Doob LaVey

A clever combination referencing three of my favorite things: Marijuana, The Church of Satan, and the french alphabet.

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Location: Kelowna, British Columbia, Canada

Long story, but briefly: I once saved a town from Dractyl, the vampiric pterodactyl.

Monday, November 28, 2005

A Chance Encounter

The weather is getting colder, the days are getting shorter, fall is almost over. All things that I take to mean that winter is on it's way.
It was under such cold weather conditions that I found myself walking home one night, and much desiring the refuge of a place to warm up for a spell.
Unfortunately, there was naught but a Shell station nearby. For those of you not in the know, Shell is one of those big, money grubbing oil companies that were recently called before a congression hearing and generally represent the worst that humanity has to offer.
However, with my core temperature dropping, for better or for worse, I felt I had no choice but to stop in that abhorent place, at least long enough to fix myself a hot beverage. It is my usual custom to ignore people around me in such circumstances and just go about my business. On this particular occasion, though, I was given no such opportunity.
Ordinarily, the fellow making his own coffee next to me would not have been the least bit noteworthy. Somewhat disheveled, rapidly aproaching 50, such sights are in no way unsual in downtown Kelowna. But when his Rodney Dangerfield-esque voice rang out in my direction, I was forced to concede he could no longer be ignored.
"Guess what, kids. It's cold out."
I merely nodded in agreement. This, actually, sort of illustrates the reason I have such a disdain for small talk. Of course itwas cold out, no fool could dispute this fact. So why would anyone make such a banal statement, forthe purposes ofhearing a response, when they know what the response will be: when they know full well there is only one possible response? But, I digress. Besides, as I was soon to discover, logic was not always the governing force over the course of conversations. Keep in mind, as you read, these are all the words spoken to me, I'm not leaving out anything he said to me, nor changing the order they were spoken in.
"Speak of the Bible, eh?"
See what I mean? I wasn't sure that we actually had spoken on that subject, so I omly made a noncommittal noise like "mmm."
"The natives are on the prowl tonight. The toughest guy in Alberta got his head kicked in."
I inferred that the natives must have been the ones to perpetrate this violence. I guesthat'll teach the toughest guy in Alberta for coming to BC, though.
"You learn your lesson from the cold weather, right?"
In light all the supporting evidence, it was hard to disagree.
"I go by my prayers. I don't work; I'm business like."
The way he made these statements, in rapid succession, leadme to believe they we're all connected somehow. I failed to see how. So I said nothing.
"Which is the best magazine for underwear, eh? I guess they'reall pretty good."
What?
"The Playboys are getting me crazy."
In most unconfortable situations, an intuitive understanding will kick in sooner or later to let you know when it is time to escape. In that moment, I was having that understanding. Bidding the man a good night, I prepared to depart.
"Good to see you, eh?"
Considering my boyish good looks, this was the first thing he said that made sense. But it was too little, too late. The thing with guys like this is that you always run into them again, sooner rather than later. But forewarned is forearmed, and I hope to be better prepared next time.

Sunday, November 27, 2005

One Man Makes a Difference

"I believe there must be intelligent life on other planets, because there sure isn't any here."

Some Guy, paraphrased


Some people refuse to believe that one person can make a difference. The world is so large, they say, so populated, that all my efforts will go unnoticed and unappreciated. Hogwash.

Everytime you eat a half bag of cheese popcorn, you have made a difference. Everytime you shuffle a deck of cards, you have made a difference. Not an important difference, mind you. If you're looking to make a recognizable impact on the world, then yes, you are probably wasting your time. But that doesn't stop some people from trying. When your cause is important, you shouldn't let the improbability of success stand in your way at all. This guy didn't.

http://www.prweb.com/releases/2005/11/prweb314382.htm

Instantly, one response springs to mind; Crackpot. To thee, I say nay.

Intergalactic warfare is one of the great unknowns that confront humanity today. As if regular war wasn't bad enough! LOL! But when faced with an enemy who's very existence is in doubt, how can we know anything about their militaristic capabilities? Let me propose some likelihoods:

Spaceships: If aliens are here, they probably have transportation.

