherspoon - delightful
Debbie Allen ("Fame") - very reserved but nice
Jerry Lewis! Complete and utter idiot! Rude, crude.I now change channels whenever he's on. Ditto for comedian Alan King.
I just had Richard Simmons on my flight (he is a weight loss /excercize guru) and he was just a HOOT! He made everyone cheery, he just brightened my whole year. The whole flight was like a big party ! He is such a sweetheart and a rascal too! If you have him on smile! I was eating a mouth full of ice cream (that the captain bought us) when he came on... very very no no... I ran fast to the bathroom...
Ed Marinaro (Hill Street Blues): Had Ed and is gorgeous brother, Richard, on from MIA to LGA. Due to weather all over the east coast our non-stop (2hr and 40 minute) flight turned into a 12 leg where we diverted 5 times. At first Ed and Richard just wanted to keep a low profile and be left alone. I was working first class and I had to beat the female passengers off with a stick. After sitting on the ground in PHL for a couple of hours, the Captain announced that we were going to take off for LGA. He also informed the passengers that the crew as going to go illegal soon. Ed told me that if we ended up having to spend the night in PHL he and Richard had decided that the 3 of us were going to share a room. I didn?t miss a beat?.I said?..?I can handle it? Had a few celebs in my time (not in the biblical sense of course) Probably the nicest was Shania Twain. Very polite, please and thankyou with a smile, basicly very unstarry. She even Had Wayne Gretzki's manager/agent. Tried to be upgraded. He told me who he was in no uncertain terms. I told him that I was sorry but I didn't follow football all that much! He must have thought I lived on a desert island but, it did the trick! He went back to Y with his tail between his legs!
Boris Becker-at door to f/a on boarding: "I don't want to be disturbed. I don't give autographs. I'll let you know if I want something!" F/a:"Certainly Sir! What's your name and seat number?"
A#$hole who wrote "Tuesdays with Morrie." Indignant. Didn't speak to the hired help. Challenged every last crew direction. Sat in first class, refused to turn off his computer and cell phone, indignant about bringing his seatback and tray table up prior to landing, very pokey about restowing his carry-on luggage prior to landing. Should have had security meet the flight. Wanted to tell him that his book sucked!
I did not work this particular flight, but I heard about Dick Van Patten, the father on television's "Eight is Enough." Sitting in first class. Ate his breakfast. Obviously still hungry after eating. Demanded another first class breakfast. FA said there was not another fc breakfast. He got nasty. She then suggested that he demand a breakfast from another first class passenger. He
could even pick the passenger. Good move on her part for it shut him up.
Senator McCain (UGH!!! He wouldn't respond to me until I addressed him as "Senator McCain" then he would smirk. He never asked for anything. He just wanted to be left alone. I guess it was a good thing I never asked him why he had a bandaid on his forehead!)
My favorite ever though has been - Leah Thompson from Caroline in the City. This past year was in the musical "Cabaret" in the lead role, which I happened to see on Friday night. On Sunday morning, she's right there in 3D from ATL to HOU. She stood up in the forward galley drinking Budweiser for the entire flight. When she left the aircraft, I stepped on to the jetbridge, and said "Goodbye Sally Bowles!" (her character's name in Cabaret), and in her most dramatic and british accent, she turned, through her arms in the air, waved, and yelled "GOODBYE DAHLING, I'LL NEVER FORGET YOU!" It made my friends who had seen the show jealous for a month.
George Clooney ?! ! He da MAN ! ! He is as pleasant and polite as he is good looking. And his voice!?to die for!
Tina Turner: When I told her that my brother-in-law's birthday was coming up and asked if she would mind signing an autograph so I could give it to him as a present, she wrote him a 1/2 page letter. Nice lady.
Jerry Stiller: Played George Costanza's father on Seinfeld. Is the real life father of Ben Stiller. Stayed in the galley and talked to us for the longest time.
Bill Cosby: He was seated in F/C but after the meal service he decided to hang out in the back of the coach cabin where it was almost empty. Very personable man. He invited all of us out to dinner, but we weren't staying in NYC over night so we couldn't.
Boy George and Culture Club: Remember them? Their hits include "Karma Chameleon" and "Do You Really Want to Hurt Me." I really liked him. We traded make-up tips. When I told him that my teenage (at the time) niece would love to have his autograph, he sent me back to their manager to get an 8x10 glossy for him to sign.
Marie Osmond: Very nice. She came to the galley to talk for a while. The only unpleasant thing was that there was some man in F/C that kept making unkind remarks about her, and celebrities in general, loud enough to make sure he was heard. Why do some people feel the need to do that??!!
Mohammad Ali: This was before he was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease. He strolled through the coach cabin, stopping to talk with passengers. Very unassuming.
Hulk Hogan: Wrestler (and sometimes actor). Laugh if you want to, but he is one nice man, well spoken, and HUGE.
Jay Leno: Very nice and funny. He's really an attractive man in person.
Tammy Faye Baker (In FULL make-up)?She seemed nervous and very child like. She was traveling with her second husband Roe Messner.
Sandra Bullock-Very nice, complimented my service.
Claudia Schiffer-Pleasant, but kind of demanding. (Slept almost entire flight and then woke up 45 minutes prior to landing and wanted entire dinner service at once.)
Regis Philbin-Was very nice to me, and to other passengers who engaged him in conversations.
John Lithgow-Very nice and eager to talk.
Tom Brokaw-Nice enough guy.
Joan Rivers-Very classy, friendly lady.
D.L. Hughley-Probably the most unfriendly of them all. But after I made it clear that I'm not easily star-struck we had an understanding, and he was OK after that.
Goldie Hawn-My favorite celebrity ever. She looked awesome, was so nice, and even chatted with me like I was a friend. I love her!! Super-nice lady.
Let's see....In the 'nice' category: Martin Short (very down to earth), Wynton Marsalis (terrified of flying - a doll), Wayne Gretzky (ditto), WWF including Hulk Hogan (a pussycat), Sam Neill (very sexy), Tim Conway (a hoot), Mary Wilson (the Supremes), Julianne Moore (a great Mom), Kim Alexis (ditto), Celine Dion (very sweet, but completely and creepily dependant on her
husband) and recently Bryan Adams (very nice considering our airline #**$#* him royally on his ticket and vegan meal).
On the 'not so nice' category: Rosie Perez, Cher and Mark Wahlberg
Kevin Bacon (needed a shower and shampoo)
Coery Hart (Sunglasses at Night singer, weird, played with his food and brought large carry on bag full of junk food)
OK.....hmmmm let's see:
Ivana Trump (I-vanna-hurl) Horrible woman (would say lady but...well, woman is the nicest word I can find) Very self obsessed. Always sits in 5A (front left seat in A zone on 747-400) Have seen her a few times, last time she sat there reading Hello about HERSELF!!????? Puleeeeeeeeaaaaaasssssse. UUURGH.(LHR-LAX
and LHR-JFK)
David Bowie - Really nice guy. Looked a little hippy/trampey but all the same. Nice chap.
Hulk Hogan (Professional wrestler): What a jerk! Screamed a 6-year-old little boy that wanted his autograph. Acted like an animal.
the turkish minister of tourism from frankfurt to osaka: low-lifer
some american gospel band from frankfurt to tokyo. i forgot the name. very nice and very, very gay.
Barbara Bush, iah - can't remember Very gracious woman, didn't speak with her much though.
Spike Lee ewr-lax, nice guy, cuter in person than on TV...the lady next to him was upgraded from coach at the last minute, she had absolutely no idea who he was and I think he liked it that way.
