In the summer of 2005 I worked in landscaping for two and a half months. It was a surprisingly enjoyable job. But then....
My block saw dried up
And my rake's teeth fell out
And my sod cutter waddled into a lake
And my shovel became shriveled
And my plate compactor caught a wasting disease
And then I went home and ate a couple of tommychongas for dinner. The next day was supposed to be my last day working there. I didn't feel well so I call in sick. It was a good summer.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Saturday, November 1, 2008
வாட் இஸ் த தேஅல்?
What is the deal with the tagafarpashtonese? Seriously, can anyone enlighten me?
I woke up this morning thinking about Robert Johnson. Twice in my life I've had to state this fact and I will now state it again: Robert Johnson was a real person.
The facts about his life are sketchy and tragic. He lost his wife and newborn child in childbirth. He was a travelling blues musician and made some recordings. He got friendly with somebody else's girl and was poisoned at age 27 (OK, this may be apocryphal, but it seems plausible enough.)
Along the way at least two photographs were taken. One os of him and his guitar, smiling. Another is just of his face, with a Cigarette hanging out of it. They edited the cigarette out of the photo in many prints, prompting my guitar teacher to ask why they didn't put a halo over his head as well. Smoking is our society's equivalent of a venial sin. Really, we have only one sin: dying. Smoking aids in that process and is only forgiveable if you quit.
Anyway, a lot of people (the Coen brothera among them) seem to think that he sold his sould to the devil so he could "play that guitar real good." This is probably not true, although he did master the guitar in a period of about 2 years.
Robert Johnson was the undisputed King of the Delta Blues. This was a very useful description for the record company marketers who used it to sell millions of copies of his Complete Recordings to white, middle class men like me who buy things simply because we were told that they were important.
I woke up this morning thinking about Robert Johnson. Twice in my life I've had to state this fact and I will now state it again: Robert Johnson was a real person.
The facts about his life are sketchy and tragic. He lost his wife and newborn child in childbirth. He was a travelling blues musician and made some recordings. He got friendly with somebody else's girl and was poisoned at age 27 (OK, this may be apocryphal, but it seems plausible enough.)
Along the way at least two photographs were taken. One os of him and his guitar, smiling. Another is just of his face, with a Cigarette hanging out of it. They edited the cigarette out of the photo in many prints, prompting my guitar teacher to ask why they didn't put a halo over his head as well. Smoking is our society's equivalent of a venial sin. Really, we have only one sin: dying. Smoking aids in that process and is only forgiveable if you quit.
Anyway, a lot of people (the Coen brothera among them) seem to think that he sold his sould to the devil so he could "play that guitar real good." This is probably not true, although he did master the guitar in a period of about 2 years.
Robert Johnson was the undisputed King of the Delta Blues. This was a very useful description for the record company marketers who used it to sell millions of copies of his Complete Recordings to white, middle class men like me who buy things simply because we were told that they were important.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
அல்மோஸ்ட் லைவ் videos
What is going on with the foreign script? In case you don't read Cambodarmenalgeraskrit, those first two words are Almost Live. I have been ignoring my musical and literary interests, friends and personal hygiene in order to watch Youtube videos of a defunct Seattle sketch comedy show called Almost Live. I adore this show. I would probably give a centimeter or two of my right pinky to have it all on DVD (not that we can watch DVDs on our TV, but that's only for the next 5 years while we save up to buy a player that works and doesn't do screwy things with the color.)
Here are 5 sketches that will get you started. Just search for these on Youtube:
1) Hit Man Hot Dog
2) Super Thick Deluxe
3) Underpants Crafters
4) Folk Songs of the Slightly Inebriated
5) Blow with Calcium
In case you're wondering, I took Virgie's advice and made my blog public again. Now you don't have to take it off your blog list thing that you have on your blog.
I'm trying to learn some Robert Johnson songs... again. It's slow. Gotta go.
Here are 5 sketches that will get you started. Just search for these on Youtube:
1) Hit Man Hot Dog
2) Super Thick Deluxe
3) Underpants Crafters
4) Folk Songs of the Slightly Inebriated
5) Blow with Calcium
In case you're wondering, I took Virgie's advice and made my blog public again. Now you don't have to take it off your blog list thing that you have on your blog.