Guns: A catchall term to represent various ranged weaponry which form the basis for most large scale aggression these days.

Alien Physiology: Aliens are aliens.

Bio-Rythym Detection: Aliens can detect your Bio-Rythyms.

Pretty ominous, isn't it? When thought about like this, some current alien behaviors suddenly seem decidedly sinister. For example:

Cattle Mutilation: Preemptive strike on our food supply. The starving are in no condition to do battle. It will be much easier for aliens to take over the world if they only have to fight India.

Anal Probing: Psychological warfare. Who wants to make enemies with someone who sticks things in the bum of his foes? Effective even against the Indians of the East.

Crop Circles: Probably a misguided attempt to communicate the futility of materialistic desire and that a life empty of love for others is a life empty of love from others. That is the sort of higher philosophy that I , for one, expect a more advanced society would wish to empart.

As we all know, the US of A will start a war with just about anybody for just about any old reason at all. They don't care. Are they really going to want to be friends with lumps of tentacles, or lisping floating brains, or clumsy, over eager to please, duck-faced frogmen? Think about it.

It's really too bad that Mr. Heller here didn't speak up way back when he was a current goverment official, rathering than waiting until now. Many will dismiss this action as one last grab at the spotlight before he rides off into the sunset, real permanent like. It doesn't help that most people like this are senile old coots, either. I can't say for sure if he's senile or not; I haven't spoken with his physician just yet. Looks like he's got the "old coot" part down just fine, however.

But we can see how people aren't taking his statements seriously. The senate claims it is too busy to hold hearings on aliens. What's on their agenda that could be more important than the fate of all mankind?

I bet they're too busy eating cheese popcorn and shuffling cards.

Friday, November 25, 2005

Because You Demanded It

Cold wind blowing hard against his skin roused him from the depths of unconsciousness. Jumbled images of violence and betrayal spiralled through his mind, mere flashes of a thing that may or may not have happened. He didn't think long on them, knowing that his head was not yet ready to yield up any answers. Time would surrender the solutions to these riddles.

As the wind rushed past his ears, inside it's dull roar he could dimly perceive other sounds. The sounds of engines. Someone, at least, was nearby. He opened his eyes, and was greatly suprised.

I'm falling!

In the darkness of night, the ground appeared as no more than one black expanse, dotted with a rainbow of neon lights rapidly growing larger, nearer. Monolithic skyscrapers rose up out of the night landscape towards him, past him, up into the twilight sky. New visions appeared to him. Visions of a window shattering; visions of a room shrinking into the distance as he was forcefully ejected out the broken window; small figures within standing and watching. The people who had done this to him.

There was no time now to dwell on what had already happened. All effort must be concentrated on the here and now, if he were to avoid the messy fate rushing towards him at a rate too fast to calculate. There was no time, if he wanted to survive.

He took a deep, calming breath. With feet apart and arms outstretched, his cloak flapping and billowing, he slowed his fall minutely, an imperceptible amount to any ordinary person. For this person, though, it would be enough. Through careful maneuvering of limbs, he angled his decent towards the side of the nearest building. As story after story whisked past, windows dark and his plight unseen, a flagpole, jutting from the buildings' side promised to intercept him.

Composed, in control, he visualised the soles of his feet gliding across the flagpole. He saw his left hand gripping the pole ever so briefly. He was falling too fast; any sudden stops would mean more harm than safety. And hanging from that flagpole was no safe place to be in any event. But a series of light contacts would each slow him down a bit more, and may make all the difference between being alive and being a memory. At the very least, he might give himself a chance at choosing his landing spot. Better that than accepting whatever fate selected for him. The flagpole slid past foot and hand just as he planned.

One way or another, the fall was almost over. The ground loomed close now, the neon dots now readable billboard advertisments. Even indiviual people were discernable under those lights.

