FWG's nugget o' wisdom #27b

Or in it, for that matter.

This has been an original nugget o' wisdom from the brain of Fantasy Writer Guy. Do not use nuggets o' wisdom without advice from a physician. Do not take orally unless served warm and with a nice plum sauce on the side.

FWG's nugget o' wisdom #27

The Five Second Rule does not apply when you've dropped your sandwich behind the toilet.

This has been an original nugget o' wisdom from the brain of Fantasy Writer Guy. Do not use nuggets o' wisdom without advice from a physician. Do not take orally.

Still cranky

By the afternoon the mood hadn’t improved much. I had a lunch date with Rockin’ Roddie. He proposed a new Indian food buffet restaurant he’d recently discovered. Surely this would be the cure.

“Sweet,” said I. “I loves Indian buffets.”

We arrive at the joint. Big place. Big parking lot. Only one other car. No problem. It’s early yet. Not quite twelve o’clock.

Something is wrong. Out of place. It takes me a moment to comprehend it. It’s a big sign that reads:

100% VEGETARIAN

??

“Um… Rod?”

“Hm?”

“What – what’s that?”

“Eh?”

“Rod.”

“What?”

“What’s with the sign?”

“What sign?”

“That doesn’t apply to us, does it?”

“Hm?”

“Tell me that doesn’t apply to us.”

“Oh – that sign?”

“Rod...”

“Um – surprise…”

“Are you fucking with me?”

“Just trust me, okay?”

“ARE YOU FUCKING WITH ME!”

“Just give it a chance, okay?”

“I don’t believe this,” I’m whining. We’re out of the car. I’m following him across the parking lot. “I can’t believe this. After all we’ve been through.”

“It’s good, FWG. I promise.”

“Don’t do this, Rod.”

“It’s good. Trust me.”

“Have you ever seen me eating Indian food without meat? Ever?”

“Have you ever tried it?”

Silent pouting. We’re entering the building.

“I hope you’ve accomplished all you wanted to in this life, Roddie,” I hiss in his ear, “Cause you are this close to checking out. THIS CLOSE!”

“I know.”

I feel a small pang of guilt. I think he’s actually a little afraid at this point.

Inside, a very nice polite woman dressed in colourful sari invites us to choose any table. Oddly Rod chooses the one that is strangely centred out under some kind of gazebo-like architectural structure. This way we’ll be the centre of attention when I tire of the curried peas and go for his jugular. There’ll be plenty of witnesses to later finger his killer.

I wear a scowl as we approach the rather large buffet. Sari lady follows us. Roddie stops at the salad section and I pass on by, resisting the urge to give him the Gordie Howe elbow.

There’s a very large selection at the main counters. The first two items are labeled ‘Sweet Dish’ according to the post-it-note tacked overhead. I take a very small sampling of Pinkish Shreds o’ Mush and ignore the Bobbing For Testicles for now.

Note: There are no other labels at this buffet other than ‘Sweet Dish’ for these two items so I’ll have to make up my own names for all this stuff as we go along and I’m not even apologizing for it. So there.

I raise the plate to my face, trying to smell the Pinkish Mush Shreds.

“That is sweet dish,” says Sari lady, smiling kindly. I’m too miserable and/or stupid to realize just yet that sweet dish means dessert. Duh.

I give her a brief humorless smile in return.

Her finger moves back and forth between the Pink Mush and the Bobbing for Testicles. “Sweet dishes,” she says.

‘Can it, lady. I’m not in the mood’

I move on. The plan is to try small bits of everything remotely interesting – in the vain hope I will find one or two things enjoyable to which I’ll return for more.

I take a Patty of Blecch in a Yellow-Grey Bile Sauce and a couple Glumps What Could Resemble Chicken if you Squint in a Gooey Bright Red Sauce. Sari lady insists on staying close – presumably ready to assist in identifying what is a sweet dish and what is not. She keeps standing right in front of whatever item I’m keen to try next. I persevere. I sample a smattering of Reddish-Brown Goop #1 and a dollop of Reddish-Brown Goop #2. I take a samosa and Sari lady points out the samosa sauce which I dip into liberally. I finish off with a couple spongy spheroids in a light brown sauce – let’s call it – Sponge Ball Brown Pants.

