Animals who chose domestication are pretty damn smart -- the life of a domestic cat is enviously leisurely. And, for the animals who domesticated themselves, but ended up not tasting too good -- that's sheer brilliance.

Something like this is needed in the political/political-campaign realm: Second thoughts.

Painkiller is a misappropriated moniker. Euphoriaproducer is much more accurate. Makes me think of my 7th grade health class: I remember learning about drugs (say no), their types, their streetnames, their effects. I vowed never to do any of them regardless that the knowledge of them was very secretly appealing. I especially vowed never to do quaaludes, thinking it was a terrible, and therefore very bad for you name. So, now that I've lived through the age-of-innocence and the age-of-experimentation and the age-of-gain-twenty-pounds-&-blow-all-my-money-on-cars-women-&-stereos-from-a-corporate-job-via-college-graduationentation (currently stuck in the age-of-cynicism), I want to try one of these quaalude things. I'm far from a puritan, yet through all those ages, I've never seen one. Are they pink or are they white? Do they produce sedation or cornholiation? I'd put them on my wish list, but I think Amazon.com is still working on the drug delivery thing.

My subtext section is once again updated -- similar complaints to the same circadian shit. I procrastinate; therefore I don't floss. Don't gloss when you floss. Shit glides downhill. Click here regardless that the W3 says don't click here. Things only get worse. :-)

My biggest fear maintaining a blog is if I will detest what I've written 4 or 5 years into the future. Obviously, I can remove posted content from my web site, but that doesn't account for caches or anything else that might get re-posted on some other site. The following is essentially a blog post from 1997. If I was that immature then, I can't be that much more mature now, and that's scary. That's what is great about the human condition, we never know when to give up.

-- tqb circa 1997

I must write for the emotional occupation. I'll procrastinate fate to jot a few words and it's thrilling and it's tiring...

Hey, wait a minute dude, before you try suicide, why don't you try blogging?

Hmm, 100 "verbal orgasms" and yet only two "waist of a mind"[s]. What gives?

Intesexual: intellectual X sexual. Now it needs a definition and application.

Stand in place long enough and eventually irrelevance finds you. You can even play hide-and-seek with it and irrelevance will always win.

Last night I was at the bowling alley where friends and acquaintances of mine bowled every Monday night for a year and a half. Spares & strikes, pulltabs, and Tuesday morning hangovers. Like all seemingly static good times, it eventually bowed to the ebb, and bowling was no more.

Bowling last night was hell. All the faces had shifted and my scattered brain couldn't reconcile the good times manifested in others (the new kids) with the good times manifested in my ghosts (the old guard).

You might glide to the foul line and throw a rock down the lane and think you are doing something for cheap-thrills-satisfaction. But you're not. Even in the mundane you are writing your legacy script, your Alzheimer's photo album, your geriatric cud, and you'd better fucking like it -- especially the feel of it. 'Cause you aren't going to care much about whether you broke 100 when you are 100; and, unless science and metaphysics harmonize and kick into high gear, the reset button will be well unobtainable.

"I have become communication with the server."

Here's a pop-up advertisement that is frequently spawned on the Hotmail website (click to enlarge):

Nice that Hotmail (part of Microsoft) is accepting advertisement revenue for ads that mimic legitimate system crash screens (click to enlarge):

A sexploitation would be less offensive.

Artist: Jeff Buckley/The Fire Theft
Song: Mojo Pin/Backwards Blues
Album: Grace/The Fire Theft
Year: 1994/2003

One of the great things about living in Seattle is that you frequently get to drive around at night in the rain. There's really no better way to symbolically slash your wrists than to ride in a tin can on rubber in a deluge, especially at night. You can turn your radio to dark songs and dodge all those negligent drivers and have a private communion with pity (Really, what good is it to have anything but private pity? You wouldn't want to post it on a blog, that's for sure).

Shift to 2nd, but dodge the flooded storm sewer. A few years ago I was on a pity drive (in the rain at night) driving anywhere and hoping to randomly run into my yoga teacher. Stupid really. I had a serious crush on her -- or at least her class -- and her presence induced a lot of comfort in me. It sounds stalkerish, but just the thought of randomly finding my yoga teacher -- that was solace enough for an intensely spirit fracturing night. Is there a better definition for religion? A student seeking his teacher for knowledge, comfort, and grace, even if the search is in vain -- a rocketship to the stars?