Between him and the ground, a landing pad now reached out from the side of the building. He would have to get everything he could out of it, for he saw no other obstacles to slow himself on. The flat surface and flashing landing lights made it an easy target. The trick would be to not hit it too hard. He took another calming breath... and then another one.

As his feet touched down, he instantly folded up into ball, rolling across the hard metal surface. Still, he was travelling too fast; The air was blasted from his lungs as his back hit the deck. He heard the loud crack as his head bounced off the unforgiving surface. Sharp pangs rang out from all over his body. He ignored his body's cries of pain and pushed it's clouding influence out of his mind. A sliver of satisfaction from having solid ground beneath him slipped away as his roll carried him off the landing pad's far edge. Now there was only a hundred feet left to drop, perhaps less.

But it seemed destiny was not entirely cruel. Hidden from view by the landing pad, a vast awning stretched around the base of the skyscraper. He was headed straight for it, and for the first time, permitted himself a small smile.

He landed smack dab on the awning. Which would have been perfect... had he accounted for it's elastic qualities. It stretched beneath his falling bulk until he hit his tailbone on the ground. "AAAAA! AAAA AAAAAAAHHHHH!" he cried.

But the awning did not permit further injury. Instead, it catapulted him back into the air, almost half as high as the landing pad. Not just upwards, but outwards, too, so that when he came crashing back down, it was into a heap of trash across the alley. There, he lay utterly still, and all was silent.


For awhile.


Later, consciousness returned once again. The smells and flavours of the garbage he was ensconced in assaulted his senses. He could feel vermin crawling about inside his clothes. Yet, impossibly, he had survived. This fact alone did not give him much comfort. If those visions he had were true, someone wanted him dead. That someone might be along shortly to discover his fate, or at least conceal the evidence. But before he could get up and at 'em, the whisper of fabric on pavement called out to his ears from the shadows, and then a voice.

"Good, good. You are still alive."

"Dor do." he replied. Even to him, though, the words made no sense. Perhaps his injuries were more severe than he knew. His brain felt hot.

From the shadows, a dark cloaked figure emerged. His face was obscured, his hood pulled low.

"Yes, yes. I know what happened to you. I know who did this to you. It was the same man who betrayed me. The same man who once tried to kill me in my sleep!"

"Duda do?"

"I have some right here." A small green bottle appeared in the hand of the dark figure. From it, he poured a bubbling yellow liquid into the mouth of the man lying in the trash.

"Good, eh?"

Indeed it was. Cold, refreshing, melony.

"Do?"

"We are not safe here. We must leave, before we are discovered. There are plans to be made, and revenge to be had."

Slowly, with the dark figures assistance, he extricated himself from the heap of trash. He stretched, feeling the good feel of solid ground beneath his feet. Attempting to brush the bits of refuse off himself, he let out a horrified gasp, discovering his right arm had somehow been neatly severed below the elbow.

"We'll worry about that later. Come quickly!" said the shadowy man. Together, they stole away into the night, not to be heard from again... until the time was right.

Wednesday, November 23, 2005

State of the Planet Address

So I was downtown yesterday, fondly visiting some of my former favorite places to sleep, and here's what I saw while tooling around.

Two scruffy looking nerf herders are standing next to a truck, engaged in a heated argument. It looked like a drug deal gone awry to me, but what do I know? Anyway, it doesn't go down or something, because the one guy just gets into the truck and starts driving away.

The other guy, who is left standing there, produces from under his jacket a glass bottle of some kind, and whips it at the departing vehicle. The bottle bounces harmlessly off the truck and clatters noisily to the pavement, still intact. I suppose this was not what the guy intended to happen. What the guy probably also did not intend, was for the truck to stop suddenly and for the driver to get out, but that is exactly what happened.

The driver picked up the bottle, walked over to the instigator, and smashed the bottle right on the guy's head! The driver then successfully departed in his truck, while the other guy stumbled around, clutching his head in his hands until he walked into a tree. Eventually, an ambulance came.

Anyway, the point is that yes, folks, irony is alive and well in the world at large. But beware, lest it bite ye in ye own ass!