I'm trying to learn some Robert Johnson songs... again. It's slow. Gotta go.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Another Old Entry from a Different Defunct Blog
A word of explanation--this is the only published post from my autobiographical blog, Me! Its URL was brandonvernpickering.blogspot.com. I have decided to condense my blogs and make sure that only people I know can read my posts. Here's what I kept from that one. It was originally published 4/22/08.
The multiple blogs are all part of a program to compartmentalize the various components of my personality, and explore them separately. This will be a sort of "anchor blog," in which will comment on and explain the others. In this way I plan moderate myself.
I love factoids, so here are a few:
1) Strathroy is a city in Southern Ontario, where me and Virgie stopped to get awful Chinese food and ice cream on our way from Hamilton MI to Niagara Falls. We were on our honeymoon.
2) It seemed like there was another factoid which would explain some strange element of one of my other blogs.
3) The largest bony fish is the Ocean Sunfish. I used to cath tiny freshwater sunfish in the Snoqualmie River and various oxbow lakes which that river created. My brother-in-law Bob Siko and my friend Devin Guthrie taught me to fish. I am not a good fisherman.
A few words about my own Dr. Jeckyll, Dr. Bingpickler. I used to become Dr. Bingpickler without fail on Friday afternoons, especially if I could find a decent straight man like pentalingual Greg Svanidze. His full name is Ramdon Bingpickler V. That's not a Roman numeral for 5; it's his last initial. I changed his name from B. Vernon Pnuterington sometime in my second or third year at Whitworth College, which also has a habit of changing its name. I changed the name to make Paul Stephens laugh, but he seemed to think the first name funnier than the second. At least, he always called me Pnuterington and rarely Dr. Bingpickler.
This persona has not always been received well. Virgie likes him well enough, and that's what matters now. He makes her laugh. Now that I've brought up my wife I have reason to explain the other blog. Virgie is a very intelligent seminary student. She defends her own opinions competently, much better than I defend my own. For this reason I wind up adopting her opinions on matters that I don't care about or haven't thought through. My opinions are very malleable, so after she has explained position on some issue, and a few months have elapsed, the position becomes my own. This is not often problematic, but it erodes my faith in my abilities to come to my own conclusions. That's what the Correct Thoughts About Religion blog is for, to give a forum in which to come to my own conclusions, using only my brain and stuff I read on Wikipedia. It may be a truly pathetic blog. Let's see. I have come to a conclusion about pornography and intend to post something about it today. First I will talk to Joshua.
The multiple blogs are all part of a program to compartmentalize the various components of my personality, and explore them separately. This will be a sort of "anchor blog," in which will comment on and explain the others. In this way I plan moderate myself.
I love factoids, so here are a few:
1) Strathroy is a city in Southern Ontario, where me and Virgie stopped to get awful Chinese food and ice cream on our way from Hamilton MI to Niagara Falls. We were on our honeymoon.
2) It seemed like there was another factoid which would explain some strange element of one of my other blogs.
3) The largest bony fish is the Ocean Sunfish. I used to cath tiny freshwater sunfish in the Snoqualmie River and various oxbow lakes which that river created. My brother-in-law Bob Siko and my friend Devin Guthrie taught me to fish. I am not a good fisherman.
A few words about my own Dr. Jeckyll, Dr. Bingpickler. I used to become Dr. Bingpickler without fail on Friday afternoons, especially if I could find a decent straight man like pentalingual Greg Svanidze. His full name is Ramdon Bingpickler V. That's not a Roman numeral for 5; it's his last initial. I changed his name from B. Vernon Pnuterington sometime in my second or third year at Whitworth College, which also has a habit of changing its name. I changed the name to make Paul Stephens laugh, but he seemed to think the first name funnier than the second. At least, he always called me Pnuterington and rarely Dr. Bingpickler.