A 2nd to 4th shift (we're going fast enough, but don't kill the pedestrian in the crosswalk). Another great thing about living in Seattle is the ability to listen to DJ Larry Metro on KEXP. You can get him on the internet, but it cheapens his show. Really, his show should be tried start to finish on a mono AM/FM clock radio: pain and imperfection matching pain and imperfection in their magnetized harmony. Not that Metro's show is imperfect, but you'll feel imperfect after your done with it. As it should be too. When a guy can take his pain and slap you around with it and you call it art and come back for more -- that's one of those pleasures you only do when the door is closed and the light is out. Proof? How about Friday, September 20, 2003 at 5:39 AM? Metro played Jeff Buckley's "Mojo Pin" followed by The Fire Theft's "Backward Blues." No great genius there -- until you hear the transition. And Metro does this shit day in and day out and nobody listens. How's that for pain and imperfection?

Let's be frat boy stupid and drive in 5th on a residential street (at night in the rain). So you fuckheads (much like me) who proclaim all this Jeff-Buckley-this and Jeff-Buckley-that, but never listened to him before he drowned, what good is it doing him now? You might as well take all those postmortem accolades and stuff them in a bottle without a cork and throw them in the Mississippi River. In the meantime listen to Larry Metro and clear your conscience a bit.

Slam on the brakes 'cause I'm going to post a picture of myself. My friend caught on film the very self-portrait that I would paint if forced to do so in some community college art class. For all the dark verbal shit I spit on paper and send to everybody around me -- the happiness in this pic -- this is the me I see, the me I feel every day. I'd show it more often, but I've got some weird channels in me and some of them run forever but don't cover much ground. And if I'm swimming in one of those channels, or if I'm driving at night and in the rain, just switch your radio to Larry Metro and you will see what I see.

I may be the last one to believe it but I'll always be the first one to say it, "who gives a fuck, anyway?"

I don't receive many of them, but they do wonders for me: two people smell strange fruit in the woods. If I am one of them, I want to know what the other is thinking. Life is nothing without communion. So to Michelle (comment on "There's A Reason Hookahs Have Manifold Valves"), I'm glad someone else out there mused over the same Harper's article that made me muse. To Lance (comment "SOTW Vol 14"), my writing is REAL -- my feelings transcribed (although someday I *will* own a motorcycle). To my sis, I'm glad you feel that the picture in SOTW 14 is a portrait and that it reminds you of me at two. I'm a long way off of ever knowing who I am, but I struggle daily to ensure that what comes out of me at least feels like me. What else to do, you know? I'm not a mountain climber. For those of you who are -- let me know if you find anything else but yourself at the top.

Ray Larabie (his fonts made my KIZZ image possible) used to have a humorous blurb about if you wanted to support him, but couldn't afford to send him money, then you could send him your unwanted CDs instead. Sounds good to me. If you like what you read here and want to support my site, send me your crap CDs, whatever they may be. I'll find a better place for them.

Send me email to give me your crap CDs.

Nothing but male wolves at bars, sharpening their teeth and drooling at cute Red Riding Hood tenders. I am the intellectual wolf, with black wool coat and Harper's tucked neatly underarm. I am the shy one who sips froth fastidiously, and with my head bowed into a dusty secondhand paperback, contemplates the Wolf of Hesse. But neither journeyman nor intellectual, neither boisterous jock nor shy academician escapes the sexual drool of the Jowl -- they are bound equally to a wolfish pack on a relentless hunt, a hunt that never considers consequence. It's all very frustrating; It's all very sick.

Just Born, Inc., the makers of Mike and Ike's® candy should introduce a complement product called Tyson and Turner's. The new product would be similar to the original, except the flavor would be licorice-and-blueberry and the color would be black-and-blue.

Dale M. Parish

Instead of plainly and purely sleeping, I often stir and think about my impending alarm clock buzz and how it's going to go off too soon, leaving me restless. Nothing like losing sleep over losing sleep.

While waiting for life that sucks to die, why not listen to my favorite unsigned bands: TQ's Garage Band Playlist.