Thursday, November 17, 2005

Cosmic Rust pt.III

When last we left off, the malevolent Megatron had been afflicted with the titular, and presumably poorly documented metallic malady, comic rust. One assumes that the stage has been set for an adventure featuring Megatron's quest for a cure. Let us not forget that the Decepticons also now have in their possession a powerful and ancient lightning bug, capable of terrible destructive potential, which no doubt also relates to said cure.

When we rejoin the episode, the focus has finally switched over to the relatively benign escapades of the Autobots. More specifically, we bear witness to some sort of assembly hall. A solitary human figure stands behind a podium on a stage, underneath a banner reading "National Scientific Achievement". Lending a decidely international flavour to the National Scientific Achievement procedings, are several large portraits behind this figure. Each one feature a famous landmark, such as the Eiffel Tower, the Washington Monument, and a few others which may include the Kremlin and/or the Taj Mahal. I'm pretty sure I see a couple of onion domes there, at least.

From our view, the auditorium is jam packed with unkempt hair and balding pates, which we must assume belong to the leading scientists of the nation/ world, suggesting a significant event is taking place here. Even only moderately attentive ears will discover the truth of this assumption as the voice over of the podium speaker announces "Usually, our Science Achievement Award goes to a human being. But this year, we are honoring Perceptor, the inventor of Corrostop."

This, really, should not come as much of a suprise. Since the Autobots are the heroes and stars of the show, it is only natural that they should be depicted winning recognition for their efforts. Also, it is a well known fact that, in cartoon universes, if a character can be neatly classified as a specialist of some kind like a "scientist", that character is:

- The only scientist on the team.
- An expert on every science and anything remotely similar to science, like magic and medicine.
- Not much good for anything not related to science.

The only exception to these rules is in toy based cartoons, when there is a toy of a "new scientist" character, who must then phase out the older scientist character. The best this old fellow can hope for is a swift and glorious death in battle. But all too often, the dishonor of being relegated to non-speaking, even non-moving, background appearances is what awaits these old heroes. Sometimes they even just disappear, all traces of their once noble existence washed away forever, "Crisis On Infinite Earths" style.

Perceptor is the current Autobot scientist, however, and has a long animated future ahead of him. For today, though, he is content to humbly accept the award bestowed apon him. "Thank you very much. This is an honor and a privilege."

Is it really, though? I imagine Perceptor must be well aware of humanities scientific achievements and how comparatively inferior they must seem to his own. It probably seems quite natural to him that these primitive apes should venerate what must appear to be a science god. Perhaps some false modesty is on display here. Unfortunately, the episode chooses to leave the issue of Perceptor's private thoughts unexplored.

Getting back on track, what is this Corrostop they were speaking of?

"Is it true that the Autobots plan to coat all of the earths great monuments with Corrostop?" Inquires the podium man, as Perceptor strides onto the stage. Suddenly, those portraits of the monuments actually make a little sense, which I, for one, was not anticipating.

"We'd like to, eventually. It will help preserve them forever." says the Autobot, casually admitting that preserving humanity's history isn't exactly a priority. Considering that he is speaking before a gathering of mankind's greatest brains, someone must have picked up on that insult. But what is Corrostop?

"As you know, Corrostop resists rust and corrosion, and it's stronger than any known metal."

Oh. Well, I didn't know that, actually. I guess what he's trying to say that what scientists call "Corrostop" is what writers call "Deus ex Machina". For non scientists and writers, what that is, is something that basically comes out of nowhere and just happens to do exactly what is necessary to solve the problem at hand. In this case, I think we've not only found the cure that Megatron desires, but also the only defense against the terrible threat of the lightning bug.

"Unfortunately, at this time, we only have enough Corrostop to coat one monument; The Statue of Liberty."

