Periodically.org

Riders are little notes that an act will give to a venue specifying what they need. Some examples . ChrisD came up with the brilliant suggestion to write one up for myself. One (1) gas station attendent who will be nearly indistinguishable from the 'squeegy kids' that hang around the Shell station, the only difference being a dull, dirty name-tag worn in an innovative part of the body. Twenty-three (23) life-harrowing experiences while on the highway with the family that will make me question why we ever left the comforts of our home to visit some corporate nightmare of fibreglass cartoon animals and hazardous carnival rides . Three (3) feelings of incompetence as I miss our turn-off. Fifteen (15) meals at fast-food restaurants I have back home. One (1) meal at 'some place local' only to be scared by their lack of ketchup and insistence on selling RC Cola . Seven (7) sensations that the skin is crawling off my body due to some indiscernible 'dirtiness' in the h...

Talking with a toddler is many things: it's like negotiating with a violent drunk, talking with an emotional overstrung stage actor with a 5 word vocabulary, and like having a conversation with a pathological liar who changes their mind every 1-3 seconds. One is never quite sure if what your toddler is saying has any basis in reality, or just random misfirings meant to frustrate you to no end. Example: "Owlet, you want some crackers?" "No tracters!" "Kay" "ME TRACTERS! ME TRACTERS" *on the verge of tears* "You want crackers?" *Hand out, emphatically* "NO!" So, communication is often on eggshells. Emotionally explosive little people with almost no vocabulary make every day a nightmare in linguistic interpretation and non-verbal communication. I mean, uh, a joy of finally 'reaching' your child and responding to their emotional and spiritual needs. Uh huh. What this all leads to is a deep, deep suspicion of anything a...

Thanks to betaray for the topic. caskets anti-personnel mines weapons grade anthrax bibles Nobel Prizes tattoos wills World Tribunal Trials embalming fluid caltrops foie gras mashups hydro electric dams national tragedies vultures

You have all the wit of a lascivious sea-slug in heat. You have a face unfit for radio. Entire branches of science have sprouted from the study of your alarming personal hygiene and weapon-grade body-odour. Your conversational skills are slightly better than a day seminar on Latin grammar. The very image of naive optimism is you, buying an engagement ring. You're like the poster child for Roe v. Wade. Sorry for interrupting, I was just wondering how much I owe you for curing my insomnia? My mother told me to never speak ill of people. So, let me just say you are a marvellously articulate chimp. You make a strong case for wars of attrition. It's not that I find you boring. It's that you are. My friend bet me I'd never find someone who looked like a pair of donkey testicles, dangled over a raging chemical fire, then doused in brine, scrambled in horse urine, and peppered with the sweepings from a rather large state fair. He owes me twenty bucks. I'm so sorry about you...

The subtitle of this site, indeed, the entire domain, is a mocking of anyone who calls themselves a 'blogger'. As if the medium (RSS enabled text feeds) is of any importance. It's like a writer calling themselves a 'typist', or a 'quill and ink afficionado'. What the thell, right? I find all terms around 'blogging' as if it, in of itself, means a flying shite, to be ridiculous. If you write, then you're a writer. But even that term I find slightly pretentious. IMHO, unless someone has paid you cash money to do write, even if it's for a series of Erotic Poetry featuring a busty elk and 27 different types of fruit flavoured chapstick, you can't really call yourself a writer. We all think of the same thing when that heavy term is rolled out: New Hampshire, the stormy sea, a rusty functional type writer, a stuffy man in a turtleneck with workman hands and a Pall Mall hanging out the side of his lip. A real goddamn writer. Someone with life ex...

So, here is a bit of the work I'll be bringing to my class tommorrow, to be critiqued by hip 20-somethings with sharp eyes for grammar and story-arcs and other shit I heard I'm supposed to put in stories. They are a great, smart bunch. I feel out of my depth frequently, which I suppose, is a good thing. This is my stab at Young Adult (YA) fiction. I'm not sure if it works. I'm trying to combine a China Mieville like world of steampunk with a bit of outrageous asides of Terry Pratchett. Actually, now that I type that out, I'm sure it doesn't work at all, but, come on, the deadline is tommorrow, so this is what I'm handing in. Part of it, anyways. Chapter 1      Secret # 47 Constables always bludgeon thieves younger than 15. Kids are easy to drop, but mainly, if they aren't dealt mild brain trauma, they give one hell of a chase. Secret #98 Constables hate chases. They had told Will many secrets; by fires of airship yard refuse, they'd huddle and whi...

A little follow-up on a post I did on grafters , that fellow who sells carrot peelers, has died . Saddest, and shortest post, to date.