Ghost Photo! Amazing Photo of Ghost!

I hid out in one of the attics today. I was hoping to take a photo of a ghost, and boy oh boy did I get a great picture:



Isn't that AMAZING? I couldn't believe it. You can't actually see the ghost in this photo, of course. The ghost was standing behind me - then he pushed me. That's why the photo is a bit blurry. I'm thinking of sending a copy to George Noory. He was very impressed with the yeti hairs I sent him last summer.

Today In History

I took the air conditioner out of my window one year ago today. Today I will again take the air conditioner out of the window. Some people call my timing a simple coincidence, but I call it a poignant indication of my general fortitude and fierce commitment to tradition. While I do not vote or speak Esperanto or recycle household glass and newspaper, I feel that I am an asset to the public weal and deserving of earthly paradise. At any rate, which maritime disaster song do you prefer, The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald or Sloop John B? I can't decide - they're both at least as good as The Downeaster Alexa:

I've got bills to pay and fish who need some clothes
I know there's children out there, but where God only knows
They say these people aren't what they used to be
But I've got waters back on land who count on me...
Something something something
Since they told me I can't sell no stripers
And there's no luck in swordfighting here
Like all the locals here I've had to sell my home
Too proud to leave I worked my fingers to the bone
Tell my wife I'm a troll on Atlantis
And I still have my fang on the meal
~from "The Downeaster Alexa"

Haunting, isn't it? An incredibly potent testament to life and death at sea. I, for one, cannot imagine life at sea without swordfighting or trolls selling stripers to Billy Joel on Atlantis. Perhaps this is why I work in an office. While the office does not openly encourage swordfighting, it is not specifically proscribed in the employee handbook. Trolls, on the other hand, are forbidden. As is Billy Joel.

The Killing Fields

Bee thinks I need a new purse, so she drove to the mall yesterday and bought me a purse from H&M. I thought the H&M purse was ugly, but instead of saying so I just put the purse over my head like a feedbag and said "I'M EATING OATS OUT OF MY FEEDBAG." Bee didn't think this was funny, so I repeated it until she left the room. Today she returned the purse to H&M.

UPDATE! Google is no help at all.

Riyadh is Lovely This Time of Year

Sorry, I would have posted sooner, but I fell in with some gangsters and I “forgot” my blog password. Underworld mind control, and all that. I kept thinking my password was “passitypassword123” but it was not. Nor was it “123passitypassword,” nor “passwordtownusa,” nor “shakazulu123." So no post until now. Fortunately for me, my gangsters were benevolent gangsters; all they wanted was my cache of rubies and my apparatus for distilling assorted alcohols. Don’t know why they tried to brainwash me, as I was more than willing to hand over the goods outright. My wealth is a curse. Does anyone want my flat in Taipei? It comes with a solid gold Learjet. I’m also trying to get rid of my estate outside of Riyadh. It comes with an exquisite wine cellar and about 1500 rather shirty kalashnikov-toting masked men. Well, are you interested in these properties or not?

My Newest Policy

From now on, or until I decide otherwise, whichever occurs first, I will respond to every comment on this blog. Of course, if your comment is weird or involves links to articles I've already read and dismissed as "crazy talk" or "liberal" or "liberal crazy talk" or "Uri Geller-bashing liberal crazy talk" , I will erase your comment instead, and then phone all of your friends and tell them that you think they're terrible parents. If your friends haven't any children, I will tell them that you are waiting for them to have children so that you can eat them. "Carl wants to eat our future children?!?" they will shout, as they spring from their chairs and run in tiny circles, thereby winding the phone cord around their abdomen. "With expensive and unusual mustards from small village gift shops," I will whisper, as if you were in the next room.

Before Today, I Cared for No Man

What's wrong with you people? I ask only because I care. Before today, I did not care about anyone. For example, this morning I woke at the crack of sparrows, and I didn't care about you at all. 10:00 a.m. rolled by and I did not care. Lunch was nice, but I was thinking only of myself. All afternoon I slaved in the dark satanic mills, and did I care about you? I did not. But NOW I care about you. I cannot explain it. You are so interesting to me! Do you like coloring books? Do you like pizza? Quickly, tell me about yourself.

Update: Sorry, but I am no longer interested in you. I am now interested in the American aerospace program. Did you know that America has an aerospace program? It's true, and it has nothing to do with states' rights. Don't know much about it yet, but it concerns space.

Can't Talk Now

Don't have much time. I have to be somewhere. The most tedious aspect of being awake is having to be somewhere else. If I had my druthers, I would stay home and transcribe some of my audio recordings. Most of these recordings involve conversations between me and the cat, though you'll find something on the tapes for everyone, e.g., conversations between the cat and a ficus (of blessed memory), and between my father and a sub-par bath mat from an unacceptable discount chain store.

