At first, the young soldier is conversing with the captain of the large starship about what sort of things change a man, how witnessing horrible things can change your perspective, your life, your morality, etc.

The ship is attacked and the captain and the young soldier deploy two fighters to intercept whatever hit them. After a brief battle, the only survivors are the two fighter ships and a strange automobile-like starship which attempts to escape.

The young soldier, emboldened by his victory so far, chases after the car and blows out the back “windshield.” A strange creature, like a leopard-spotted manta ray chimera with a face similar to the standard alien (large, dark almond eyes, no mouth) flies out into the vacuum, apparently unaffected, and soars over the young soldier’s ship, completely obscuring his vision for a moment.

The soldier maneuvers the ship to face the thing which is now behind him. It swirls until it becomes a hypnotic morass in front of a colorful void, a wormhole seemingly. For a moment the creature hovering in front of the wormhole resembles Michelangelo’s painting on the Sistine Chapel, as seen from the perspective of Adam in the painting, God’s hand reaching out to him.

The ship is pulled into the wormhole, where the soldier now stands — unprotected by ship or suit — in the vacuum, witnessing the galaxies around him as spiraling circles of flame, spinning in their orbits at an incredible rate. The true infintiessimal nature of space is overwhelming and his mind reels. He flinches, unable to tolerate the obscene size of it all. And he seems to be watching it all coalesce in extreme fast-forward, which only makes it more boggling.

He passes out. And wakes on a planet where there are people with their eyes torn from their sockets. He has not been driven mad enough to do the same so he sees their world in ways they cannot. They are peaceful, but ignorant of the problems around them do to their blindness. But he cannot be their savior. He has seen much of what they have seen and cannot forget, cannot blind himself to it.

He eventually wakes up on the ship and it was all a dream. My subconscious really needs to work on those endings.

While reading mimismartypants — who gives herself too much grief for gushing about her incredibly cool daughter — I came across this link:

History of the Piñata, By Wendy Devlin in MEXICO CONNECT

Now, I wasn’t all that interested in the theories the website posed, but I did have a moment where I wanted to test my Spanish comprehension after studying it for five years in high school. For my data set, I used the song at the bottom of the page. I think I may have given myself an “F”.

—

Dale, dale, dale, no pierdas el tino,
Come, come, come (?) Do not lose the…tino. That Dah-lay stuff could just be la-las. As for the tino, maybe the stick?

porque si lo pierdes, pierdes el camino.
Because if you lose it (the tino), you lose the street. Well, street could mean path in this case. That’s a little heavy for a song about mindless violence. That stick must be some sort of divining rod or something.

Esta piñata es de muchas mañas
This piñata is made from many tomorrows. Hm, some kind of Zen koan / carpe diem sentiment. We build a papier-mache representation of the future — in the form of a horse, usually, because horses are…always moving forward — and then we obliterate it with a heavy stick to show…that we’re nihilists? Wait, that says mañas. What’s a maña? Well, I’m sure the basic meaning is much the same.

sólo contiene naranjas y cañas.
It only contains oranges and … canes? Or candy, maybe? Candy canes! Aha! That’s a strange combination of foods. And hold on just a second, I thought the piñata was made of tomorrows. Now you’re just going to take that all back and say, “Dale, Dale, only fooling! It’s just a stupid papery husk with oranges and candy canes in it! Is your mind blown yet?”

La piñata tiene caca, Tiene caca:
The piñata has crap in it, it’s got crap in it. Oh, so now I don’t even get the oranges and candy canes? So what, now my tomorrows are hollow, or worse, filled with crap? To hell with this; if I wanted that kind of abuse, I’d pay some leather-clad warrior woman for it and I’d *be* the piñata. Not that…well, anyway, I’m not translating the rest of your stupid song; I’m taking my tino and I’m going home. Bunch of empty promises. Jerks.

Written in a meeting, about no one in the meeting:

I find it quite pleasing
the way your body shifts
without your knowledge
without your notice
and the folds of your dress
crash like cloth waves across
the shores of your skin.

Titles I hereby bestow upon George Lucas in light of his continued desctruction of his own accidental masterpieces from the early 70’s (an homage to McSweeney’s Lists):

Defiler of Memories
Wonder-reaver
Ruiner of Heroes
Pilferer of Joy
He Who Should Not Write Dialogue
Profit-mongering Awesomeness Collapser

Care to add any?

True would like you to believe they’re a safe and effective online dating service, and as per usual ladies lurk for free. Every ad I have found of theirs (scattered on various geekery sites) has featured bosoms of mythic proportions and copy about finding your dream woman. Also of note is the distinct cropping out of the woman’s face – or even other features – in these ads. I’m sure every woman out there is dying to get on this service, baby.

