Radioactive, But Not a Lobster

I'm at it again. It's not my fault, though. I've not been around long enough to be at blame here. Someone else invented the English language and made such fun words. And I can't really be blamed for abusing it at every possible opportunity.

There I was, driving down the road, minding my own business, when a thought jumped out of nowhere and smacked me right between the eyes. I, of course, ignored it and kept driving, hoping that nobody would call me on a hit and run. I didn't realize just how persistent those thoughts can sometimes be. Another couple of bends later it threw itself out from behind a tree and right into my path. This time I hit it right between its eyes, but somehow it still managed to stick with me.

Those thoughts can be really persistent, so I figured I might as well go ahead and think it. But once I'd given it that much of a foothold, I really couldn't get rid of it until it decided to let go. So there I was, in my car, driving down the road, and I started to think about really good fun words and phrases.

Mostly the thoughts that followed the one sitting in my passenger seat were pretty mundane and easy to leave behind. "Tuna conspiracy" and "circle of time" were pretty boring. "odi et amo" was pretty good, but it's been used before, and I couldn't seem to remember the rest of it. Still, my unwelcome guest was relentless, and his visitors kept coming.

"Tree traversal" "existence and being" "radioactive lobster" I really need to get my car washed, they were like bugs circling for blood. But one finally managed to find its way in, and I think removed "queue" and "tuna" as my favorite words.

rerenderer: n. one who splits erbium again

On Top of the World

I never really spent much time playing 'king of the hill' growing up. It was always too painful, being pushed down, trampled on, and didn't help that there wasn't a decently-sized hill for miles and miles and miles. It always seemed a silly game, and I'd much rather have read a book. But I suppose that some things simply don't have the proper fingers needed for correctly being able to read books (or at least to turn the pages; try turning pages with a beak too much, and all you have left is a nest).

It's not surprising, I suppose, that some birds are masters of the game. But in my own defense, it's easier when there's nobody else around. And moreso when they think you're playing 'king of the hill', but you're really playing 'king of the picnic table'.

The Trans-Dimensional Poodle

"Why is it," I wondered yet again as I walked to work, "that the movie theater dislikes pedestrians?" I suspect they don't intentionally dislike pedestrians, as anyone that wants to give them money should be welcome and encouraged to do so. But passing the flowers that smell like wet dog, it was yet again obvious that pedestrians aren't very high on the movie theater's priority list. Somewhere beneath the people that're driving by and not stopping, and lower than bugs and worms.

They are nice looking flowers...kinda. Or rather, being pink and sickly, they look nicer than they smell. But I suspect that the flowers themselves know this, and only look sickly because they have to sit around smelling themselves all day.

I suppose it's possible that I'm wrong, too. It might not be the flowers that actually smell so bad. It's possible, however unlikely, that the parking lot is the home of a colony of visually missing and dimensionally exceptional but olfactorally challenged canines. Not that they have to be dimensionally exceptional, as they might really manage to run away from all of the cars that end up in that place. Otherwise the parking lot might begin to smell of deceased canine instead of just wet.

That seems unlikey, though. And even though it's possible, the more likely answer is that the theater just simply doesn't have enough room to seat everyone wanting to pay to see the newest flop, and is trying to keep the throngs of walkers away. It'd be easier if they'd just stop reserving seats for all those dogs, though.

Bulk Order Literature

I was going to complain about the theater that I walk by on my way to work, but when I got in and started checking my email, I became confused. I get so much random junk in my inbox (order confirmations, tax paperwork, interview schedulings, propositions) that I'm generally used to having mail that I don't expect. And because of this, I know that a lot of people think that they own my email address. But they don't, it's mine!

But never before have I recieved someone trying to change the password on 'their' blog. Which of the three people out there that reads this would want to claim it as their own? I can't think of a single one that would want credit for anything that I've written. Or maybe, who out there thinks they own my Blogger ID? 'Silik' isn't as common as my email address, is it? I was the only person using that name for years (before a silly band stole my name, and now people keep asking me if I like the band or what. Still haven't ever listened to their music, and suspect that it's not my style.)

But I out-date the band, I out-date the people that want to take my blog, I've had my name for well over a decade now. My name's been stolen, but my blog's still mine. And I'd like to keep it that way.

If you want credit for some of the stuff that I've written, though, leave me a comment. Half of the stuff on here I don't want credit for, so we can probably make a pretty sweet deal. A buck a word isn't that bad, right? Discounts available for bulk orders (over 50 words), even if 'literature' might not really be the proper term. And please, stop sending your tax paperwork to my email address. It's a lot more useful to send to the IRS, and a lot more likely to be counted as done.