This persona has not always been received well. Virgie likes him well enough, and that's what matters now. He makes her laugh. Now that I've brought up my wife I have reason to explain the other blog. Virgie is a very intelligent seminary student. She defends her own opinions competently, much better than I defend my own. For this reason I wind up adopting her opinions on matters that I don't care about or haven't thought through. My opinions are very malleable, so after she has explained position on some issue, and a few months have elapsed, the position becomes my own. This is not often problematic, but it erodes my faith in my abilities to come to my own conclusions. That's what the Correct Thoughts About Religion blog is for, to give a forum in which to come to my own conclusions, using only my brain and stuff I read on Wikipedia. It may be a truly pathetic blog. Let's see. I have come to a conclusion about pornography and intend to post something about it today. First I will talk to Joshua.
Christianity--The Candy Bar!
This was originally posted on a blog nobody visited called Brandon's Correct Thoughts about Religion, on August 22, 2008.
Here's my idea for a Christian t-shirt:
It's not a religion;
It's a candy bar.
(Image of a candy bar with CHRISTIANITY written on it)
(I have to hit up some designers I know to create the Image of Christianity the Candy Bar)
I wonder about the feasability of a cross-shaped candy bar. It seems that it would break easily, but it would have more ends (4) than a regular candy bar (2). Everybody knows that the best parts of the candy bar are the ends. The very best part is the last bite, which has been warmed slightly by your hand. Provided you haven't delayed in finishing your bar, this warming gives the chocolate the perfect creamy texture and softness that you long for. It's why you bought the bar! Well, along with the rest of the bar it's why you bought the bar.
I don't know why I wrote that bit about the last bite. It doesn't help my case. Anyway, my proposed bar would have three starting points and one main setback. You may have noticed that there would be one bite in the middle with less chocolate than any other candy bar bite. It only has chocolate on the top and bottom, not the sides. We'll forgive it. Or perhaps we'll just abandon the idea and make it a regular bar. But bigger and better and cheaper than all the others! Our God is happy when we enjoy his gifts. And the greatest of these, that doesn't have to do with the incarnation or the arts or interpersonal relationships or the hygiene of society, is chocolate.
If any potential recipes for this bar come to mind, please send them to me. Theological explanations required.
Here's my idea for a Christian t-shirt:
It's not a religion;
It's a candy bar.
(Image of a candy bar with CHRISTIANITY written on it)
(I have to hit up some designers I know to create the Image of Christianity the Candy Bar)
I wonder about the feasability of a cross-shaped candy bar. It seems that it would break easily, but it would have more ends (4) than a regular candy bar (2). Everybody knows that the best parts of the candy bar are the ends. The very best part is the last bite, which has been warmed slightly by your hand. Provided you haven't delayed in finishing your bar, this warming gives the chocolate the perfect creamy texture and softness that you long for. It's why you bought the bar! Well, along with the rest of the bar it's why you bought the bar.
I don't know why I wrote that bit about the last bite. It doesn't help my case. Anyway, my proposed bar would have three starting points and one main setback. You may have noticed that there would be one bite in the middle with less chocolate than any other candy bar bite. It only has chocolate on the top and bottom, not the sides. We'll forgive it. Or perhaps we'll just abandon the idea and make it a regular bar. But bigger and better and cheaper than all the others! Our God is happy when we enjoy his gifts. And the greatest of these, that doesn't have to do with the incarnation or the arts or interpersonal relationships or the hygiene of society, is chocolate.
If any potential recipes for this bar come to mind, please send them to me. Theological explanations required.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
A Game of Tag
This blog was prompted by my wife's aunt Jenny, whose blog is http://jenzai.wordpress.com/. Come back someday, but go there now!
It's a fun game. I write a 6-word biography title and then post a link to the blog of the person who told me to do so. Then I tag five other bloggers (I think this is done via email, but I will do at least one traditional in-person tag.) While Dr. Bingpickler is gnawing through his gag, I'm going to explain my 6-word biography title.
Home is a difficult thing to define. My current definition is this: "wherever me and Virgie typically sleep." However, I often use the word to refer to my ancestral home outside of Duvall, Washington. It's here that I'm referring to in the title of my biography, and in this post from here on. I love my home, and that's exactly why I'm filled with a deep sense of disappointment and longing whenever I'm there. I long that all the old wounds my family has will be healed. I long to be a part of my family, as my distance and uncommunicativeness render me currently incapable. I want our property to stay in our hands, and become a testament to our ability to work together for good (and ecological and financial stability.)