George Michael, he was a complete prat on my flight. The late Michael Hutchence was quiet and morose and looked frighteningly unhealthy. President Clinton, regardless of your opinion of him, was charming and posed with each crew member for a photo despite his apparent exhaustion. Rod Stewart was a delight (going back a few years) he changed his childs diaper saying that he wanted to let the nanny sleep! Never thought I would see him with a diaper bag slung over his shoulder. Prince Andrew does run hot and cold. Iman was charming and even more beautiful in person than in photographs.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Music from My Childhood
I got Sirius satellite radio several months ago and discovered a channel "First Wave." Basically, it consists of a bunch of stuff I used to listen to on KROQ during the seminal period of music in LA - specfically, the early 80s. It was on that station that I heard Fun Boy Three, English Beat, Specials, Go-Go's (WAY before they hit it big), X, the Cure, etc. The list goes on and on and that list was played on that station.
Anyway, I have recently come to appreciate music that came out in late 1970s/early 1980s way more than I did when it was 'new.' Examples include but are not limited to Cheap Trick ("Live and Budokan"), AC/DC ("Back in Black"), the Bangles (back when they were The Bangs and way before that horrible "Walk Like an Egyptian" - specifically, their out-of-print first four song EP is classic) and The Knack ("Get the Knack"). And don't get me started on Led Zeppelin. Good stuff.
Anyway, I have recently come to appreciate music that came out in late 1970s/early 1980s way more than I did when it was 'new.' Examples include but are not limited to Cheap Trick ("Live and Budokan"), AC/DC ("Back in Black"), the Bangles (back when they were The Bangs and way before that horrible "Walk Like an Egyptian" - specifically, their out-of-print first four song EP is classic) and The Knack ("Get the Knack"). And don't get me started on Led Zeppelin. Good stuff.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Ebay and early retirement (not)
I recently sold my 1989 Honda Civic - I used Ebay and got about $500 more than I expected.
Everybody I talk to seems surprised that I did this. Hell, I've bought two cars off Ebay and have sold two cars (including this one) on Ebay. If you know what you're doing, it's a pretty good way to advertise or look for used cars.
Anyway, I sold this car to a guy who is sick and tired of his high gas bill - he drives a Jeep and his place of employment just moved to the other side of the county.
Some folks may think that you can get rich selling crap on Ebay. Although I think it might be possible, it would only be true if you know what you're doing.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
North Korea's version of the NY Times
This is hilarious - for those of you who don't know, North Korea's official 'news organization' has a web portal (hosted, improbably, on a server based in Japan).
Here is a recent story:
Short Fruit Trees Widely Cultivated
Pyongyang, July 11 (KCNA) -- Short apricot, peach and plum trees newly bred by the United Fruit-growing Corporation in Pyongyang are bearing fruit. In recent years, several work-teams under the corporation have cultivated such short fruit trees to increase fruit output.
An apricot weighs 50 grams, 70 grams to the maximum.
The feature of these fruit trees is to bear fruits from the year following their plantation. The 1.5-meter long peach tree also produces fruit.
The short fruit trees need one third of agricultural chemicals and one fifth of manpower compared with tall fruit trees.
The fruit trees bred by Bachelor Yun Won Jong are economically profitable. They can be cultivated in parks, pleasure grounds, gardens and flowerpots for ornament.
If you want to read more about fruit trees in North Korea and announcements of floral arrangements sent to the North Korean embassies throughout the world, please see http://www.kcna.co.jp/index-e.htm
Here is a recent story:
Short Fruit Trees Widely Cultivated
Pyongyang, July 11 (KCNA) -- Short apricot, peach and plum trees newly bred by the United Fruit-growing Corporation in Pyongyang are bearing fruit. In recent years, several work-teams under the corporation have cultivated such short fruit trees to increase fruit output.
An apricot weighs 50 grams, 70 grams to the maximum.
The feature of these fruit trees is to bear fruits from the year following their plantation. The 1.5-meter long peach tree also produces fruit.
The short fruit trees need one third of agricultural chemicals and one fifth of manpower compared with tall fruit trees.
The fruit trees bred by Bachelor Yun Won Jong are economically profitable. They can be cultivated in parks, pleasure grounds, gardens and flowerpots for ornament.
If you want to read more about fruit trees in North Korea and announcements of floral arrangements sent to the North Korean embassies throughout the world, please see http://www.kcna.co.jp/index-e.htm
Monday, July 10, 2006
Tired of email overwhelming you? Good tips to follow.
I stumbled across this manifesto on email that I think is right on the money. I may even try some of these techniques one of these days ...
Friday, June 23, 2006
Worst Video Game Titles
Last night, I stumbled across a list of the 50 worst video game titles. It's definitely worth reading. Here are some excerpts
Good stuff.
- Iggy's Reckin' Balls
- Booby Kids
- Tongue of the Fatman
- Nuts & Milk
- If It Moves, Shoot It!
- Irritating Stick
- Princess Tomato in Salad Kingdom
- Sticky Balls
- Awesome Possum Kicks Dr. Machino's Butt!
Good stuff.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Headache Insomnia/Romantic Chemistry
I was going through some really old email and before clearing one out, I thought I'd post a couple of stories here that a friend sent to me about three years ago.
***
Headache Insomnia
By Jamie R. (July 12, 2003)
I sometimes even see the hideous yellow face of my pain, but not very often. When I do, it is always about the same time, in the same room. I am unsure whether my pain lives there, then, and beckons me to join it, or if it follows me. It doesn’t matter. We are both there, and it shows itself.
My pain’s vehicle, either creator or progeny, is a breed of headache I was unfamiliar with when I was fully sighted. An eyestrain headache, the doctor concludes, advising me to cease the stressful activity and try aspirin for the pain. Since I am legally blind, I view much of the world through one type of magnifying glass or another, so now experience plenty of eyestrain, while I did not when I had normal vision. I believe the diagnosis, but the dullard’s feeble prescription is unrealistic and insulting. It is obvious the activity in question is my economic survival in a visually intensive society, so stopping is impossible. I don’t expect him to know aspirin is worse than useless, but I’m insulted to find he thinks me such a slack-wit that I never thought to pursue that mundane course of treatment. Still, he can’t know the futility of using over-the-counter remedies, as his narrow philosophy only permits the headache to be a medical condition. I know otherwise, because the headache I experience is always the same one. It came with my disability and lives inside me, usually dormant and causing no ill effects. Occasionally, it wakens, grows, and comes to visit, not a recurring malady, but an entity possessing volition and guile. I know this. I am an intimate terms with the being. We live together, and I alone am capable of understanding it. Eyestrain headache, it doesn’t sound so bad. Discussing it rationally, only possible in it’s absence, reduces it to a purely intellectual construction, and enables me to believe it isn’t.
My eyestrain headache differs from other kinds I experience. It resides in a place near the geometric center of my brain. When it arises, it stays up with me for several days, so if I manage to sleep, and cheat it out of part of its due, respite is brief. It waits for me to wake. In the morning, it signals with sharp messages, moderate jabs running up the back of my neck that urge full consciousness. The headache’s most distinctive quality, though, is it is accompanied by a myriad of visual effects. These begin hours before the pain, so serve to foretell the headache’s arrival, as well as to accent and enhance its discomfort for the episode’s duration. Aside from a general deterioration of my already poor sight, further blurring, and slower image-interpretation, the headache is heralded with, and accompanied by, flashing lights. In the beginning, the lights are small and subtle, thousands of tiny dots, like proximate stars, twinkling around me. When I see them, I know the headache is coming and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. As the entity grows, the lights become bigger and brighter, even violent. When the show is at its peak, it seems as if I walk through a dim corridor lined with photographers continuously snapping flash pictures with inappropriately powerful gear. Each flash is a concentrated spotlight aimed directly at my retinas. After each hits its mark, residual light lingers and scatters, adding additional distortion to the disturbances of new flashes. When the being rages and I am out in the city, the world is an only partially existent, dangerous place. Over half of my normally poor vision is occupied with flashes, which erodes my ability to interpret actual objects, such as moving cars. I often experience near collisions, but, immersed in the headache’s unpleasant fog, I don’t care much at the time.