A Day at the "Beach"

I went to the beach, not the set of some bad 60's beach movie. But the sky was such a uniform shade of blue that it looked like it had simply been painted on. It was pretty hard to tell that it was a real, honest beach. If you ignored the waves crashing on the shore and the birds flying around and the frisbees that you kept having to duck to avoid being decapatated.

Still, it doesn't much look like a beach, it looks like a movie set. Arranged just so, to give the best effect for the camera when it panned across to the bonfire a couple of feet away. (Not that there was actually a bonfire; then the painted-blue sky might have a bit more white.) It makes me wonder, though, if I were actually at the beach, even though I knew I had to have been. My feet wouldn't have frozen from the waves crashing into them on a soundstage in Hollywood.

But looking back, seeing the pictures I took, still I wonder. At least I don't have to wonder too much. Not unless I begin to also wonder if my name's actually Truman. And I know that's not the case. Otherwise there probably wouldn't have been a sign just over the rise.

It really messes up the frame, and any self-respecting director would have surely had it removed.

Ravenous Reluctance

I learn something new every week.

Last week, I was walking home from work. I wasn't expecting to learn anything new, as I thought that I finally knew everything there is to know about walking home from work. But as I reached my apartment, I realized that I don't yet know everything. As I passed the bench that's used as a bus stop, right by my apartment, I saw a duck and six little ducklings. I wished I had my camera, but I didn't end up getting any pictures, so all I have is my story. Thankfully, the story's more interesting than the lack of picture.

For while I was passing the bench, I saw a duck and its six little ducklings waddling behind it in a row, quacking as if they had just learned how. And as I passed the bus stop, a seventh little duckling ran out from underneath and started following me, quacking.

I didn't know it, but apparently I look a lot like a momma duck.

That's the thing I learned this week. I'm glad that none of the other ducklings thought I looked like a momma duck. Nor did the actual momma duck, for as the seventh little duckling was chasing along behind me, quacking like it had just learned how, the real momma duck heard it and waddled over, quacking at me the whole time. I didn't try to steal her duckling! I didn't want a duckling! But she got pretty upset with me for impersonating her and trying to duck-nap her offspring.

If I had a pet duck, my landlords would make me get rid of my pet jabberwocky. I'd much prefer the pet jabberwocky, but wouldn't mind getting some pictures of the duck. It /was/ a really cute duck. And it almost makes me feel bad about having had duck for dinner whilst in Beijing.

Almost.

But not really. I was /very/ hungry.

The Illogical Fish

So there I was, chatting with a couple of friends, when the phone rang. I hate it when my phone rings, because I can't seem to prevent myself from answering it, even though I know it's going to be a telemarketer. I just keep hoping I'm getting a call from someone wanting to give me a bazillion dollars or something. In any case, my hopes yet again were shown to be unfounded, as I answered the phone and heard the tell-tale sign of a telemarketer. That stupid-long pause.

Fine, one of my friends pointed out that I might as well have some fun with the telemarketer that's interupting my free time, so I did. I let him talk, and made a couple of non-commital noises, until the point that he asked if I was interested. It was really, really hard to not bust out in laughter as I responded, "fish."

"What?"

"Fish."

"What's that?"

Earlier stories might tell you what I think about the general intelligence level of people that make a living by being interruptions at the most annoying times of day by means of a dated and annoying technology. This simply helps to prove my point.

"It's a thing with a tail and fins that swims through the water."

"Oh. Um.."

The call ended shortly thereafter. I fear the telemarketer may have crashed and needed a rebooting. And I didn't even try to catch him in a logical falacy!

Random Detour

One summer vacation with my grandfather, he decided it was time for us to go to Yellowstone, see Old Faithful and all that. Random stops on the way, and a fun time feeding the deer, it was a great trip overall. But it also was one of the ultimates in spontenaity; I've realized that I can never match up to my grandfather.

As we left Yellowstone, my grandpa decided that Mt. Rushmore really wasn't that far out of the way, so we might as well stop on by on our way back home. Ok, fine, it's not really that much out of the way; it's not really exactly on the optimal path, but an extra hour or three isn't nothing. Of course, none of us were really interested in going, as it's not really something you need to see that many times more than once. But grandpa wanted to go, and off we went.