Back at the table we’re given a pitcher of water and a basket of naan bread with baked-in garlic. Very nice.

The Blecch Patties, Mushy Pink Shreds and Reddish-Brown Goops #1 and #2 all heartily fail to impress.

However…

The Sponge Ball Square Pants resembles butter chicken but with balls of sponge instead of chicken. Between that, the samosa , the naan bread and the squint-chicken glumps I enjoy a very satisfactory second course and leave the restaurant very full, festively plump and kind toward Rockin’ Roddie once again.

All’s well that ends without a crucifixion.

FWG

Cranky FWG

I was a bit grumpy today. Here's my first interaction with another human being this morning. I warn you - it was 9:05 AM and I was still half asleep.

FWG's Boss: "Good morning - oh - hey - you got your ears lowered!" (I got a haircut last night. Whoop-dee-do.)

FWG (With a momentary look of utter disgust as he swivels in his chair to address the intruder): "Yeah well - I asked to have monster truck tires installed but they couldn't do that. So I just got the ears lowered."

FWG's Boss (his turn to look momentarily utterly disgusted): "What? That doesn't make any sense!"

FWG: "It's makes just as much sense as getting my ears lowered. You started it."

FWG's Boss: "Mm. Yeah - I guess you're right."


That pretty much sums up our relationship - and I mean that in a good way.

Hoo haw! Illustrated again!

Hey! Ye Olde Blogging Company is letting me post images again! Three cheers for Ye Olde Blogging Company!

Hip hip hooray! Hip - Okay, one was enough.

To celebrate this fine occasion I am posting here a photo of two of my favorite things in the whole world (friends and intimate partners excepted).

Will you get anything out of this photo?

I expect not.

Was there really any point to this lame-ass posting?

Not really. Shits and giggles.

So why did I do it?

Because I can, Grasshopper. Because I can.

I can't live without you, Bernadette

On CBC radio, during this morning’s drive they did a piece on tech trash, largely concerning Apple’s strategy of designing iPods to be disposable and non-repairable - destined for the most part, for third-world countries. Ostensibly we pay them to recycle. Ostensibly they do not incinerate hazardous materials to the detriment of their citizens.

CBC found a renegade iPod repair shop and did some interviewing there. A customer, Allison, was asked, “What kind of iPod do you have?”

“I’m not sure,” said Allison, “A Mini - I guess? It’s pink and her name is Bernadette. And I couldn’t imagine living without her.”


It’s pink.

It's name is Bernadette.

I’m intrigued. I had no idea this sort of thing was going on. Perhaps I shall special-order one of these iPod creatures. I shall request one that is Jade green, who is smug and cynical and is named... Hm... Mr. Noob.

Or perhaps I shall just contact my commander and request reassignment to a different planet.

Sugar, sugar, sugar, sugar, sugar, sugar, sugar

Sweet Jesus H. Jones! What the hell have you done to me, Vino? I’m shaking like a leaf. I’m positively trembling. Is there such a thing as sugar poisoning? I only had two.

Two cinnamon rolls.

With extra sugar-sugar-orange-and-sugar frosting.

For breakfast...


Captain Vino baked a half-dozen for me yesterday for my birthday before he and Plonk took me out for a purely orgasmic meal at the Mono Cliffs Inn and Orgasmry. The Cap’n is clearly evil and bent on keeping me fat - or chaste - one or the other. You see, the elicit sweetheart has finally - at my urging - worked out a system of abstinence and reward to legislate my weight-loss endeavors - the details of which are unprintable and that’s all I’ll say about that before I go getting all embarrassed.

Dear gawd, my teeth are tingling.

I need to get to the grocery store before the big game starts (our beloved N.Y. Jets are playing the Evil Evil Slimy New England Slime-Patriots in a do-or-die playoff match) and since it’ll be on the glass tit for a change I’ll be staying home to watch it. And of course there’s no better way to celebrate the big game than with an official FWG Hot Dog Festival.

I’m thinking I could use a walk. Maybe if I burn off a few of these eight billion turbo-calories it’ll calm me down. Maybe my eyeballs will stop rattling.