The first day is not too bad. In my cubicle at work, I look up from the computer. A thin trail of lights drags behind my shifting line of sight. They appear as fireworks, incredibly small, intense spheres of brightness that quickly fade and vanish. This is the headache’s announcement of its intended arrival. It never visits without calling first. I look at the clock and feel fear, as it is only one, which means the beast will be with me by the time I head out. Aside from anxiety, there are no other unpleasant effects. The lights are even beautiful and interesting to watch, a private display being shot off for my sole enjoyment. I spend an inordinate amount of time not working, just watching the show.
The infant headache is born by the end of the day. It gets my attention, makes me aware we are together, but doesn’t push it. I walk through the streets and ride the bus home with little difficulty and only minor irritation, a dull throbbing and intermittent dim lights. The pace picks up during the evening, as my wife and I talk and watch television. I am communicative, as the pain is mild, though grows more insistent as the being organizes and consolidates. I feign disinterest in the creature. I believe this annoys it, but have no evidence. I have a hunch. The night passes relatively well, as the headache only manages to deliver a powerful enough stab to wrench me from sleep every hour. I get out of bed and pace, then drift off again, spending the night alternating between hour-long periods of sleep and half-hour periods of wakefulness. This ragged pattern takes a toll, adding the disorienting, will-eroding effects of sleeplessness to the headache’s discomfort, giving the malaise a surreal edge.
The second day begins with the headache nagging, exerting a constant, but not severe, pressure. Each heartbeat creates a throb in the center of my head. It is tolerable, but causes slight dizziness. Out in the town on my way to work, the environment begins to change. Sounds are slightly louder than they ought. Colors appear more vibrant and bleed together, making it difficult to ascertain where one object leaves off and another begins. The flashing is sporadic and weak, creating few problems. Work is transformed into a series of mildly irritating events. Slightly loud or improperly pitched voices bug me. Fluorescent lights emit annoying purplish glare. Why does the phone keep ringing? Through all this, the headache builds, its dull throbbing punctuated with occasional jabs of intense pain. I get through it.
By bedtime, the event is in full swing. I can no longer hide the headache, but I don’t actively whine. I don’t have to. I sit silently while my wife speaks to me a language I am presently unable to understand. Like an incompetent field linguist, I make crude and ineffective attempts to isolate, and attach meaning to, patterns in the noises she makes, but the pounding has long since rendered incoming communications difficult, at best, to interpret. Coherent outgoing messages are also unlikely, as the intense pressure in my head clogs the route between my brain and vocal chords, making transmission of formulated ideas between the two points physically improbable. I gape moronically as she talks, unable to fully comprehend or adequately acknowledge, occasionally contributing a few slurred syllables of partially articulated words, which, she claims, come out as meaningless grunts and hums. In this manner, I whine passively, complaining implicitly with my silence. Because I don’t say anything, she knows the headache is with me. Although I don’t want to spread even a bit of my misery onto her, I can’t care. I refuse to hold myself accountable for communication without intent.
The night is long. Brief bouts of fitful sleep are interrupted by extended periods of wide-awake staring at the ceiling, contemplating various aspects of the headache. I can only imagine how it occurs, and I do. I imagine it so fully, my version becomes true. It becomes truer than fact, better than science, because it is entirely contained in my mind. After countless sleepless headache nights spent in study, a detailed, meticulously constructed, working model of the process is housed in my brain. There, I can examine it, test it, change it until it works. As I conceptualize each mechanism, I feel it occur, verifying my assumptions until they are true.
The eyes constantly gather images. They draw particles of light from objects and suck them in through the pupils in streams, funneling them towards the retina for reassembly and interpretation. The retina’s central area, the macula, is the vortex to which the swirling fragments are drawn. In the retina of the normally sighted, the particles hit the macula and stick, accurately reconstructing the observed image, and the eye’s muscles and nerves relax while they await the next signal.
In my retina, the process operates differently. The particles strike the degenerated macula, and those that hit a good spot stick, while others bounce off diseased points of impact and scatter, reduced to incomprehensible fragments of colored light. They ricochet around on useless tissue for a while, then lay, unused, at the back of the eye. The brain struggles to make sense of the fragments that stuck, forced to work hard at the task of filling in gaps, which often fails. While the nerves and muscles are still trying to diagnose and fix the problem, another cascade of swirling light particles, drawn from a new image, hits the macula. Again, some stick, while others tumble to the back. A heap of wasted light forms at the back of the eyes, growing with each new bombardment. The recesses at the back of the eyes fill to bursting. It has to go somewhere. The pressure from the growing pile forces fragments out through fissures too tiny for them to pass through otherwise. The light seeps out of the back of the eye, directly into the brain cavity serving as the hibernating monster’s lair. The particles of energy touch the sleeping beast, curling around it in a fine mist. The headache grows and takes shape, gathering seeping light particles more and more as each image strikes the macula on the other side of the cracks. The beast becomes itself, again.
It’s happening right now. I’m in bed, staring at the ceiling, testing my model against the feelings I am experiencing. I find them to be consistent, as I can almost hear each discarded particle tinkling onto the swelling heap and feel the minute increase in pressure each new addition causes. Sometime after four, I doze, despite the ruckus. Or maybe, on account of it. Perhaps the continuous hammering knocks me senseless. Either way, I’m grateful for the break. No, an eyestrain headache doesn’t sound so bad, but when it greets me at daybreak with a worse banging pain than the one I fell asleep with, it seems like it is.
As soon as I begin to stir, but still cling to precious unconsciousness, the headache strengthens. The morning birds give it the momentum it needs to obliterate the remaining remnants of sleep. Just before it succeeds, less than half awake, I dream their songs, which are several times louder than necessary and carry disturbing, oddly spaced notes that cause a wave of almost physical revulsion. I ride the sickening wave out of oblivion into headache reality.
The morning is bad. The headache, annoyed with impatience from waiting, pushes me to full alertness with a few rapid, particularly nasty jolts. Now that I’m fully awake, no sharp edges are dulled, and my return to total awareness of every aspect of the headache makes me recall being up nearly all night, dealing with it’s uncomfortable effects. I seriously doubt sleep ever really came. Up for work, I am a zombie shuffling through a hostile haze of pounding pressure and distorted perception, automatically performing the necessary motions without thought. Out into the city at seven presents a dreary, surreal scene. Every sense heightened by the headache and lack of sleep, I am assaulted by brightness and sound. The light hurts my eyes. A quiet noise from a passing car contains a peculiar, high-pitched buzz that wheezes into my ears, bothering me. Work exists to get on my last nerve. People’s voices and office sounds are loud and distorted. Lights are overly bright and flicker terribly. The chair is uncomfortably hard, and pushes relentlessly against my thighs. I’m getting a cramp in my leg. In the cafeteria at lunch, cutlery clanks in faint, but distinct, discordant flats and sharps that tear at my sensibilities. A tremendous rustling noise, like the sound of a brisk wind through an autumn forest, is produced by a man removing the cellophane from a Twinkie. The pop tastes like summer hose-water. I’ve got a stomachache. The colored plastic tendrils decorating the toothpick through the deli sandwich I bought are so little, they’re ticking me off. I need to get out.
