When good whales go bad

NARWHALE WAR

Christmas List

Its that time of the year! When the hot chocalate chirps in the kettle, snow falls in the valley, and the cybister amaryllis bloom into a beautiful bouffant of lily pink and butter white. Remember, Amaryllis like to feel snug, so choose a container that's no more than 1 inch wider than the fattest part of the bulb.

But what do I WANT for Christmas? What do I need on this day, this most special day, when we celebrate the birth of our savior, Christina of Saxony, queen of Denmark and Norway?

1.) I want a nice white scarf.
2.) A boobjob.
3.) Toys made out of children's teeth
4.)
5. BRIO

6. A return to my youth.

7. A small horse that can be trained to ride a regular sized horse.

8. A degree in Hydro-rodentia

9.
10. New gloves.

11. An easily transportable mammal trained to peel oranges to carry in my pocket.

12. Facial lesions.

13. The most expensive bagel in the world. http://thelongestlistofthelongeststuffatthelongestdomainnameatlonglast.com/expensive247.html

14. Shmaltzy dance music preformed by and for children recovering from cancer.

15. Global ANARCHY!!!



16. Rose-scented bubble bath.

... etc., anything along those lines.

Happy shopping!

This one goes out to my friend Katy Flinn...

(the first dog in space, Laika)


and will remain floating within her for eternity.

Vacuuming Again!

It is difficult, if not impossible, to write in a vacuum. Not only do the impending cosmic pressures of having all the air sucked out of any porous orifice of your body distract from coherent thought transmission, but the foamy water vapor forming in your cells and evaporation of your joint fluid makes typing inordinately difficult. Not only that, but the deadline pressure mounts exponentially. With only 5-10 seconds of consciousness remaining before the inevitable death due to heart fibrillation, the stress to form an original thought quickly is near insurmountable.

And then there is the problem of swelling. According to Geoffrey Landis, "Water vapor will form rapidly in the soft tissues and somewhat less rapidly in the venous blood. This evolution of water vapor will cause marked swelling of the body to perhaps twice its normal volume unless it is restrained by a pressure suit." How can one possible contemplate the inner realities of the physical superstructure of the universe, or discern the interaction of form and content in the later films of Fellini, while your waist line mushrooms from a trendy 28 to an unfathomable 2,904? Not only will you have to exchange your most recent purchases from Express, but your skin will be horrendously distorted; even after recompression, it will retain the sticky plasticity of a deflated balloon. Also, where on earth can one find a pressure suit that doesn't make you look dumpy?

Finally, there is the issue of internal body temperature. "There will be virtually no effective circulation of blood. After an initial rush of gas from the lungs during decompression, gas and water vapor will continue to flow outward through the airways. This continual evaporation of water will cool the mouth and nose to near-freezing temperatures; the remainder of the body will also become cooled, but more slowly." It is needless to say the playful subversion of narrative objectivity in Henry James' novellas will be unappreciated by one suffering from internal hypothermia. After such a harrowing experience, I don't know if I could even enjoy Christmas anymore.

The problem about writing in vacuums is that you end up writing about vacuums. Its the only thing you can think of, other than laughing a little bit about how silly your flesh looks, pushing through the buttons separate bubbles up your shirt, as the venal pressure rapidly exceeds the arterial pressure within a minute, other wise known as the human blow fish effect. But otherwise, it is just quiet, dark, and very very VERY empty.

Vacuum Cat:
STAGE 1

STAGE 2

STAGE 3:
A third picture could not be found, lost as it was when the Great Library of Alexandria was torched by Ceaser in 48 BC. I leave it up to my colleges to theorize what the content of said image would contain, of a post-vacuumed (presumably deceased) cat.

Atum

Atum created the fertile lands of the Egypitian Nile by masturbating and spilling his highly potent seed on the Saharan sand. I like to think this blog was created in much the same way.



It was a bit messy, Atum being infinitely proportioned and so on, but the potency of his seed was enough to justify the clean up effort. My keyboard is bound to be broken but, alas, the price you pay for inspiration. I speak entirely in metaphors, of course, and of immaterial spiritual substance.

The problem with that idea is physical substance IS spiritual substance. There is nothing soulless about the dense weaving of my skull bone, there is nothing passionless about texture of my palms, my mucus is entirely ideological. A phallus might not conceptualize dedication to political reform, but it sure knows how to penetrate into the thick of a hairy situation. It knows the essence, the impulse; the body communicates the classics in mute, it theorizes in force and weights; the complicated play of theory becomes solidified in the mechanical functioning of the human form.

EGYPT CAT:

thoughts on dead cats

The question I have to ask when beginning the dubious verb of "blogging," is of course, why bother? I hope you aren't reading this, and if you are, I have to ask you why. What dark alley of the internet led you here? What hour of desperate boredom, what profound lack of experience led you to seek thrills in the crushingly mundane existence of someone else?

That being said, I intend to have you amused by this blog, a little aroused, and hopefully not to angry. Maybe a little angry. I usually tend to make people I'm hitting on angry. Am I hitting on you? Its probably the anger of intimacy. We are this close now, two blogheads connecting through the e-space, reaching out with our e-hands and touching our e-phalluses together. Phalluses. That has bound to be a recurring theme of this blog. that, and and inconsistent capitalization, bad spelling, fragments, and pictures of cats in various states of life. I cover the gamut of cat pictures, from kittens to dead. This is a picture of a very, very old cat:
What is profound about this is it's amazing ambiguity in the "state of cat" chart. Neither purely dead or purely cute, it borders the twilight zone between labels; it blossoms from the crack between idealogical crevices from which releases all the creative forces of the universe, and by extension the most fascinating internet meems. After all, what is not ambiguous is not worthy of mention.
But I digress. Obviously, The cat is most certainly dead. Yet it retains such a wonderful sense of movement-- even a sassy attitude! Does it threaten to attack thieves of her Egyptian demigod's tomb? Or does it paw at imaginary predators, her actual hunting function long ago watered down into imagination by the bourgeoisies-- could it even be saying, "I'm in your tomb, stealin your hiroglifix?" And further more, does its state of preservation move it out of the "dead cat" category, since its lack of recent signs of decay remove the shock quality most vital to the best dead cat pictures?

These questions are endlessly fascinating and surely will inspire scores of heated internet comment debates, peppered by existential questions of the validity of such comments in the first place and porn solicitations.

Discuss, non-existent readers. Primarily, tell me why you are reading, and why I shouldn't judge you.