There’s a sad-ass mini-grocery a block away so I hit the street. It’s wonderfully mild for January. No sunshine of course, but mild. We won’t get a glimpse of the sun around here for another couple months yet - just when we’ve forgotten that one exists. But that’s fine with me right now. I’m so full of sugar I’d probably melt.

Here’s all the shops I pass on the way that sell sugary bakery products. I repeat - these are all within a single block of my home:

Starbucks Coffee
Second Cup
Swirlz Cupcakes
The Tea Room
Town Talk Bakery
Murphy’s Ice Cream Parlour

It’s a fat man’s hell - this neighborhood but today I stroll on by these landmines with nary a glance. ‘No thanks, I’m sweet enough…’

Oh goody! They have hot dog buns in stock at Ye Olde Sad Ass Mini Grocery. Excellent. I choose the plain little ones. I like them best ‘cause they offer the best meat-per-bread ratio. And I get the regular little weiners. Nothing fancy. I prefer weiners to sausages. I’m a little different that way.

Um. That’s not a euphemism of any sort, by the way. We’re strictly talking food here.

Ooh! What's this? Incense! I love incense! I collect every variety I can find. Well, almost. I'm not so hot on the flowery ones. There's a nice selection here. Thirty varieties. Mix and match. The sign reads:

5 for $1.00 or 10 for $2.00

My head falls forward and a long sigh escapes me. This seems to take some of the tsunami out of my sails.

I turn my back on the incense display and scoop a 2L bottle of diet Coke and a carton of 10% cream. I read the label to ensure I have authentic 10% cream here that will actually taste like 10% cream and not some insipid 5% cream in disguise.

I'm half-way home before I finally take note that she's packed all my stuff into one rather small plastic bag and my buns are getting squished. Oh well. Nothing wrong with tight compact buns - What?? Why are you all looking at me like that? Stop it. It just means I can eat more. Maybe I'll get through the whole damn eight-pack for once.

Ugh. I've just got to lose this damn sugar-frenzy. Nothing gets me more hyper than a Jets playoff game and nothing gets me more aggravated then outrageously stupid TV commercials - the kind which football telecasts tend to draw out in alarming numbers. Throw in the sugar fit and this could be a recipe for disaster. It's one o'clock. Game starting. Catch you later.

Ugh. I'm exhausted. It's half-time. The New England Turdsniffers lead 17-10. Oops. Did I say Turdsniffers? I meant - Patriots. Excuse me. Freudian slip.

I haven't done too badly actually. Only threw one thing. One of the two pens from my shirt pocket. Launched it clear across the living room, down the hallway and onto the kitchen floor where it almost skidded into the dining room. But not quite. Very sadly, this was a better throw than any heaved by Jets QB Chad Pennington during the half. I also whacked my notebook against the arm of the comfy chair eight or thirty-eight times finally cracking the cover and wrinkling some pages. No biggie. Still useable.

What else? Screamed some choice words of course but not to the point that authorities were called. Here's some of my more brilliant utterances:

"Ugghhh! Stop running up the !@#!## middle!! You're getting !@#!##ing stuffed every time!!"

"Yes! Yes! Yes! Take that!! Touchdown! [screams like schoolgirl] How'd you like that you bitch!"

"Ugghhh! My !@#!##ing god! Are you !@#!##ing kidding me? How the !@#!## can you not defend against such an obvious stupid-ass pass play? !@#!##!!"

"Get out of bounds!!! Get out of bounds!!! Uggggghhhhhhhhh!!! You're killing the clock!!! @#!##! [whack whack whack] You moron!! You !@#!##er!! Get off this goddam team, you !@#@#!!"


They're interviewing Shawn Merriman of the San Diego Chargers. I guess he's an offensive lineman. I guess they couldn't get Ladainian Tomlinson or anyone interesting.

"I think the Jets are gonna win this game," says Merriman, "Cause they just playin' pretty good right now."

That's right Shawn. That's what they doin'. They playin' so gosh darn pretty good right now they losin' by 7. But thank you Shawn. With geniuses like you on our side - we can't lose.

I must go console myself with a hot dog festival.

Later.


I'm inconsolable. The hot dogs didn't do it for me. I had eight. Can you believe it? My previous record was five. What an accomplishment eh? I'm breaking down barriers, people. I'm clearing the world of hot dogs - one eight-pack at a time.