I leave work two hours early, overwhelmed by the headache’s constant thudding and no longer able to interpret my computer screen. The city is masked in a harsh bright glare of blending colors. My hypersensitive vision gathers every possible image, but the brain is unable to interpret each fully, so parts of each distinct object are interspersed with parts of other objects, and I perceive one great scramble of visual signals, like there is a finger-painted wall directly in front of me. I use my cane to navigate, ignoring the incomprehensible, and false, appearance of my surroundings. I normally don’t need the cane, as I usually possess enough vision to find my way by sight, but under the beast’s influence, I am functionally blind. It is not a blindness of darkness, like I probably imagined before I became visually impaired, but a bright blindness, brought about by excess, rather than absence, of light. I determine the safety of crossing streets by sound, which is normally pretty efficient, as motor vehicles make substantial noise, and my practiced hearing is adept at estimating distance by ear. In my current state, though, the task is complicated by my headache and insomnia enhanced hearing. Complicated, but safe, as my ability to hear further than usual necessitates greater caution, and I detect, and wait for, cars that sound imminent, but are actually too far away to do me any harm. I wait a long time at each crosswalk, until nothing but silence prowls the street, and feel the way to the bus with the cane. Its vibration as it taps the sidewalk sends tiny shocks up my arm, making it tingle as if asleep. I struggle to remain oblivious to all the useless information coursing through me, and concentrate on the cane’s interpretation, which is the only reliable input I am receiving. This works. I make it home without incident.
I spend the rest of the afternoon and evening vainly trying to decipher the television, as it shoots off thousands of images and words every minute. I get in bed with my wife at the regular time, each movement causing a small, uncomfortable disturbance in the pounding pattern. The sheet feels like sandpaper as I lay back and drag it up over my sensitized skin. The sound of the sheet rubbing against itself and the bed has an underlying, normally inaudible, scraping quality that gives me a dose of the creeps. I don’t understand how I still manage to grasp at the faintest shred of hope for sleep at this point, but I do. This hope is not based on experience, but on probability. Even in the midst of the most frantic, pounding pain, sleep sometimes comes. Why not now, instead of at 3:30? The odds are slightly worse than those for being struck by lightening while placing a winning single-number roulette bet. The pounding exerts itself. I lay on my back, staring at the fireworks hovering above. I hear my wife’s breathing change, the pressure distorting the soft sounds until her breath bellows and booms as she drifts away. I stay like this for an hour, experiencing the headache, continually examining its effects and adjusting my model, which now approaches perfection. The level of pressure escalates, banging through my temples, shaking my whole body with slight twitches. Futility appears. Sleep is totally out of the question, despite need and desire, as mounting pressure renders exhaustion irrelevant. Headache insomnia dominates the evening’s activities.
The beast is everywhere, following or leading me as I pace about. It exaggerates every sense. Normally quiet night sounds are amplified and distorted. I hear every hand dragging across the face of every clock in the house. The air conditioner kicks on with a boom, then produces a high-pitched, grating squeal as it runs. I pace, because the timing of my steps is out of cadence with my heartbeat, distracting me from the incessant throbbing. The floor is too hard. Not content with having my feet lightly tread on it, it pushes up against them, causing me to stumble. I can smell everything we’ve cooked, and cleaned with, for the past several days, all in one nauseating mix of odors. As I pass through dark rooms, walls emit bright flashes, which shoot through my pupils as they are sucked into the diseased vortex. As always, a portion of the particles comprising each flash cannot adhere to the macular surface and are discarded into the back of my head, creating more substance to feed the raging beast.
Eventually, without complete conscious intent, I collapse into the wheeled office chair at my computer and lean back, gripping the arms tightly. There is no sensation but the heartbeat-timed pounding pain. I suddenly understand it is yellow, but the perception is not entirely visual. Although each beat causes an incredible instant of pressure along the veins in my temples that is accompanied by a yellow flash, other senses also perceive the headache pain’s nature. It feels profoundly yellow. It tastes yellow. The air is thick with a yellow smell that makes it difficult to take full breaths, and I hear a roaring, yellow sound. I grip the chair more tightly, lean back, and roll around slightly. I can tell the beast is close to the surface.
“Show yourself,” I scream, without verbalization, willing it to appear.
Nothing happens. I rock back, immersed in my lonely, insomniac world. I slip away, somehow, for several minutes, only realizing I am asleep when I experience waking. A prickling sensation goads the back of my head, running up the base of my neck, resulting in a body shaking shiver that wakes me. From the corner of one eye, I glimpse a yellowish white wisp of fine mist originating somewhere behind me. It passes in front, a continuous stream of bright yellow dots, like the illuminated dust of a comet’s tail, and circles my head. The stream spirals and wraps around my head several times, about six inches away. The spiral grows and twists with dizzying speed until I am looking up into a tornado of yellow flecks. The funnel configuration’s source is an unseen point somewhere at the back of my head, where the headache’s pressure forces accumulated scraps of wasted light to ooze from my skull. Through delirium, I watch a cloud take shape inches from my face. An area is defined where shimmering particles move closer together, forming a shape more yellow than the streams of more widely spaced lights in the funnel. The shape takes form, appearing to be a stocky, flying gnome. It dances before my eyes, jerking in frantic, arrogant, irritating gestures. It’s long, narrow, pointy face emerges, astoundingly yellow. It doesn’t look like a real person, but like an exaggerated painting of a mythical face, the face of a deranged pixie, twisted by misery and spite. The horrid grimace floats, becoming a shade more yellow as each beat of my heart pushes another wave of pain and light out of my brain to nourish it. The pressure is so severe, it conveys the impression I have a high fever. In an insomniac’s desperate boredom, I put my hand on my head every thirteen seconds to check, but detect no heat. With each heartbeat, I grow hotter, the pressure stronger, the pain more nauseating. The demon glows a shade of perfect, fully saturated yellow, so pure and beautiful it is not meant for this world. As I am able to experience the color with all of my senses, the shock of its purity overwhelms me. I pass out.
I wake in the chair, sweating slightly, to a house at normal volume. No throbbing and little pressure remain. It’s over. Eyestrain headache, it doesn’t sound so bad. Perhaps it isn’t. On a day with acceptably obscured vision, average ability in use of my other senses, and the absence of excessive pressure, I don’t think it is.
***
Romantic Chemistry
by Jamie R. (June 21, 2003)
I was nearly an accredited scientist, but my extensive knowledge of medicine and biochemistry were useless at that point. The malady I suffered was real, but its symptoms could not be measured, so no treatment was prescribed. It was an emotional affliction that expressed itself physically. Fluctuations in pulse-rate, associated with my body's adjustments to minor chemical imbalances, caused variation in temperature and waves of manic exhilaration, resulting in pleasant, euphoric disorientation.
That inexplicable reaction some call love.
Schooled in science, I did not entertain the false notion I control my actions. I realized I was merely a sustained chemical reaction, which, although poorly understood, had somewhat predictable results. Somewhat, for I could not foretell whose byproducts would react with mine, or when, but it happened.
My particular composition causes me to react strangely to certain chemical emissions of the female of the species. Since adolescence, I had been assaulted by many such mixtures, and combinations of varying potency had been formed by contacts with nearly every female I crossed compounds with. I resisted, sustained by my love of freedom and fear of rejection, avoiding commitment at all costs. In loneliness, I found independence, unburdened by others’ expectations.