Now we see, for the first time, the sea of scientist's faces, who's expressions appear curiously blank and stupified. We also realise that not everyone in attendance is a purported genius when it is revealed to us that Spike Witwicky, and his girlfriend, Carly, are also in attendence. Spike is the son of a grease monkey called Sparkplug and the Autobot's chief ally among the humans. Carly is not known to have any family, but does have her own car. Anyway, their dull eyes and thin smiles suggest they are pleased to hear the Statue of Liberty will be first in line for the Corrostop treatment. Perceptor goes on to say "It's alloyed from a very rare element, so of course, we wouldn't want it's formula to be discovered by the Decepticons."

A sensible precaution, but presumably doomed to fail. We need to look no further than the next scene for evidence of this. Starscream walks towards Megatron, who is sitting on his bed in the shadows, with his back to us. "I just checked with the repair bay. Your replacement parts will be ready as soon as they get around to it." Starscream says matter-of-factly. This is quite a commentary on the condition of the Decepticon army, if Megatron's own well being does not command more urgency. Then again, perhaps Starscream himself arranged for this situation, though that is pure speculation at this point.

The suggestion is that Megatron is much the worse for wear here, with his back to us in the shadows and all.
He, at least, seems to find his condition quite urgent, and says so. "I need an expert. Order the Stunticons to seize Perceptor and bring him to me! Do as I say!"

Sounds serious! How serious? We'll find out next time!

Tuesday, November 15, 2005

The Real Deal

Hey everybody, sorry I was gone so long... I was taking a leak in the sink and it took longer than expected.

Anywho, I just wanted to thank everyone for their support during my recent personal crisis; I now understand that I've got a whole lot of friends! So here's a big shout out to all my fans and allies where ever in the world you maybe, even those of you in Vietnam!

What's that you say?I have no fans in Vietnam? How can this be? Well, let me let you in on a little state secret. Shh!

A covert agent of mine, currently travelling the world, recently reported to me that they couldn't view my blog while inside the vietnamese borders. His investigations revealed that he could access blogspot and random blogs on blogspot, but looking for Doob LaVey only results in "page not found". At no time, from no location in Vietnam, could he see my blog. It seems that I've have been banned.

Doob LaVey, which is nothing less than the sum total of my thoughts, feelings, and experiences, is not welcome in Vietnam. One wonders if my own person is similarly unwelcome! Would an armed guard be there to greet me at the Hanoi airport, ready to whisk me onto the next departing flight, or even into their gulags of no return?

This is just another blatant example of how the Man, whatever his nationality might be, will stoop to any low to keep the little guy down. It's not fair to me, certainly, and it's not fair to the good citizens of Vietnam( if there are any). It's not fair to any of you who are reading these words, either, for once the floodgates of censorship are opened, where does the madness end? Who's blog is to be banned next? The worst part is that you could be getting censored already, and not even realise it without covert agents, who will look for your blog, roving the globe.

When you don't openly and actively denounce censorship, you are effectively censoring yourselves. I for one, will not be silent. I say "Good Morning, Vietnam! Time to wake up. Censorship is wrong."
My only fear is that my one voice will not be enough. Perhaps my words here will inspire some of you to action. We will be like the mighty kraken, wrapping our ten tentacles of free speech about the flimsy hull of censorship.

Do it for the people of Vietnam. Without us, they'll never know what they are missing.

That's the Real Deal.

Sunday, November 13, 2005

What It Is To Be Alone

I am so alone.

I have no family and I have no friends. That's not a literal truth, of course. But emotionally, a truer thing I have never typed.

My family shuns me. Not so long ago, my mom threw me out of the house. Not even cries of "O God! I'll wind up on the streets!" could disuade her. And just when I had started to show my sister just how deep a love I was capable of. Now she shuns me, too.

My friends? Ha (not "LOL"). Who are they supposed to be anyway? Stephanie? Yeah, right. I think now she's just using me. Yesterday I come home and there she is giving some dude a blow job right on my fucking bed!
"What the fuck is this!?" I shout. "Shh. Working." she says out of the corner of her mouth. Then she, you know, goes back to work. Understandably, it takes the dude a moment to get back into it, with me standing there and all, but soon enough he's all "Yeah, baby, just like that."