The Jets are down 23-13. They won't win. New England's just too good. God, I hate them.

Dear God, Please give all the people of New England bubonic plague. Amen.

See - this is proof there's no such thing as god. When all the New Englanders don't get the plague. That'll cinch it.

FWG

Nocturnal brushes with death

This is a dream I had last night. I’m dredging it up now because it was very typical of the kind of dreams that I have and I’ve always been curious if others dream similarly or if this is unusual. Also, I don’t normally retain memory of dreams very long but this morning I could recall plenty of it and I’ve purposely replayed it in my head a couple times so as not to lose it.


Here’s the dream (or as much as I recall):

I’m in some kind of commercial outlet that is apparently open for business 24 hours. It’s the middle of the night and I’m alone here. I am a caretaker of some sort. There are no other employees on the nightshift. It’s perhaps a bank and customers have access to the teller machines or perhaps a post office and customers have access to their post office boxes. Something in that realm. It’s not defined.

I’m holding a large handsaw and I need a piece of wood. I have vague knowledge that there is a small child that wants a toy sword and I am to carve one out of wood. A large handsaw is not the best tool for such a job but in the dream that does not occur to me. I seem to sense that the child is a girl though I’m not sure about that. She never appears in the dream and the relationship between the child and I remains unknown.

I walk out the front door of the outlet to go looking for wood. There’s a large parking lot. We’re part of a very large plaza and apparently the only unit open for business overnight. The lot (or as much as I see of it) is vacant of cars.

Fast forward: I’m moving along the walkway past closed up shops back toward the outlet where I work. I haven’t found any wood. It’s still dark. There’s a car in front of our outlet and as I approach within a few units of it another car pulls up. I tip my head down and am conscious of my appearance. I’m a big man in dingy work clothes carrying a handsaw - in the middle of the night. I hear a car start up and pull away. I do not know whether the first customer is now leaving or whether the second customer is frightened of me and has immediately retreated without tending to her business.

Fast forward: The environment has changed. I’m in the outlet alone but it’s daytime and the outlet is clearly not a place of retail business. It’s a crowded warehouse lit only by the daylight coming through the front door. ‘Crowded’ is an understatement. At least 90% of the floorspace is packed with some kind of stock/supplies - I don’t know what - to a height of eight feet or so. It’s all covered in tarps. I’m standing on top of this stuff. In order to do my work I must do so on top of these tightly packed tarp-covered unknown materials. I must tread very carefully as this “floor” is extremely uneven below the tarps. It’s not clear what ‘my work’ actually is. I’m more concerned about the toy sword I must create.

There are a few narrow gaps between sheets and I reach down at one such place and discover there are planks of wood beneath. I pull back the corner of a tarp and pull out a wooden plank and surmise that it will make a good sword. I start to cut it with my saw and discover that my saw cuts through it effortlessly - like butter.

I don’t get finished carving the sword. I’m suddenly troubled by what I see below me where I’d pulled back the tarp. I can’t describe what I saw physically. I only have the knowledge that I’ve looked and seen something troubling. That’s the thing with my dreams. I often experience something conceptually without actually visualizing the particulars. I’ve realized that we’re housing something we shouldn’t. Something unlawful. Something like toxic waste perhaps or illegal arms. I’m aware that my employers are not nice people. Mafia types perhaps. I’ve learned something I’m not supposed to know about and now I am in danger.

There’s a seamless shift and I’m not the caretaker anymore but one of the employers. The ‘danger’ feeling has not changed. I’m some kind of crook and things have gone wrong. The ‘caretaker’ has discovered our crime and I’m in double jeaopardy. When the authorities come down I will take the fall. But worse - my crook superiors will take my life for allowing this fuck-up. I’m screwed.

Fast forward. I’m unloading all the ‘goods’ from the warehouse onto a huge flatbed truck. I must destroy the evidence and silence the caretaker.

Another shift and I am no one. I’m watching the scene from divine view. The crook has got the truck loaded and is backing away from the warehouse which is still part of a plaza but it’s a giant industrial plaza now with warehouses surrounding a great stock yard full of materials and industrial vehicles. But there are no other people around.