After years of suppressing irrational feeling, I thought I was numb with indifference and immune to entanglement, especially with somebody with whom I had absolutely nothing in common. She was from an elevated social plane, and destined to remain there, so I, an impoverished science student, was no great catch. This was irrelevant at the molecular level, as she emitted reagents that explosively reacted with mine, producing insanity causing substances my body had never contained. I fell. The newly forming solution inside me was reaching saturation, yielding emotional precipitation that compelled me to act, to speak. I had to tell her.
"I really like you."
Getting close.
"I enjoy being with you."
Closer still.
Under the influence of strange chemicals, I longed to confess I thought I would die every time she left, that I felt like I was dead when she was away for a few days, that I smelled like I was dead when I knew I would not see her and neglected my personal hygiene.
"I missed you so much."
How close can you get? Complete saturation was attained, the reaction formed the words and forced them from my mouth.
"I love you. I’m in love with you. I want to spend every second together, and dedicate my life to becoming your ideal husband."
There, I had finally said it, the 'three little words.'
Then, her reply. Would it have been so hard for her to repeat them, like a chant? Three tiny syllables. Not much of a strain, phonologically speaking. Say it, sweetheart, I know you feel the same. But knowing and knowing are two different things.
Apparently, a side-effect of my condition was the clouding of scientific objectivity, leading me to the unsubstantiated assumption a two-way reaction had been taking place. Upon further analysis, however, I concluded her emissions were catalytic in nature, causing a reaction in me while leaving her own composition unchanged. Instead of three small words, I got one little word and one bigger word.
"I'm flattered."
What now? Suicide? Nope. Distance. The reaction intensified, making me unable to respond verbally, forcing adrenalin into my legs and bidding them to carry me homeward.
Inexplicably, at least in my scientific philosophy, the words changed the reaction’s effects, though not the reaction itself. I hypothesize the particular sonic-wave pattern of her chosen words created chemical impulses that altered my perception. The love-induced euphoria was pulverized by the ailment’s overpowering physical manifestations. My racing heart no longer excited, but sent jolts of painful pressure through my head, as if I had a gas-station air hose jammed in my ear. Alterations in body temperature occurred so rapidly, I nearly froze to death from heat exhaustion. Instead of happy intoxication, disequilibria now seemed to produce vile, poisonous materials.
So, I did what any chemist would do when faced with an uncontrollable reaction. I knew it was theoretically impossible to stop it, so I let it run its course. Containment was the only viable solution. I stayed home sweating and vomiting for four days, expelling failed love’s noxious residue. With the removal of the catalyst, the churning reaction eventually subsided. I fell out.
***
Headache Insomnia
By Jamie R. (July 12, 2003)
I sometimes even see the hideous yellow face of my pain, but not very often. When I do, it is always about the same time, in the same room. I am unsure whether my pain lives there, then, and beckons me to join it, or if it follows me. It doesn’t matter. We are both there, and it shows itself.
My pain’s vehicle, either creator or progeny, is a breed of headache I was unfamiliar with when I was fully sighted. An eyestrain headache, the doctor concludes, advising me to cease the stressful activity and try aspirin for the pain. Since I am legally blind, I view much of the world through one type of magnifying glass or another, so now experience plenty of eyestrain, while I did not when I had normal vision. I believe the diagnosis, but the dullard’s feeble prescription is unrealistic and insulting. It is obvious the activity in question is my economic survival in a visually intensive society, so stopping is impossible. I don’t expect him to know aspirin is worse than useless, but I’m insulted to find he thinks me such a slack-wit that I never thought to pursue that mundane course of treatment. Still, he can’t know the futility of using over-the-counter remedies, as his narrow philosophy only permits the headache to be a medical condition. I know otherwise, because the headache I experience is always the same one. It came with my disability and lives inside me, usually dormant and causing no ill effects. Occasionally, it wakens, grows, and comes to visit, not a recurring malady, but an entity possessing volition and guile. I know this. I am an intimate terms with the being. We live together, and I alone am capable of understanding it. Eyestrain headache, it doesn’t sound so bad. Discussing it rationally, only possible in it’s absence, reduces it to a purely intellectual construction, and enables me to believe it isn’t.
My eyestrain headache differs from other kinds I experience. It resides in a place near the geometric center of my brain. When it arises, it stays up with me for several days, so if I manage to sleep, and cheat it out of part of its due, respite is brief. It waits for me to wake. In the morning, it signals with sharp messages, moderate jabs running up the back of my neck that urge full consciousness. The headache’s most distinctive quality, though, is it is accompanied by a myriad of visual effects. These begin hours before the pain, so serve to foretell the headache’s arrival, as well as to accent and enhance its discomfort for the episode’s duration. Aside from a general deterioration of my already poor sight, further blurring, and slower image-interpretation, the headache is heralded with, and accompanied by, flashing lights. In the beginning, the lights are small and subtle, thousands of tiny dots, like proximate stars, twinkling around me. When I see them, I know the headache is coming and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. As the entity grows, the lights become bigger and brighter, even violent. When the show is at its peak, it seems as if I walk through a dim corridor lined with photographers continuously snapping flash pictures with inappropriately powerful gear. Each flash is a concentrated spotlight aimed directly at my retinas. After each hits its mark, residual light lingers and scatters, adding additional distortion to the disturbances of new flashes. When the being rages and I am out in the city, the world is an only partially existent, dangerous place. Over half of my normally poor vision is occupied with flashes, which erodes my ability to interpret actual objects, such as moving cars. I often experience near collisions, but, immersed in the headache’s unpleasant fog, I don’t care much at the time.
The first day is not too bad. In my cubicle at work, I look up from the computer. A thin trail of lights drags behind my shifting line of sight. They appear as fireworks, incredibly small, intense spheres of brightness that quickly fade and vanish. This is the headache’s announcement of its intended arrival. It never visits without calling first. I look at the clock and feel fear, as it is only one, which means the beast will be with me by the time I head out. Aside from anxiety, there are no other unpleasant effects. The lights are even beautiful and interesting to watch, a private display being shot off for my sole enjoyment. I spend an inordinate amount of time not working, just watching the show.
The infant headache is born by the end of the day. It gets my attention, makes me aware we are together, but doesn’t push it. I walk through the streets and ride the bus home with little difficulty and only minor irritation, a dull throbbing and intermittent dim lights. The pace picks up during the evening, as my wife and I talk and watch television. I am communicative, as the pain is mild, though grows more insistent as the being organizes and consolidates. I feign disinterest in the creature. I believe this annoys it, but have no evidence. I have a hunch. The night passes relatively well, as the headache only manages to deliver a powerful enough stab to wrench me from sleep every hour. I get out of bed and pace, then drift off again, spending the night alternating between hour-long periods of sleep and half-hour periods of wakefulness. This ragged pattern takes a toll, adding the disorienting, will-eroding effects of sleeplessness to the headache’s discomfort, giving the malaise a surreal edge.
The second day begins with the headache nagging, exerting a constant, but not severe, pressure. Each heartbeat creates a throb in the center of my head. It is tolerable, but causes slight dizziness. Out in the town on my way to work, the environment begins to change. Sounds are slightly louder than they ought. Colors appear more vibrant and bleed together, making it difficult to ascertain where one object leaves off and another begins. The flashing is sporadic and weak, creating few problems. Work is transformed into a series of mildly irritating events. Slightly loud or improperly pitched voices bug me. Fluorescent lights emit annoying purplish glare. Why does the phone keep ringing? Through all this, the headache builds, its dull throbbing punctuated with occasional jabs of intense pain. I get through it.