I have a wonderful ability to put all these feelings aside when I'm not on one of my annual or (at least this year) biannual visits. Anyway, I've taken too long already and Dr. Bingpickler is making progress, so here's the title: "Home is where the hurt is."
It's a fun game. I write a 6-word biography title and then post a link to the blog of the person who told me to do so. Then I tag five other bloggers (I think this is done via email, but I will do at least one traditional in-person tag.) While Dr. Bingpickler is gnawing through his gag, I'm going to explain my 6-word biography title.
Home is a difficult thing to define. My current definition is this: "wherever me and Virgie typically sleep." However, I often use the word to refer to my ancestral home outside of Duvall, Washington. It's here that I'm referring to in the title of my biography, and in this post from here on. I love my home, and that's exactly why I'm filled with a deep sense of disappointment and longing whenever I'm there. I long that all the old wounds my family has will be healed. I long to be a part of my family, as my distance and uncommunicativeness render me currently incapable. I want our property to stay in our hands, and become a testament to our ability to work together for good (and ecological and financial stability.)
I have a wonderful ability to put all these feelings aside when I'm not on one of my annual or (at least this year) biannual visits. Anyway, I've taken too long already and Dr. Bingpickler is making progress, so here's the title: "Home is where the hurt is."
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Me! (grunt!)
Me Cave Man Cereal Guy. Me love cereals!
Best Good cereal Golden Grahams. Taste Good. Cereal Sister know.
Me love Crispix. Me love soft half *and* crunchy half. Cereal Woman not love Crispix.
Kix Good.
Some cereals Bad. Cooooooookie Crisp Bad.
Cracklin' Oat Bran Good. Cost too much (maybe... clump of hair and Good Stick, if lucky)
One cereal disappear when pour milk. Make hot in White Box. Put sugar.
Raisin Bran Crunch Good. Raisin Bran Good. More Good? Cave Man Cereal Guy head hurt.
Cave Man Cereal Guy make good blog. Cereal God give reward. Get cereal soon.
Best Good cereal Golden Grahams. Taste Good. Cereal Sister know.
Me love Crispix. Me love soft half *and* crunchy half. Cereal Woman not love Crispix.
Kix Good.
Some cereals Bad. Cooooooookie Crisp Bad.
Cracklin' Oat Bran Good. Cost too much (maybe... clump of hair and Good Stick, if lucky)
One cereal disappear when pour milk. Make hot in White Box. Put sugar.
Raisin Bran Crunch Good. Raisin Bran Good. More Good? Cave Man Cereal Guy head hurt.
Cave Man Cereal Guy make good blog. Cereal God give reward. Get cereal soon.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
My Personal Faith Journey
You want Religion, Strathroy? I'll give you a religion.
Pneumatic->
<-<-<-<-<
>->->->->
<-<-<-<-<
>->->->->
<-<-<-<-<
>->->->->
<-<-<-<-<
>->->->->
<-<-<-<-<
>->->->->
<-<-<-<-<
>->->->-> tUBES
That's right, sucker. Pneumatic tubes have been dreamt about in all times, all cultures and all socioepileptic backgrounds. How did the Emperor Q'in plan to get into heaven, you may ask. I know how. How do Namibian bushmen plan to have the Holy Spirit delivered to them? William Murdoch knows. The Guanche people did *not* expect that God would speak to them through a Public Address system. They knew better. They knew his messages would come in pill shaped containers, shot out of giant Celestial Pneumatic Tubes.
Are you persisting in unbelief? Repent! Go to the bank drive-thru again. No, not your crappy home bank. That one over by Fatburger on Redmond Way. Just West of that strip mall with the Fatburger and Blockbuster and Great Clips. East of McDonald's and Dairy Queen. Across the street from Taco Time. The Bank with pneumatic Tubes.
Pneumatic Tubes solve all of the following Theological Problems
1) Pain (did you honestly think that they only transport pill-shaped bank transaction holders? No, they suck out your suffering and transport it to the suffering-deprived in the rich neighborhoods)
2)How it is that God can send people to Hell who didn't have any choice but to do their evil heart's bidding. I know how.