The crook’s truck comes to a halt as the load has begun to tumble off the truck. I see a lot of wood planks among the load and the remainder does not materialize for me. It remains ‘fuzzy’ - dark space if you will. The crook is going berserk. He starts using the truck as a bulldozer to plow these materials around the yard. It seems like he is clumsily trying to distribute the contraband to all his neighbors as if to pin the blame on them instead of he. In the process he is running into other property and vehicles and doing massive damage all around.

Another shift and I’m the caretaker again. I’m in a long corridor with orange walls lit by indirect daylight. The commotion in the yard has gone silent. The crook is suddenly in the corridor confronting me. He carries a strange metal mechanical object with various arms and wheels and gears. We’re face to face but he’s walking toward me so I must walk backwords. I realize he’s going to kill me with this object somehow.

I raise my handsaw in defence and discover that it is now a butter knife. I stab the crook in the eye and it slips in easily (like butter) sinking well into his head. Blind in one eye, he seems unaffected and continues toward me. I raise my half-finished wooden sword but it too has become a butterknife which I plunge into his other eye. He still approaches, zombie-like. I’m still walking backward. I put forth my hands to fend him off. He takes hold of my fists and with his long nails he scratches at the skin of my knuckles. I feel the pain of his scratches and I awake. It’s morning.


I immediately checked my knuckles and found them unscathed. It is very unusual for me to sense pain in a dream. Extremely rare.

But the violence, the manner of shifting in and out of the various ‘characters’ and the theme of being pursued are all extremely common. Any thoughts? I don’t subscribe to there being any meaning in dreams but if you do, and have insight I’d love to hear it - unless it's something sexual and embarassing - in which case - keep it to yourself. Thanks!

FWG

FWG - Gold Medal Game Simulcast!

%$@#%!! Damn! %&#!!

Russia just scored. Bastards. Good new is - that only makes it 4-1 Canada! Woo-hoo!

And this is the rubber-match. Us and them have 11 gold medals each since the World Junior Hockey Tournament’s beginnings in ’77.

I’m blogging and watching the game (via internet broadband) simultaneously - on a Friday afternoon - at the office. Not exactly the text-book recipe for corporate success, I realize but hey - this is Canada. Hockey gold medals are bigger than Christmas around here.

Damn. Russia pressing and now they’re going back to the power-play…

I think I effectively demonstrated Canadian hockey passion to Steve’s cousins who were over visiting from Malta for their first time. This was last week. On TV, the Canada – U.S. opening round match was playing and we were leading by two goals. I’d just finished discussing the state of spectator sports in Malta with our guests (it amounts to televised foreign soccer apparently) and stated that I didn’t like soccer because it seems like soccer fans are all nuts over in Europe and frankly they scare me.

At that moment an American player, unhindered, ran straight into Canuck netminder Carey Price, knocking him off his feet and with the goalie out of the way the puck was easily fired into the net unchallenged. Astonishingly, there was no interference penalty called and the goal was allowed to stand.

Well.

FWG would have none of that and leapt off his chair hollering every four-letter word that came to mind and with fists clenched even vowed to hop the next plane to Sweden and go and kill the referees.

Ahem. So much for European soccer fans.

Okay, so besides a lesson in Canadian passion for hockey I may have inadvertently demonstrated a thing or two about hypocrisy. Fine. I’m not perfect obviously.

F#&#!! Russians scored again. Their power play is dynamite, those F#%$#ers.

Sorry. Back to the story: But oh! Who’d have thought I could extend my Super Karma Man powers to our boys way over in Sweden? Just moments after play resumed Darren Helm goes charging toward the American net one-on-one with the puck and the defender hauls him down. Penalty? Not required. Helm, inadvertently mind you, goes sliding into U.S. goalie Zatkoff, knocking them both into the net – and thanks to the marvelous laws of inertia – oh – and karma, what else goes sliding over the goal line? Yup. The puck. Two-goal lead restored!

Oh sweet karma! Sweet deliverance of divine justice! Does this calm me? Lull me into a zen-like state? No. I’m on my feet again before the wide-eyed Maltese delegation screaming and yelling and banging my hand against my forehead – finger and thumb forming an L-shape.

“Losers! Losers! How do you like them apples, eh, suckers!”

4-2 Canada after 2 periods. Twenty minutes to go.