By bedtime, the event is in full swing. I can no longer hide the headache, but I don’t actively whine. I don’t have to. I sit silently while my wife speaks to me a language I am presently unable to understand. Like an incompetent field linguist, I make crude and ineffective attempts to isolate, and attach meaning to, patterns in the noises she makes, but the pounding has long since rendered incoming communications difficult, at best, to interpret. Coherent outgoing messages are also unlikely, as the intense pressure in my head clogs the route between my brain and vocal chords, making transmission of formulated ideas between the two points physically improbable. I gape moronically as she talks, unable to fully comprehend or adequately acknowledge, occasionally contributing a few slurred syllables of partially articulated words, which, she claims, come out as meaningless grunts and hums. In this manner, I whine passively, complaining implicitly with my silence. Because I don’t say anything, she knows the headache is with me. Although I don’t want to spread even a bit of my misery onto her, I can’t care. I refuse to hold myself accountable for communication without intent.
The night is long. Brief bouts of fitful sleep are interrupted by extended periods of wide-awake staring at the ceiling, contemplating various aspects of the headache. I can only imagine how it occurs, and I do. I imagine it so fully, my version becomes true. It becomes truer than fact, better than science, because it is entirely contained in my mind. After countless sleepless headache nights spent in study, a detailed, meticulously constructed, working model of the process is housed in my brain. There, I can examine it, test it, change it until it works. As I conceptualize each mechanism, I feel it occur, verifying my assumptions until they are true.
The eyes constantly gather images. They draw particles of light from objects and suck them in through the pupils in streams, funneling them towards the retina for reassembly and interpretation. The retina’s central area, the macula, is the vortex to which the swirling fragments are drawn. In the retina of the normally sighted, the particles hit the macula and stick, accurately reconstructing the observed image, and the eye’s muscles and nerves relax while they await the next signal.
In my retina, the process operates differently. The particles strike the degenerated macula, and those that hit a good spot stick, while others bounce off diseased points of impact and scatter, reduced to incomprehensible fragments of colored light. They ricochet around on useless tissue for a while, then lay, unused, at the back of the eye. The brain struggles to make sense of the fragments that stuck, forced to work hard at the task of filling in gaps, which often fails. While the nerves and muscles are still trying to diagnose and fix the problem, another cascade of swirling light particles, drawn from a new image, hits the macula. Again, some stick, while others tumble to the back. A heap of wasted light forms at the back of the eyes, growing with each new bombardment. The recesses at the back of the eyes fill to bursting. It has to go somewhere. The pressure from the growing pile forces fragments out through fissures too tiny for them to pass through otherwise. The light seeps out of the back of the eye, directly into the brain cavity serving as the hibernating monster’s lair. The particles of energy touch the sleeping beast, curling around it in a fine mist. The headache grows and takes shape, gathering seeping light particles more and more as each image strikes the macula on the other side of the cracks. The beast becomes itself, again.
It’s happening right now. I’m in bed, staring at the ceiling, testing my model against the feelings I am experiencing. I find them to be consistent, as I can almost hear each discarded particle tinkling onto the swelling heap and feel the minute increase in pressure each new addition causes. Sometime after four, I doze, despite the ruckus. Or maybe, on account of it. Perhaps the continuous hammering knocks me senseless. Either way, I’m grateful for the break. No, an eyestrain headache doesn’t sound so bad, but when it greets me at daybreak with a worse banging pain than the one I fell asleep with, it seems like it is.
As soon as I begin to stir, but still cling to precious unconsciousness, the headache strengthens. The morning birds give it the momentum it needs to obliterate the remaining remnants of sleep. Just before it succeeds, less than half awake, I dream their songs, which are several times louder than necessary and carry disturbing, oddly spaced notes that cause a wave of almost physical revulsion. I ride the sickening wave out of oblivion into headache reality.
The morning is bad. The headache, annoyed with impatience from waiting, pushes me to full alertness with a few rapid, particularly nasty jolts. Now that I’m fully awake, no sharp edges are dulled, and my return to total awareness of every aspect of the headache makes me recall being up nearly all night, dealing with it’s uncomfortable effects. I seriously doubt sleep ever really came. Up for work, I am a zombie shuffling through a hostile haze of pounding pressure and distorted perception, automatically performing the necessary motions without thought. Out into the city at seven presents a dreary, surreal scene. Every sense heightened by the headache and lack of sleep, I am assaulted by brightness and sound. The light hurts my eyes. A quiet noise from a passing car contains a peculiar, high-pitched buzz that wheezes into my ears, bothering me. Work exists to get on my last nerve. People’s voices and office sounds are loud and distorted. Lights are overly bright and flicker terribly. The chair is uncomfortably hard, and pushes relentlessly against my thighs. I’m getting a cramp in my leg. In the cafeteria at lunch, cutlery clanks in faint, but distinct, discordant flats and sharps that tear at my sensibilities. A tremendous rustling noise, like the sound of a brisk wind through an autumn forest, is produced by a man removing the cellophane from a Twinkie. The pop tastes like summer hose-water. I’ve got a stomachache. The colored plastic tendrils decorating the toothpick through the deli sandwich I bought are so little, they’re ticking me off. I need to get out.
I leave work two hours early, overwhelmed by the headache’s constant thudding and no longer able to interpret my computer screen. The city is masked in a harsh bright glare of blending colors. My hypersensitive vision gathers every possible image, but the brain is unable to interpret each fully, so parts of each distinct object are interspersed with parts of other objects, and I perceive one great scramble of visual signals, like there is a finger-painted wall directly in front of me. I use my cane to navigate, ignoring the incomprehensible, and false, appearance of my surroundings. I normally don’t need the cane, as I usually possess enough vision to find my way by sight, but under the beast’s influence, I am functionally blind. It is not a blindness of darkness, like I probably imagined before I became visually impaired, but a bright blindness, brought about by excess, rather than absence, of light. I determine the safety of crossing streets by sound, which is normally pretty efficient, as motor vehicles make substantial noise, and my practiced hearing is adept at estimating distance by ear. In my current state, though, the task is complicated by my headache and insomnia enhanced hearing. Complicated, but safe, as my ability to hear further than usual necessitates greater caution, and I detect, and wait for, cars that sound imminent, but are actually too far away to do me any harm. I wait a long time at each crosswalk, until nothing but silence prowls the street, and feel the way to the bus with the cane. Its vibration as it taps the sidewalk sends tiny shocks up my arm, making it tingle as if asleep. I struggle to remain oblivious to all the useless information coursing through me, and concentrate on the cane’s interpretation, which is the only reliable input I am receiving. This works. I make it home without incident.
I spend the rest of the afternoon and evening vainly trying to decipher the television, as it shoots off thousands of images and words every minute. I get in bed with my wife at the regular time, each movement causing a small, uncomfortable disturbance in the pounding pattern. The sheet feels like sandpaper as I lay back and drag it up over my sensitized skin. The sound of the sheet rubbing against itself and the bed has an underlying, normally inaudible, scraping quality that gives me a dose of the creeps. I don’t understand how I still manage to grasp at the faintest shred of hope for sleep at this point, but I do. This hope is not based on experience, but on probability. Even in the midst of the most frantic, pounding pain, sleep sometimes comes. Why not now, instead of at 3:30? The odds are slightly worse than those for being struck by lightening while placing a winning single-number roulette bet. The pounding exerts itself. I lay on my back, staring at the fireworks hovering above. I hear my wife’s breathing change, the pressure distorting the soft sounds until her breath bellows and booms as she drifts away. I stay like this for an hour, experiencing the headache, continually examining its effects and adjusting my model, which now approaches perfection. The level of pressure escalates, banging through my temples, shaking my whole body with slight twitches. Futility appears. Sleep is totally out of the question, despite need and desire, as mounting pressure renders exhaustion irrelevant. Headache insomnia dominates the evening’s activities.