3) All other problems
Now I'm down here. And you all know how! Altogether now...
Pneumatic Tubes!!
Pneumatic->
<-<-<-<-<
>->->->->
<-<-<-<-<
>->->->->
<-<-<-<-<
>->->->->
<-<-<-<-<
>->->->->
<-<-<-<-<
>->->->->
<-<-<-<-<
>->->->-> tUBES
That's right, sucker. Pneumatic tubes have been dreamt about in all times, all cultures and all socioepileptic backgrounds. How did the Emperor Q'in plan to get into heaven, you may ask. I know how. How do Namibian bushmen plan to have the Holy Spirit delivered to them? William Murdoch knows. The Guanche people did *not* expect that God would speak to them through a Public Address system. They knew better. They knew his messages would come in pill shaped containers, shot out of giant Celestial Pneumatic Tubes.
Are you persisting in unbelief? Repent! Go to the bank drive-thru again. No, not your crappy home bank. That one over by Fatburger on Redmond Way. Just West of that strip mall with the Fatburger and Blockbuster and Great Clips. East of McDonald's and Dairy Queen. Across the street from Taco Time. The Bank with pneumatic Tubes.
Pneumatic Tubes solve all of the following Theological Problems
1) Pain (did you honestly think that they only transport pill-shaped bank transaction holders? No, they suck out your suffering and transport it to the suffering-deprived in the rich neighborhoods)
2)How it is that God can send people to Hell who didn't have any choice but to do their evil heart's bidding. I know how.
3) All other problems
Now I'm down here. And you all know how! Altogether now...
Pneumatic Tubes!!
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Make the Giant Woodlouse Go Away!
Make the giant woodlouse go away, Strathroy.
Two nights ago I dreamt I was being taunted by a shapeshifting being which always chose to be creepy-crawly things. The first thing I remember is that she taunted me in the form of a tiny yellow fly. I was irritated and thought I would teach her a lesson by putting her in the sink, which was full of water. I felt bad when she almost went down the drain and I tried to put her on a paper towel to dry her out. She must not have stuck to the paper towel very well, because she fell on the floor, and at some point turned into a little pupa-like grey thing, still tiny. I had trouble finding her before she went under the frige. This all happened at my parents' house.
Then Franz Kafka took over creative control of the dream. She came out as a giant woodlouse-like thing, about a foot long. She looked like her whole body was made of the legs, because of few of them were loose on her back and shimmering. Some kind of rag or carnival music was playing about something called a "Woler Bug." It was catchy but I don't remember it very well. Just something about being a woler bug, or worler bug or whatever, sung by a man. It was kinda like "I'm an Aardvark," from Sesame Street: just a self-proclamation. Verily, it is better to be an Aarvark than a woler bug.
Clearly she was the woler bug. She came after me, but not very quickly. I made it into my parents' room and looked for a shoe to squish her with. I was barefoot, so I would have had to put my hand all the way into the shoe and then lean on her, or grip it by the heel and try to smash her. The shoes were all too small. There was only one option left: slam the door on her. I couldn't, for some reason. I jumped over her back onto the hardwood, and woke up.
Some of that is embellished, but not the interesting part. I don't remember thinking out clearly how I would use the shoe to kill her. Anyway, the rest is real. As real as a dream at least.
I am tormented by thoughts of this giant, land-going crustacean. What if it's going around on the floor when I get up to go to the bathroom at night? What if it crawls up onto my bed while I'm asleep?! Oh shut up, reader! Are *your* fears so much more rational than these? OK, probably. What follows is a not-exhaustive list of possible inspirations for this dream:
1) Pan's Labyrinth, task one
2) The Metamorphosis, of course
3) That time I put my retainer in, not realizing there was a ladybug on it. I learned first hand why bright colors on an animal mean "Do Not Eat"
There were others, but they escape me. I believe I have keyed my unveiling post. And it's only the third or fourth one. I am proud of this entry.