Excuse me while I get a bit of work done…



Third period under way…

By the way, I really must apologize for my behavior through the whole goalie-crashing thing – especially to my American friends – if any are still reading that is, and haven’t removed me from their bookmarks in disgust.

Sweet Jesus Marie. Russian breakaway. Whew! Price made the save. He’s been awesome in this tournament. Sweet Jesus.

Thirteen minutes to go. Hang on boys…!

Excuse me one second.

‘Dear Lord, Please let us defeat those godless communists. Hey-la hey-la, hocus-pocus, boom shakalak. Amen.’

Without playing any polotics here - my heart totally goes out to the American players and hockey fans for what happened in the semi-final match against Canada. A shoot-out is a horrible way to lose a hockey game - especially one that eliminates you from contention.

Shoot-outs are ridiculous. It’s not hockey. It’s a side-show. The fact is - The Americans outplayed us for the majority of that game - between the creases anyway. The goaltending was the difference - that and the crap-shoot - I mean - shoot-out. It was totally unfair.

Another Russia power play. I can’t look…

I’ve sat through a couple of shoot-outs in the past where Canada lost and was eliminated. It’s a horrible experience. It’s like being told you didn’t get the promotion you hoped for because the boss flipped a coin and got tails.

Sincerely - to all Americans who had to see that - my heart goes out to you (well - all of you that didn’t vote republican in the last election that is).

We killed the penalty. Hoo haw! Oops. Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me. A high stick from Bryan Little. Knocked the helmet right off one of the Russians. Bityerkockov or whoever. Back to the box again dammit. And me without my blood pressure medication.

‘Dear Lord, Please don’t let me die without seeing our boys win the gold. Amen.’

I should probably be working on the report that the president of the company wants to see by end of day. I’m probably flirting with the Salary Discontinuation Program but that’s okay. There’s a dark little part of me that looks forward to getting laid off. Looks forward to the next chapter in life where perhaps I’ll land a job more compatible with writing endeavors.

Five minutes to go! Still 4-2…

Oh fuck me black and blue. Another penalty. And it’s to Marc Staal too, our best defenseman and penalty killer. Perfect…

Holy crap. Russia pulls their goalie! Six-on-four power-play but an empty net for us to shoot at if we get the puck! A three-goal lead would ice it…

One minute to go! Russian net still empty!

Fifteen seconds! Wooo Hooooo! Hot damn!

Three!

Two!

One!

Gold! Gold! Gold!

From the 'Just Writing To Say That I Have Nothing To Say' department:

Having transitioned careers from one of the major national banks to a smaller, more vibrant company I've discovered that there are indeed intelligent, motivated hard-working people around. I now work with some quite excellent individuals.

There are however - exceptions.


From: TERRY [mailto:fieldrep@rogers.com]
Sent: Monday, December 18, 2006 12:23 PM
To: CAN-Clientprogram@ourcompany.com
Subject: Territory ID 114


<<>>


----------------------------------------------------------------


From: CAN-Clientprogram@ourcompany.com
To: Terry
Sent: Monday, December 18, 2006 3:50 PM
Subject: RE: Territory ID 114


Terry,
There are no changes documented on the attached worksheet.

FWG


----------------------------------------------------------------


From: TERRY [mailto:fieldrep@rogers.com]
Sent: Monday, December 18, 2006 4:53 PM
To: CAN-Clientprogram@ourcompany.com
Subject: Re: Territory ID 114


There are no changes necessary.


----------------------------------------------------------------


From: CAN-Clientprogram@ourcompany.com
Sent: Monday, December 18, 2006 5:20 PM
To: Terry
Subject: RE: Territory ID 114


In the future please do not contact us if you have nothing to request. Thanks.


----------------------------------------------------------------

Unsaid but hopefully implied is this: 'Because I don't have time for this kind of idiotness!!'

Do you think that was clearly implied? I certainly hope it was.

FWG

Day 1: A conversation with Calico the cat

January 1, 2007:

I awoke in the Purple Heaven suite, guest room at Professor Plonk and Captain Vino's new home. I hadn't much sleep which is unfortunately typical these days, yet I felt inclined to rise and make coffee and do some writing. But Calico (also known as Calicoco or Calicoco-Craziest-Cat-in-the-West in various circles) had already drawn up an agenda for me and she let me know about it via her patented droning wheezing squawk that simply can't be ignored - so delightful to the ear it is.