The beast is everywhere, following or leading me as I pace about. It exaggerates every sense. Normally quiet night sounds are amplified and distorted. I hear every hand dragging across the face of every clock in the house. The air conditioner kicks on with a boom, then produces a high-pitched, grating squeal as it runs. I pace, because the timing of my steps is out of cadence with my heartbeat, distracting me from the incessant throbbing. The floor is too hard. Not content with having my feet lightly tread on it, it pushes up against them, causing me to stumble. I can smell everything we’ve cooked, and cleaned with, for the past several days, all in one nauseating mix of odors. As I pass through dark rooms, walls emit bright flashes, which shoot through my pupils as they are sucked into the diseased vortex. As always, a portion of the particles comprising each flash cannot adhere to the macular surface and are discarded into the back of my head, creating more substance to feed the raging beast.
Eventually, without complete conscious intent, I collapse into the wheeled office chair at my computer and lean back, gripping the arms tightly. There is no sensation but the heartbeat-timed pounding pain. I suddenly understand it is yellow, but the perception is not entirely visual. Although each beat causes an incredible instant of pressure along the veins in my temples that is accompanied by a yellow flash, other senses also perceive the headache pain’s nature. It feels profoundly yellow. It tastes yellow. The air is thick with a yellow smell that makes it difficult to take full breaths, and I hear a roaring, yellow sound. I grip the chair more tightly, lean back, and roll around slightly. I can tell the beast is close to the surface.
“Show yourself,” I scream, without verbalization, willing it to appear.
Nothing happens. I rock back, immersed in my lonely, insomniac world. I slip away, somehow, for several minutes, only realizing I am asleep when I experience waking. A prickling sensation goads the back of my head, running up the base of my neck, resulting in a body shaking shiver that wakes me. From the corner of one eye, I glimpse a yellowish white wisp of fine mist originating somewhere behind me. It passes in front, a continuous stream of bright yellow dots, like the illuminated dust of a comet’s tail, and circles my head. The stream spirals and wraps around my head several times, about six inches away. The spiral grows and twists with dizzying speed until I am looking up into a tornado of yellow flecks. The funnel configuration’s source is an unseen point somewhere at the back of my head, where the headache’s pressure forces accumulated scraps of wasted light to ooze from my skull. Through delirium, I watch a cloud take shape inches from my face. An area is defined where shimmering particles move closer together, forming a shape more yellow than the streams of more widely spaced lights in the funnel. The shape takes form, appearing to be a stocky, flying gnome. It dances before my eyes, jerking in frantic, arrogant, irritating gestures. It’s long, narrow, pointy face emerges, astoundingly yellow. It doesn’t look like a real person, but like an exaggerated painting of a mythical face, the face of a deranged pixie, twisted by misery and spite. The horrid grimace floats, becoming a shade more yellow as each beat of my heart pushes another wave of pain and light out of my brain to nourish it. The pressure is so severe, it conveys the impression I have a high fever. In an insomniac’s desperate boredom, I put my hand on my head every thirteen seconds to check, but detect no heat. With each heartbeat, I grow hotter, the pressure stronger, the pain more nauseating. The demon glows a shade of perfect, fully saturated yellow, so pure and beautiful it is not meant for this world. As I am able to experience the color with all of my senses, the shock of its purity overwhelms me. I pass out.
I wake in the chair, sweating slightly, to a house at normal volume. No throbbing and little pressure remain. It’s over. Eyestrain headache, it doesn’t sound so bad. Perhaps it isn’t. On a day with acceptably obscured vision, average ability in use of my other senses, and the absence of excessive pressure, I don’t think it is.
***
Romantic Chemistry
by Jamie R. (June 21, 2003)
I was nearly an accredited scientist, but my extensive knowledge of medicine and biochemistry were useless at that point. The malady I suffered was real, but its symptoms could not be measured, so no treatment was prescribed. It was an emotional affliction that expressed itself physically. Fluctuations in pulse-rate, associated with my body's adjustments to minor chemical imbalances, caused variation in temperature and waves of manic exhilaration, resulting in pleasant, euphoric disorientation.
That inexplicable reaction some call love.
Schooled in science, I did not entertain the false notion I control my actions. I realized I was merely a sustained chemical reaction, which, although poorly understood, had somewhat predictable results. Somewhat, for I could not foretell whose byproducts would react with mine, or when, but it happened.
My particular composition causes me to react strangely to certain chemical emissions of the female of the species. Since adolescence, I had been assaulted by many such mixtures, and combinations of varying potency had been formed by contacts with nearly every female I crossed compounds with. I resisted, sustained by my love of freedom and fear of rejection, avoiding commitment at all costs. In loneliness, I found independence, unburdened by others’ expectations.
After years of suppressing irrational feeling, I thought I was numb with indifference and immune to entanglement, especially with somebody with whom I had absolutely nothing in common. She was from an elevated social plane, and destined to remain there, so I, an impoverished science student, was no great catch. This was irrelevant at the molecular level, as she emitted reagents that explosively reacted with mine, producing insanity causing substances my body had never contained. I fell. The newly forming solution inside me was reaching saturation, yielding emotional precipitation that compelled me to act, to speak. I had to tell her.
"I really like you."
Getting close.
"I enjoy being with you."
Closer still.
Under the influence of strange chemicals, I longed to confess I thought I would die every time she left, that I felt like I was dead when she was away for a few days, that I smelled like I was dead when I knew I would not see her and neglected my personal hygiene.
"I missed you so much."
How close can you get? Complete saturation was attained, the reaction formed the words and forced them from my mouth.
"I love you. I’m in love with you. I want to spend every second together, and dedicate my life to becoming your ideal husband."
There, I had finally said it, the 'three little words.'
Then, her reply. Would it have been so hard for her to repeat them, like a chant? Three tiny syllables. Not much of a strain, phonologically speaking. Say it, sweetheart, I know you feel the same. But knowing and knowing are two different things.
Apparently, a side-effect of my condition was the clouding of scientific objectivity, leading me to the unsubstantiated assumption a two-way reaction had been taking place. Upon further analysis, however, I concluded her emissions were catalytic in nature, causing a reaction in me while leaving her own composition unchanged. Instead of three small words, I got one little word and one bigger word.
"I'm flattered."
What now? Suicide? Nope. Distance. The reaction intensified, making me unable to respond verbally, forcing adrenalin into my legs and bidding them to carry me homeward.
Inexplicably, at least in my scientific philosophy, the words changed the reaction’s effects, though not the reaction itself. I hypothesize the particular sonic-wave pattern of her chosen words created chemical impulses that altered my perception. The love-induced euphoria was pulverized by the ailment’s overpowering physical manifestations. My racing heart no longer excited, but sent jolts of painful pressure through my head, as if I had a gas-station air hose jammed in my ear. Alterations in body temperature occurred so rapidly, I nearly froze to death from heat exhaustion. Instead of happy intoxication, disequilibria now seemed to produce vile, poisonous materials.
So, I did what any chemist would do when faced with an uncontrollable reaction. I knew it was theoretically impossible to stop it, so I let it run its course. Containment was the only viable solution. I stayed home sweating and vomiting for four days, expelling failed love’s noxious residue. With the removal of the catalyst, the churning reaction eventually subsided. I fell out.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Evolution of Dance
A friend recently forwarded a video clip link - it's of this stand up comic mimicing pretty much every single popular dance move in the past fifty years in under six minutes. If you watch this, be sure to turn on your speakers.
The Evolution of Dance!
The Evolution of Dance!
