Where they make all of the concrete highway pieces for the United States. I was on a tower a mile high over the ocean with two twin brother concrete craftsman, played by this guy:
Not the type of role in which I'm usually cast.
I’ve logged into my blog out of shame. It’s been months since I’ve posted anything, so enjoy the above, a title Tesla thought would make a good story. Tangentially related, a video of a 38 year old man attempting to fart on his younger brother.
Yes, I’ve returned from a long hiatus with this. I may not have time to write, but my acumen can be communicated through the most puerile screen captures.
Shibatabread is cranking out the batsu subs.
And if someone knows the link to the RSS feed for my blog let me know, ’cause I can’t find it.
And when watching the commercials is more interesting than the event itself…
photo is going to win a Pulitzer.
I’m myself, Scout and Fact. We’re standing on a white sand beach under a dazzling sun; Elizabeth and Tesla are lying on towels behind me. I’m looking at Scout’s back and he is younger, when I had hair. He points to the ocean, to an immense tree in the water. It’s woven from thousands of smaller trees and its canopy casts a shadow that could cover a fleet of battleships. Scout wades into the ocean and I know we’re swimming.
“Bugs live there.” I look over my shoulder to Fact but his face is unreadable. I remember dark soil and slow moving centipedes the size of dogs with oily, segmented carapaces.
Halfway to the tree we stop, treading water and Scout points to an inflatable orange raft, but I change my mind and we keep swimming.
At the tree’s base, millions of roots with tiny beach stones web outward into shallows. We climb, our hands and feet slipping on coated sand, mantling chimneys, wedging fists into channels and as we climb I’m also moving toward the tree’s center, in increasing shadow, passing through chambers that close on our backs.
There is a room with a natural altar twined from the floor, and Scout stops. Fact imagines the lifecycles of beetles, small to large, their transformations from soft, translucent eggs into skittering clawed adults, but I haven’t seen any. I realize they’re hiding from us, scared. Scout has found a path out toward daylight but I haven’t figured out the purpose of the altar room. Fact says we’ve missed the point and Scout is too far ahead and I leave.
We emerge onto the arm of a massive branch flecked with moss and Scout pulls a vine from the wall, bracing himself.
“Elizabeth and Tesla.” Fact points to the beach, and we wave to each other.
Then I dive, hundreds of feet into the ocean again. When we have returned to the beach, Scout continues walking into the jungle while Fact and I sit down on towels with E & T.
Out in the water, the tree’s canopy is slowly boiling into a giant, gray raincloud and the sun is dimming.
“The weather is turning. I knew we shouldn’t have wasted time in the tree.” I look back at Fact and laugh.
I’ve had an entire series of vivid dreams that I’d like to write down, but for the time being: 2 images from dreams inspired by Modern Warfare 2.
1. The creation of H&k .45 USP by machine wrapping fruit rollups around a poster board template.
2. A block of mozzarella is a frag explosive. I tear off bits and throw them at machines and soldiers. I’m in a boathouse and there is a fat soldier that looks like Glenn Beck. I decide to see how small an amount of mozzarella will be an effective weapon. Soon Glenn Beck is dragging himself down the dock leaving a blood trail.
My friend says I like books and movies that aren’t about anything, or so open to interpretation they might as well be about nothing.
I added a link to another blog I follow: blind dragonfly. The author is an Australian playwrite and general nut who’s got this running collection called The North Belconnen Knife Fighting Pits where he puts things like 20 different ideas for plays.
6.a play about assassin rock – a rock jutting out of the surf on awindy beach – if you petition it in the right way, one of yourenemies will die
Anyway, the title of his journal started me thinking about knives and fighting, and how I want a new butterfly knife. I carried one in high school, but I never stabbed or cut anyone (besides myself). The thing about butterfly knives is that just brandishing it is ten times as intimidating as a regular knife because of all the whish-click-clack-ching opening protocols. I suppose it’s like my Cthulu Font lust but even less likely to be fulfilled. You see, the knife I want is the Benchmade Model 42 Balisong, price $280 dollars. Even thinking about buying that knife is foolish. However, there is a good counter-argument.
Finally, Shibatabread has a new partner working with him on the subs, so the new “Hotel Man” Batsu game excerpts are coming faster than ever before. Here is part 3.
I meant to push this minstrel who was up in my face but neglected to switch from wristblade to fist so I ended up stabbing the guy (and the woman next to him) in the throat. Tesla asked, “What’s the difference between assassination and murder?” Sometimes I feel as though my life is built on the steady accretion of tiny ironies.
“Both assassination and murder mean killing someone, but assassination requires planning. It’s possible to murder someone in the heat of the moment without intending to do it.” I paused to consider my words.
“You know how squares are a subset of rectangles? Every square is a rectangle but not every rectangle is a square. It’s like that: every assassination is a murder, but not every murder is an assassination.”