Job 1: Feed me (no, no, the wet stuff, not the kibble). Unbeknownst to her I managed to set the coffee brewing while she was chowing down.

Job 2: Strokes and ear-scratches while we sit together on the big comfy chair (me on the seat - her on the arm). Between repeated reminders to her to please keep her damn tail out of my coffee mug we had a nice conversation about life, the new year and various issues of shared human-feline concern.

For kicks we assembled the following list by consensus (I brainstormed, she indicated her entries of choice by drooling on them). Perhaps you'll find it a useful resource the next time you adopt a kitten:


Calico and FWG's top-ten names for cats for 2007

10: Fuzzmuffin
9: Skittles
8: Narcissus (not so strongly endorsed by Calico)
7: Aslan
6: Boo Boo Kitty (of Bobsey Twins fame)
5: Otto (short for Autocunnilinguist)
4: Whiskerbiscuit
3: Puke Machine (variants: Shit Machine and Little Shit Machine - again - not endorsed by Calico so much)
2: Fido Purpurr (former NHL hockey player - really - no kid'n - or should I say - no kit'n - har har!)
1: Calico (not particularly endorsed by FWG)


That reminds me. I'll have to update my Top 500 nicknames for 2007. If you have any nicknames to lobby please do so soon!

Good grief. What a lame posting. Look, I was tired okay? They can't all be winners, dammit.

Same shit, different year?

I don't put much stock in New Year's Resolutions as a concept. I don't recall ever making one. But right now I certainly have things to resolve and it happens to be a new year so...

It's time to take the test I think. Time to break out of the slump. Time to put up or shut up. For about six years now I've been diddling around with half-ass weight loss attempts and writing endeavors that are concentrated at times and marked by significant progress but only intermittently. I've taken too many holidays.

My goals are pretty simple I think. To achieve spiritual enlightenment; To come to some sort of peace with this society of ours that currently seems more and more foreign to me all the time; To capture this learning in literature and to get that literature out there - accessible to others who might be on the same kind of journey - who might find it relevant; To make some money at that of course - nothing sinful about making money in responsible quantity; And to put myself in a healthy body so that I might live long enough to achieve all this.

Does that sound reasonable?

I'm finally at a point in life where these goals all seem perfectly accessible to me. But inherently I'm massively lazy. Massively. You have no idea. I'm the absolute All-High Emperor of Procrastination.

Health, Enlightenment, Success. I feel like the pathways are clear before me. Like I can see the pinnacles in the distance. Like I need only put one foot in front of the other (while blissfully ignorant of awaiting pitfalls, granted). But at the pace I'm on - in the state of health that I am - I will surely die before reaching these goals. I will die. And yet I toddle in low gear as if with no motivation. Isn't that ridiculous? Why am I such a pathetic sloth?

Why?

This is the question for 2007. Here's the resolution: Either find the answer this year - or give up.

I will begin to steadily and permanently repair my health and I will start treating writing as the job that it is (albeit a labor of love, certainly) and reap the spiritual rewards that such discipline opens the doors to.

OR:

I will resign myself to a post-300lb shortened existence in which I'll put up with this society and feed it whatever kind of literature I happen to muster as the mood strikes me and hope it gets commercially published and try to forget about the idea of enlightenment.

So there.

As for this blog: Sorry for this unentertaining piece but this is my diary after all. My journal. And I need it to fulfill a role for me. I need to make it a place for occasional confession. My assumption is that I possess a strong enough ego that public embarrassment will help to serve as motivation toward my goals. I certainly have other motivations but apparently I need as many as I can get! So I will occasionally publish my progress or lack-thereof in the form of brief statistics (minutes of exercise, pounds lost/gained, words written - that sort of thing). If you see me failing please feel free to mock me and viciously so! Heck - use the Comments section to post your own progress toward your own goals if you want! We'll make it a support group!

The (hopefully) humorous dissertations will continue here. I have little inclination to attempt humorous writing in any formal sense so this blog provides the perfect (and necessary) outlet.

That's all. Let the test begin.