Two nights ago I dreamt I was being taunted by a shapeshifting being which always chose to be creepy-crawly things. The first thing I remember is that she taunted me in the form of a tiny yellow fly. I was irritated and thought I would teach her a lesson by putting her in the sink, which was full of water. I felt bad when she almost went down the drain and I tried to put her on a paper towel to dry her out. She must not have stuck to the paper towel very well, because she fell on the floor, and at some point turned into a little pupa-like grey thing, still tiny. I had trouble finding her before she went under the frige. This all happened at my parents' house.
Then Franz Kafka took over creative control of the dream. She came out as a giant woodlouse-like thing, about a foot long. She looked like her whole body was made of the legs, because of few of them were loose on her back and shimmering. Some kind of rag or carnival music was playing about something called a "Woler Bug." It was catchy but I don't remember it very well. Just something about being a woler bug, or worler bug or whatever, sung by a man. It was kinda like "I'm an Aardvark," from Sesame Street: just a self-proclamation. Verily, it is better to be an Aarvark than a woler bug.
Clearly she was the woler bug. She came after me, but not very quickly. I made it into my parents' room and looked for a shoe to squish her with. I was barefoot, so I would have had to put my hand all the way into the shoe and then lean on her, or grip it by the heel and try to smash her. The shoes were all too small. There was only one option left: slam the door on her. I couldn't, for some reason. I jumped over her back onto the hardwood, and woke up.
Some of that is embellished, but not the interesting part. I don't remember thinking out clearly how I would use the shoe to kill her. Anyway, the rest is real. As real as a dream at least.
I am tormented by thoughts of this giant, land-going crustacean. What if it's going around on the floor when I get up to go to the bathroom at night? What if it crawls up onto my bed while I'm asleep?! Oh shut up, reader! Are *your* fears so much more rational than these? OK, probably. What follows is a not-exhaustive list of possible inspirations for this dream:
1) Pan's Labyrinth, task one
2) The Metamorphosis, of course
3) That time I put my retainer in, not realizing there was a ladybug on it. I learned first hand why bright colors on an animal mean "Do Not Eat"
There were others, but they escape me. I believe I have keyed my unveiling post. And it's only the third or fourth one. I am proud of this entry.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Poison Barf--WARNING--this is gross--do not read if you have even a somewhat high opinion of me or a full stomach
Poison barf is something not to feed to dinner guests. I'll give you two rock-solid reasons why:
1) Even if they can get over the fact that you served them vomit, they still die and splash vomit on your table as their face falls into the bowl before them. It could be a plate, I suppose.
2) Even if they have a tolerance to whatever poison you laced the meal with, they throw it up again anyway and make even more mess and are not nourished by the dinner.
Disclaimer: Poison barf is perfectly fine to serve to guests who like eating barf and have built up a tolerance to the poison included. Old, decrepit dogs also are perfect candidates.
1) Even if they can get over the fact that you served them vomit, they still die and splash vomit on your table as their face falls into the bowl before them. It could be a plate, I suppose.
2) Even if they have a tolerance to whatever poison you laced the meal with, they throw it up again anyway and make even more mess and are not nourished by the dinner.
Disclaimer: Poison barf is perfectly fine to serve to guests who like eating barf and have built up a tolerance to the poison included. Old, decrepit dogs also are perfect candidates.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
mike holmgren is inanimate
Mike Holmgren has a heart in his mouth. Mike Holmgren is not as fat as Virgie thinks. Mike Holmgren is king of the books, though not a book himself! We love Mike Holgren. Virgie loves Mike Holmgren especially. I hope Mike Holmgren will make it to the Super Bowl. Mike Holmgren watches us; he keeps his balance. Mike Holmgren is not like Jeff Goldblum (Mike Holmgren is righteous.) Mike Holmgren is striped. Does Mike Holmgren love Jesus? We're looking into it. Mike Holmgren is our Christmas, Christmas, Christmas alligator.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Posting
Hello Strathroy,
exist a!gain, Strathroy, Exist when karaoke love matters the watches dram Schticklegruber zoom dagger flapjack in the 44444444444 wingding meerkat bucket.
OK?
exist a!gain, Strathroy, Exist when karaoke love matters the watches dram Schticklegruber zoom dagger flapjack in the 44444444444 wingding meerkat bucket.
OK?
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