“Talk to your Perfect Woman Now and get used to this view, ’cause that’s all you pigs are ever going to look at anyway!” Insulting to women, to be sure, but it dosn’t exactly say much about men, either. Don’t get me wrong, we love the cleavage, but…well, it’s not what we’re all about.

Compatibility test question 1: Do you like large, prominently displayed breasts? (or if female, do you have large breasts that you display prominently?)
[] Yes, I love them!
[] Yes, 36C or larger
[] No, I’m a man trying to feign that I am above such things
[] No, I’m a woman with average or small breasts and am therefore going to get nothing from your “dating” service

Compatability test question 2: What other stuff do you like? (check one)
[] Movies
[] Music
[] Sports

< submit button >

We have matched you with someone compatible! See how easy that was?

As I walked to work, I saw bike couriers streaming through the traffic and construction like spawning salmon. The bear-buses along the river of Wisconsin Avenue could not swat them from their horny little goal as they darted skillfully through the flashing orange rocks that created honking eddies and waves. Let’s face it, the subconscious which makes my legs stalk their way across the pavement to my office is a creature of metaphor.

At any rate, the brief glimpses into this stream-of-subconsiousness made me wonder if maybe I could be one of them. It is dangerous, no doubt, doesn’t pay too well, and probably contributes to testicular cancer (ask Lance about that). But, I’d get to work outside, get lots of exercise and actually feel like I get things done in a day.

I get big ideas like this sometimes about being a bike courier, but then I always think of the different media influences I have. Kids in the Hall bike courier jokes [rollover those, links not included], that bike movie with Kevin Bacon point to reasons why being a bike courier is stupid; Dark Angel makes it look cool, if the technology level of the world were to suddenly change.

In the end I decided against it. at least for now. But it did get me thinking that I’d like to see a documentary on the subject before I make my decision. The closest I’ll probably get is some reality television series. I don’t have cable, but has this already been done? If not, expect it soon:

World’s Most EXTREME Bike Couriers! Sipping coffee while jumping a curb! EXTREME! Flipping off a driver while carrying important insurance forms! EXTREME! Rolling up one pant leg! ÜBER X-TREME!

I need to get this stuff out of my system. It distracts me from my work. In Marketing.

In a dream this morning, pressed firmly between the ten-minute bookends of my snooze buttton, I was hearing auditions for a play I was directing. Although I felt that creatively this project would fall into my hands, the power definitely belonged to the person sitting to my left. Perhaps he was the producer, the money that would get my project off the ground; my dream did not specify and let me fill in the details myself. Who was this stranger with Caesar’s thumb approval over my every decision?

Mr. Peanut.

Now you may think, as many of us have storytelling sense and like to embellish, that I have changed the person’s identity in order to make a dream story – something that always has more urgency and catharsis to the dreamer – just that much more bizarre to enchant my audience. Nay not, I say! No, even without his trademark top hat, cane and monocle I recognized the mascot immediately.

And even thus dressed (or undressed, it would seem), his snobbery remained at the forefront of his personality. As each audition ended, he would proclaim loudly, “Not…handsome…AT ALL!” and then proceed with a mean-spirited critique of the performance. One young lady was told, “Not…handsome…AT ALL! Please remove this young lady before she is so repulsed by her own whining that she heaves her Lunchables all over our proscenium.”

And then, as a sympathetic soul, I would attempt to give some encouragement to the actor, but I felt like even Kevin Spacey singing “Modern Major General” in his near-perfect diction would have raised the glowering ire of Mr. Peanut.

When all the auditions were over, I was speaking with a stagehand. In a low conspiratorial tone, she said to me “That’s why they call him Mr. Peanut.” I said, “It’s not because he’s a giant talking peanut wearing clearly male-engendered clothing?” “No, it’s because he’s so salty.”

You see? All that, and I was late to work for conceivably the worst joke on the planet. My subconscious is a realm where few dare to tread.

I met her as Kween Schwa, the St. Norbert’s College homecoming queen nominee from BIG (the frat independent group with which I had become affiliated through constant contact with its members). But almost everyone else knew her as Kat, an endearing and beautiful woman with a smile that could knock you over and a personality as warm as a shaft of sunlight on your floor.

A year or two after everything had quieted down with BIG (for me) she married Jamie, a roguish-seeming friend-of-a-friend. They both knew me only peripherally, having spoken with me during parties or brief pre-show antics. Yet each time I would talk to either of them, there was this genuine feeling of welcome and comraderie that has stuck with me. My good friends from BIG talk of them with great admiration, and I get a sense of why.

Then, today, as I sat home poring over code, nursing a sore neck, and generally feeling run-down, I got an email from a friend. Just a simple “In case you didn’t know…” sort of thing. Call me a softy, but the nostalgia of those two people came a-rushing back.

After listening to her music, however, I’m hit with an even deeper sense of appreciation. Kat seemed down-to-earth when you’d talk to her, but right beneath the conversation level, you could feel that Kat always had something to say. Her music certainly feels that way. Give it a listen. Girl’s got pipes.