Sunday, May 07, 2006
White Rabbit - best damned candy in the world
Outside of chocolate, I'm not a big fan of candy. Hard candy, in particular, is not very appealing to me. Those red and white peppermint hard candies you find at restaurants? Cannot stand them. Caramels? Creates a strange, bitter aftertaste in my mouth.
That was until a friend introduced me to White Rabbits. It's this taffy-like candy from China. Apparently, it's been made there for years and is well known there - kind of like M&Ms in the U.S.
Anyway, it comes individually wrapped - about the same size as the individually wrapped Tootsie Rolls. The exterior is wrapped in wax paper with the White Rabbit logo on it. Each candy is wrapped in a thin piece of rice paper - if you didn't know any better, you'd think it was a piece of waxed paper. Actually, it's rice paper and very edible - in fact, someone from Taiwan told me you eat the rice paper to make the candy chewier faster.
The original White Rabbit is basically a cream flavored Tootsie Roll - kind of. A bit chewier and definitely longer lasting. And DAMNED ADDICTING.
Someone gave me a bag of mango flavored White Rabbits last week - didn't think I'd ever say this but I think the mango flavored White Rabbits taste better than the original flavor.
P.S. I found the following "review" of White Rabbits on Amazon:
Larruping, September 5, 2004
- "WHITE RABBIT" is one of the most famous brands of Guan Sheng Yuan (Group) Co.,ltd.and belongs to candy product. This product is very larruping that the candy's surface swathe a very very thin velamen made from sticky rice and it can eat.People always are interesting in the sticky rice velamen.This product's sales volume is very hot in USA(Kmart,Walgmart)."
- Was this review helpful to you?
My answer to the question above is a resounding NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
Monday, May 01, 2006
Lilacs be a'bloomin' in central Ohio
My dad is a big fan of lilacs. He bought us a bush when we moved into the house - I think we planted the bush in March 2004.
Anyway, it hasn't produced a lot of blooms since then - I see the other lilac bushes in the neighborhood and they stand six to eight feet tall and are full of blooms. But those bushes are much older. So, the way I see it, our little lilac bush has plenty of time to catch up.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Leprechaun in Alabama!
I heard about this story on the radio and heard the sound clip. It had me in stitches - now this is the video of the story. The story? That some people in Mobile AL claimed to see a leprechaun in a tree. Nuff said.
Monday, March 27, 2006
Dogs playing with dogs
A dog playing with another dog is a blast to watch. Assuming you've got two (or more) well-adjusted non-neurotic and non-aggressive dogs in the play group, inevitably the dogs start running around with each other, teasing and taunting each other and basically goofing off. They are definitely having fun. In addition to boring stuff like the dogs "socializing" and "exercising," the benefits that accrue to the OWNERS of the dogs are simply summarized as ... the dogs in question get DOG TIRED (pun intended) ... so much so that when you get them home, all they want to do is lie around and sleep.
Very cool.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Helmer is a rock star!
Among the most popular web sites for social connections right now are myspace.com and facebook.com - this is self-evident for anyone who pays attention to popular culture. (I hear "facebook" used as a verb on a regular basis.) Someone had the brilliant idea to develop a similar site for dogs - it's called dogster.com.
Dogster.com - ahh, a great place for dog owners to brag and waste a lot of time. Speaking of wasting time, check out Helmer's site. When you go to his site, give him a bone (upper right corner) - I am not really sure what the purpose is ... but a dog's site can get a lot of bones. They expire after about two weeks - and, again, I'm not sure what the hell the purpose of this virtual bone is ...
Dogster.com - ahh, a great place for dog owners to brag and waste a lot of time. Speaking of wasting time, check out Helmer's site. When you go to his site, give him a bone (upper right corner) - I am not really sure what the purpose is ... but a dog's site can get a lot of bones. They expire after about two weeks - and, again, I'm not sure what the hell the purpose of this virtual bone is ...
Monday, February 20, 2006
Iron Maiden in the Deep South
This is for my buddy, Don, who hails from the formerly great state of California. He's a big Maiden fan - I showed him this video and he cracked up. It apparently was made by a band (The Full Throttle Band), somewhere in the SE U.S. ... specifically, "live at the Dauphin Island Spring Arts Festival April 2003." (I am pretty sure Dauphin Island is part of Alabama.)
Anyway, the cover version of Wrathchild isn't too bad ... what's hilarious is the audience. They're about five people in the 'crowds' and look to be as enthusiastic as my laundry hamper. All I know is that the Dauphin Island Spring Arts Festival organizers should be fired.
Anyway, the cover version of Wrathchild isn't too bad ... what's hilarious is the audience. They're about five people in the 'crowds' and look to be as enthusiastic as my laundry hamper. All I know is that the Dauphin Island Spring Arts Festival organizers should be fired.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Cartoons Causing Riots? Right.
OK - I prefer to post nonsensical and (what - to me - passes for) humorous things on this site ... but I cannot fathom these riots. On Oct 17, 2005, a well-known Egyptian newspaper published those very same cartoons that are NOW causing riots ... the obvious question is "WHERE WERE THE RIOTERS ON OCT 17, 2005?" What made the Danish publications more insidious than the Egyptian publication 3 1/2 months earlier? There are some great posts out there ... here are some of them:
From the depaulia.com site
From the thereligionofpeace.com site
From the aynrand.org site
From the depaulia.com site
From the thereligionofpeace.com site
From the aynrand.org site
Friday, February 10, 2006
Kiss This Guy
A very common occurrence for someone who is raised by parents whose native language is something other than English is to learn how to mispronounce words ... and be blissfully ignorant while doing so. My personal example is for many years, I was convinced that there was a department store chain called K-MARK. Why? Because this is how my dad repeatedly pronounced it.
In a similar vein, have you ever had a song in your head and when you sing it to yourself, you're rather proud of how you really know the lyrics ... and then, sometime time later in your life, you find out you were WAY off base?
Well, there is a web site that is a depository of self-reported messed-up lyrics ... if you feel up to it, go ahead and report your self-delusional lyrics.
In a similar vein, have you ever had a song in your head and when you sing it to yourself, you're rather proud of how you really know the lyrics ... and then, sometime time later in your life, you find out you were WAY off base?
Well, there is a web site that is a depository of self-reported messed-up lyrics ... if you feel up to it, go ahead and report your self-delusional lyrics.
Friday, February 03, 2006
The Farting Preacher - a video collection
OK - these are amongst my all-time favorite video clips. Here you go:
Farting Preacher #2
Farting Preacher #3
Farting Preacher #4 (my personal favorite)
Farting Preacher #5a
Farting Preacher #2
Farting Preacher #3
Farting Preacher #4 (my personal favorite)
Farting Preacher #5a
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Jesus of Nazareth Take Two (a four part series)
OK - here are video posts on a four part series of Jesus of Nazareth ... this is rather amusing, in the mold of MST 3000.
Scene #1
Scene #2
Scene #3
Scene #4
Scene #1
Scene #2
Scene #3
Scene #4
Friday, January 20, 2006
Jesus sings I WILL SURVIVE and the Chinese sings I WANT IT THAT WAY
Google has a new video service - it's at video.google.com - some of the stuff posted there is for sale (e.g. Brady Bunch videos and the like). But there are a lot of free clips.
This one is a video of Jesus lip-synching to I Will Survive. Good scenes include one of him running around in his underwear.
Unlike the other videos above, this video has nothing to do with Jesus.
This one is a video of Jesus lip-synching to I Will Survive. Good scenes include one of him running around in his underwear.
Unlike the other videos above, this video has nothing to do with Jesus.
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