So there I am and I don't know what to do, and I'm fucking tired. But they're taking up just one side of the bed so I just get undressed and lie down on the other side of the bed (remember, our bed is just a pile of dirty clothes, but very neatly arranged so that it even looks like a bed). I lie there with my back to them while this guy is making noises. I sigh loudly to indicate my disapproval, but I don't think anyone heard me over the dude going "Faster, bitch, faster!"

Then they're done and Stephanie goes and locks herself in the bathroom. The guy gets up and gets dressed and throws a fistful of twenties onto me. "Here. Don't start beating her until I've left."

Then he leaves and Stephanie comes back out of the bathroom. "Sorry about that," she says. " I was too sick to go out tonight."

She counts the money and gets all pissed off because he only left $140 instead of $150. Then she gets dressed and leaves to go get some heroin! Guess she was really sick after all (insert eyeroll face here)! To be fair, though, if she doesn't get her heroin she'll just get even more sick, but to be honest, I'm not all that interested in being fair right now!

My only other "friend" is Marshall, who is right now so insanely jealous of my blogs' popularity, that he tried to throw some rocks through my window last week. Fortunately, he failed, but there's no telling when he might try again, or perhaps something even more insidious is percolating in that devious mind. I can't bring myself to call him, even though I want to. I don't know how he'd react to any sort of peace offering, and I don't want to be made to look the fool
if it's a waste of time. Truthfully, though? I would never have started this blog if I'd known it would come between us like this. Some things are more important than blogs.

I'm seriously considering joining a club or team or society of some kind. I mean, there's something out there for everybody, right? Even furries have their own congregations where they can be with others of their own kind. There's a furry convention at a hotel just a few blocks from here next weekend, that's what made me think of them for that example just now. I wonder if I should go, or if that's something I could get into?

It sounds kind of like fun. You get to wear big mascot costumes, you get to "yiff"( whatever that is), and you get into big piles and pretend to hump each others legs. And when you're not at conventions, you stay home and draw pictures of anime wolves with big cocks and furry tits.

I dunno. Sometimes I wish that I worked all the time so I wouldn't have any free time to contemplate all the shortcomings in my life. Sometimes I wish I was the mighty kraken, taking out my loneliness on passing sailors with my ten tentacles of solitude. Then I'd return to the depths with their corpses and the wreckage... Alone again, but well fed.

Tuesday, November 08, 2005

The Real Deal

The problem with everything is advertising these days. Where can you go without some huckster or another trying to exchange their goods or services for your hard earned cash?

The answer, of course, is nowhere. Which is a pretty frustrating situation. It is said that once you leave the home, you lose 90% of your ability to control your environment. That is really saying something when you realise just how little control you have over your own home environment. I mean, you can't keep advertising out of your home. In fact, when you think about it, most kinds of advertising are distributed through mediums designed to get into your personal dwelling structure. It has been this way a long time.

It all began way back when newsprint was the hot new thing. Previously, advertising had been limited to outdoor campaigns; giant billboards, people on street corners shouting stuff at you, and such. The advent of the newspaper, however, provided the first opportunity for advertising to come home with you and violate the sanctity of your private domain. It probably began innocuously at first; an ad for ginger beer here, men's hats there. But take a look at your modern newpaper and you'll see it is chalk full o' ads, often where the big stories of the day should be. I mean, who wants to see "diapers half off" right next to the latest political scandal? The answer is pedophiles. But what paper, if it be of of good reputation, caters to such a market?

It only got worse when radio reared it's ugly, talking head. At least with the papers, you could still get the full story even if you were somehow able to pay no heed to the advertisements. But with radio, whole families gathered 'round the noise box to listen to this week's exciting episode of Fibber McGee and Molly. The thing is, you got to sit through all the commercials if you don't want to run the risk of missing the part where stuff falls out of the closet.

Then television came along and took it to a whole other level. Now images and movement could assault you alongside the auditory component. And the worst part is that even though T.V. might be the new principle form of advertising, newpapers and radios are still regularly making their insidious ways into people's abodes.