Kat Downs : official website

First bite taken indicated possible problem.

Upon further examination…

…I was cheated. And Subway reaped the benefits of Tina’s Burrito Betrayal.

In a related story, Google reports Limp Bizkit before the Who when doing a search for “Behind Blue Eyes.” Not Google’s fault, of course. It’s yours.

(special co-author: MHG)

“So, how was the drive?” became the number one question Friday night as MHG and I braved the completely snow-free highways to attend the wedding rehearsal in Green Bay. A weather advisory loomed over us like a stuffed animal on a high closet shelf, completely non-threatening, yet somehow portentous and bone-chilling. “The drive was fine, no snow anywhere actually.”

We had checked into our hotel about an hour earlier, having created for ourselves a substantial time buffer, and arrived at the church thirty minutes early after realizing that it stood practically within the shadow of our Holiday Inn. We made some time with the (surprise) Packer-clad organist and did our best to remember to talk like Christians. “Yes, that murderer in Brookfield must have been completely insane. I’ve certainly never entertained the thought of multiple homicide. Did that sound sarcastic? ‘Cause it wasn’t. And neither was that.”

Luckily, before too much more time progressed and this woman exposed us for what we truly are, the father of the bride arrived, with youngest sibling of the bride in tow. Gregariously grumpy, Mr. M made me instantly at ease with his obvious paternal pride and even more obvious dislike of pomp.

Then, in a rush, like they were in high school butting out their cigarettes to walk into homeroom as the bell rang, the rest of the bridal party clambored in. Jackets were discarded and the wedding planner and overworked pastor powered through the ceremony in record time. The time was right for partying, and the place? Chuck E. Cheese.

At first, none of us, not even the younger adults, were certain how to approach this. We sat and made polite conversation while we longingly gazed at the human gerbils who raced through the set of tunnels that ran throughout the play area, wishing we could afford such carefree attitudes. By the time the pizza arrived, however, everyone was ready to rock some Skee Ball. After only a few balls were thrown, so too was the gauntlet. The drive for amassing tickets was palpable, and people roved to find the greatest token-ticket ratio.

MHG and I collected 184 between the two of us, but only after we had put our own money into the token machine; we did not want to use more than our fair share of the wedding party’s free token pool. But we had a goal. We wanted that Policeman Mr. Potato Head, and we didn’t care if it cost us all night and half our savings to get it. It was only after we had traded in that first 184 toward the 300 ticket price, that we saw the sign, posted in that secluded location RIGHT ABOVE THE PRIZES: “Remember: all prizes can be purchased with cash.”

I settled for some Smarties and a Spider-Man bottle topper rather than putting another bill into the token machine. We hadn’t finished our vendetta against the Bozo Grand Prize Game which insisted on calling us “losers” when we couldn’t get all 6 ping-pong balls to ignore physics and stay in the shallow buckets, but time was marching on, and the wallet was getting thinner than expected. Then, we coughed up some more dough for the potato head, which MHG was referring to as “Mr. Potato Head in a gay bar.” We needed this potato man, you see, to celebrate Izzy the Bootblack’s birthday. Later, we would paint the police hat and shoes in a gloss black, and the mustache would do the rest.

When we returned to the pizza and soda area, with our prizes in hand, the place was getting dead. The bride and her best friend decided to get a snapshot with the animatronic Chuck E. Cheese, who secluded himself behind a velvet curtain between shows. We still had some time, so we waited through a brief birthday song by the staff to Cade, whose entire party was nowhere to be seen and several confusing cartoons until the big moment arrived. The music swelled and the lights flashed. All six screens were alive with overstimulation.

And then, the music reached the top of a crescendo, and…modulated up a key. No Chuck E. yet. He was letting the suspense build a bit. He hasn’t been in the business this long for nothing. The sign on the place doesn’t say Rodeo Dog or Weird Purple Monster. No. It says Chuck E. Cheese.

The music continued to build, and Chuck was backstage with his bottled water. “Let ’em wait five more minutes,” his jerkily animated head seemed to say, “it’ll make it all the sweeter.” S. looked behind the curtains as the music continued to herald the coming of the Chuck, and reported that he had a girl back there with him. The big mouse hadn’t finished with his groupie session yet, and the show was just going to have to wait.

Then, finally, the music hit its actual break point, the “On the Air” light turned on, and…turned off. The screens went back to playing cartoons. Chuck E. Cheese, that diva, that prima donna, had decided the bride wasn’t good enough to be seen with on film. We pulled back the curtains and like kiddy paparazzi snapped away anyway. But Chuck had the last laugh.

As we packed and left, right as the bride-to-be reached the entrance to the party area, the curtains pulled back and Chuck began to sing. The victory was his. At least until we reveal to the press his big secret: he lip-synchs every word.