Let Me Tell You

It's already 10:30 and I haven't had any breakfast. Idea for a movie: Somewhere in Kenya (possibly in east-central Kenya, but who can tell in this traffic?) a beautiful woman is murdered for her scratch paper. It was a crime of passion. Also, the murderer needed to write down a phone number quickly. The woman's husband, a shy man with black mustaches and a punched-in bowler, does not notice that his wife is dead and assumes that she's angry again. She is angry, but not for reasons he supposes. Also, she is still dead. The man, now a widower, notices that some guy is digging in the front garden. "Halloa! Stop digging in my garden!" the widower bellows from the window. The window is painted shut, as is the custom in Kenya, so the digger hears "Aaaa! Aaa aaaaaa aa aa gaa-aaaa!" Anyway, it turns out the digger can't stop digging, as he is The Constant Gardener. If he stops digging, the garden blows up. Keanu Reeves is in the garden, shouting and coordinating the digging. Nobody wants Keanu Reeves to die, primarily because he is so kind to animals. He is also kind to the elderly, but that is not what this movie is about. This movie is about risking your life for love. It is also about raccoons, but you don't find out about that until the end.

Have I the Ague?

Would have posted sooner, but I have a cold. What did they call a head cold in America circa 1680? Surely William Coddington didn't holler to William Winthrop, "Get off the roof! You'll catch a cold!" It just doesn't seem authentic; I've never heard that kind of dialogue in the movies. I say, William Winthrop was a true cretin, wasn't he? Not as feebleminded as William Osbourne, or as clumsy as William Coggeshall, or as smelly as William Hutchinson, and certainly a cut above William Middleton, who, as we all know, built a chapel out of his own dung and then died face down in a bowl of crabmeat potage.

Update: Found a list of common colonial-American diseases/conditions. If my customary vim isn't restored soon, I intend to take this list to my doctor and demand antibiotics for them all. Am particularly worried about the yaws.

Flux
Cachexes
King's evil
Yellow jaundice
Griping
Gravel
Rupture
Yaws
Barbadoes fever (not caused by earthquakes or large runs of shad)
Pleuretick fever
Adultery
Quinsey
Colick
Palsey

Fast Broken

Had two slices of raisin toast for breakfast. I know what you're thinking: better you than me. But you're wrong. Perhaps I should have had a third slice, but I believe that man must never gorge himself, particularly if that means eating to excess. Raisins are highly caloric and I don't like to brag. It's not about quantity, it's about amount. Quality surely figures into the equation, unless it's a differential equation, in which case I've already lost interest, haven't I? I can't remember.

Stupid Crappy

Today I put on dungarees, a Western shirt and a gigantic foam Stetson. I wanted to show the world that I support the work of COWBOYS. Nobody said a word! Nobody said, “I say, you’re certainly showing your support for cowboys today, aren’t you?” or “If everybody wore Western attire, maybe we wouldn’t have so many heartbroken cowboys,” or “What a wonderful idea, wearing a Western shirt to support our destitute cowboys.” When I told Fat Old Molly that nobody seemed to notice my obvious support of cowboys, she shook her head and gestured with her tabaccy pipe. “You’re an idiot,” she said. Then she poked the pipe into her teeth and turned back to her word-search puzzle.

Fucking hell, I just want everyone to be happy.

Update: I set fire to my Stetson. Now the third-floor library is full of smoke and my Western shirt smells like burnt foam.

This Time, I Am As Puzzled As You Are

According to this blog, I haven't blogged in several days. I am baffled! Not only am I baffled, I am bewildered and alarmed and unnerved by a nameless fear that has left me wan and exhausted and sleepless and jittery. For you see, I HAVE blogged in the past few days: in fact, for the past few days I have bypassed the computer entirely and blogged only with the power of my mind. Unfortunately, none of my telepathic posts posted properly. Perhaps my words were ravaged by air beagles en route to Blogger, or perhaps they're still on their way to Topic Drift, having stopped at Hardee's for a bite to eat. That would be out of character, of course, as my posts - all of my posts - despise Hardee's. My posts are confused by square hamburgers. We are all confused by square hamburgers. But not White Castles; those are delicious.

At any rate, my posts didn't post. This doesn't mean I'm not telepathic, however - I will not be discredited! It simply means there has been some sort of faceless interception. That is all it means. My telepathic posts are sure to show up any minute now. I am going out to the porch to wait for them.


Air Beagle Gobbles Delicious Telepathic Blog Posts



We Are All Confused by Square Hamburgers