So after driving for a full day, we managed to get to Mt. Rushmore, saw the mountainside from the parking lot, ran into the gift shop for some ice cream, and left. An hour or three for a spontaneous ice cream cone is a little bit on the silly side. I'm sure we passed at least /one/ ice cream place on the way.

But I can never match up to my grandfather. I'm trying to learn, though. I think the best I've managed so far is to decide to go to the beach at random on a Sunday afternoon. Which might have been impressive in the past, but isn't so much anymore. Still, it could be worse.. I could be living in a house with an ocean view.

Dream Sequence

I've been told that dogs dream in black and white. I'm wondering where they come up with this stuff. Who's the researcher that has to go around asking dogs, "so, tell me about your dreams." Does he get to work with people too? Does he actually even listen to the answers, or does he play a game of hang-man on his notebook while he waits for his 'patient' to ramble on before coming up with some random 'dogs dream in black and white' conclusion.

Of the many things I learned on TV, though, I've learned that people apparently dream in fuzzy. All the edges are kinda' greyed out and aren't there, and there might be some wiggling of the picture before you can actually focus on the dream. So people dream in fuzzy. Did the same guy that figured out that dogs dream in black and white figure out that people's dreams are fuzzy, and let all the T.V. producers know this?

Apparently, though, my camera thinks it's a person. My camera dreams in fuzzy. But it's trying too hard to be a person, and seems to have very, very little actually in focus. A single lonely drop of water. Or maybe I didn't wait long enough, and the picture would have become clear, had I just waited a couple seconds longer.

We Come In Peace

Shadows. Such very frightening things. Sure, it's pretty obvious what they are much of the time...or at least so you hope to believe. That's not really a person hiding behind your door, not really a snake sitting there on the sidewalk. And this isn't really an alien hand, open and out in friendship. (If the 'thumb' were just a wee bit shorter, it'd look just like Bob, though.)

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night (or more truthfully, sometimes I manage to actually sleep the whole night through; /generally/ I wake up in the middle of the night), and the light from the moon plays tricks with the branches outside my window. Sometimes I'm sure that there's someone crawling around out there, trying to find their way in. Sometimes I'm sure that some monster or ghost or alien or thing is there, just waiting to find me, and sometimes I find myself involuntarially hiding deeper under my covers.

Sometimes I wake up in the morning and find that the moonlight leaves footprints. Big ones, with six toes.

A Dead End

Obviously, the ancient Chinese didn't expect that the great wall would actually be able to keep the invading Mongolian hoardes out of China. They knew that the occasional Mongol would make it through the gaps; it's fairly easy to get around the end of the wall, even if it does end on a 'cliff'. But they also had to have known that once the occasional Mongol made it through, he'd be assailed by all of the tourists and shop vendors, and would end up loaded down with junk from the vendors with any money that wasn't taken by the pick-pockets.

Of course, then the invading Mongol would have to bring his family and get their picture taken (by a thief that would make of with their camera), leaving the entire family depressed and unwilling to invade any further.

No, China wasn't really protected by the great "wall". China was protected by the greatest tourist trap in the world. These days, though, it probably traps more Chinese than invading Mongolians. But at least this explains the dead ends; the wall doesn't need to be continuous, and even keeps people /on/ the wall better when you've got to backtrack past the vendors that've already taken your shirt.

Bath Time

Swan Lake

Lesser Panda

It's almost a raccoon, almost a panda bear. Either way, it's simply begging to be fed.

Riddle Me This

One of these things is really not like the others. One of these things really doesn't belong. But can you guess which of these things is not like the others? Don't worry, though, I'm not going to sing a song.

Tree Traversal

When baby trees reach a certain age, the parent trees have to show them the ways of the world. So one morning before the sun comes up, they pack up their belongings and head out into the wide, wild world.

Pictured here, you can see the baby tree and its father, as they gaze upon another form of life. And the baby tree has just one simple question...

"Poppa, with so many dunce caps, they can't /all/ sit in the corner, can they?"

Red Fish, Red Fish, Red Fish, Red Fish

But really, how do they tell who is who? It doesn't help that their memory's like half a second long, because not only can't they tell who they're looking for by, um, looking, but they end up asking the same fish over and over and over again.

Are you my father?

Are you my father?

Are you my father?

Are you my father?

Of course, what's the reply going to be? With a half-second memory, he's just got to guess at the first half of the question.

Green.

Short.

Two fins and an ugly nose.

A relationship based on the younger of the two being the spawn (we are fish, y'know) of the elder, whom happens to be of the male persuasion. The 'father' is the definition of the elder in such a relationship.