When Al Gore invented the internets, selfish, forward thinking capitalists rubbed their hands together in the manner of crickets. The chirping could be heard by dogs as much as 15 miles away. They had much to look forward to, as we all now know, as advertising is rampant on the information super highway. Unlike the other mediums, however, you can easily make your own contributions to the internet, and thusly you're making it possible for the problem to get worse. Just look at what happened to me.

Today I come along, looking forward to reading the comments on my blog and maybe composing an update for today. Imagine my horror when I discover that a villain by the name of Waseem Sindhu has left comments on the last six of my updates. The problem is not that his name is Waseem Sindhu, or that he's from Pakistan, or that he left six comments. The problem is that all six were advertisements for his twenty two blogs about money and the internet.

If you look at the comments on my blog now, you won't find any from Mr. Sindhu... I took the liberty of deleting them. It's bad enough when you get so many computer generated advertisements in the guise of "anonymous", but those are okay because they artificially bulk up the number of comments and make you look popular. Also, if they really bug you, then they are easily defeated via the word verification option. I personally do not use the word verification for fear of alienating the lazy and the stupid, which is the demographic I most appeal to. And since I'm just about to slip off the bottom of the "blogs of note" list, I've got to do everything I can to hold on to my audience. I won't go back to single digits... I can't. I'll smash a watermelon first. I'm serious.

But Waseem Sindhu can't be stopped by word verification. He is a man who cannot see that art is taking shape here. He sees only another place to ply his wares and corrode with his capitalism. To you, sir, I say; You offend me. Good Day.

That's the Real Deal.

Monday, November 07, 2005

For Posterity

Back in the day, before I'd sacrificed much of my life to the training one must endure if they wish themselves a master architect, I was a professional pet appraiser and amatuer scientist. Pet appraising is one of those professions that is obscure now but poised to make a break out in a huge way within the next few years. So at least I've got that to fall back on if I'd ever find out the architect thing isn't working out (i.e. got fired). I think it was while I was pet appraising that I was last truly content.

Anyway, I uncovered this historical document I wrote a few years back, that combines those two great loves of mine. For some of you this will be new, although to long time fans it will seem familiar and dull. But you could say the same thing about the american constitution.


"Among the mysteries of science lies the key to victory."
Jetfire, Autobot Air Guardian

As everyone knows, there are few goals as worthy as the pursuit of knowledge. With this in mind, I decided to conduct a little experiment not more than ten minutes ago. What you are about to see, for the first time anywhere, are the results of said experiment. But first, a little background.The premise was deceptively simple: What might occur, if one inbred extra-toed cat(worth about $35) were to encounter one Wendy's Big Bacon Classic Combo(worth about $6)? Of course, the creature could not be allowed to merely have it's way with the meal, because I was hungry and required the life giving sustainance for myself. however, I could break off little portions of the various ingredients in an attempt to discover what the subject would and would not eat. The portions were broken off at roughly one minute intervals and all approximately the same size. The results were as follows:

Bit of french fry: Eaten

Bit of french fry: Eaten

Bit of french fry with ketchup(catsup): Not eaten

Bit of bacon: Eaten

Bit of beef: Eaten

Bit of processed cheese: Eaten

Bit of onion: Not eaten

Bit of beef: Eaten

Bit of beef: Eaten

Bit of pickle: Not eaten

Bit of beef: Not eaten

Bit of bacon that fell in ketchup(catsup): Eaten

Bit of french fry: Not eaten

Whole french fry: Not eaten

From this several interesting observations can be made. It would appear that the subject was hungry enough to begin with that it would eat french fries which it would ordinarily not eat. Some support for this theory is found in the fact that the subject refused french fries offered at the end of the meal. This data could instead be interpreted that the subject enjoys french fries under most circumstances, but after feasting on delicious bacon and beef, could not be bothered with the comparitively paltry fare of potatoes.We can also see that while ketchup(catsup) is sometimes a deterrent, as in the case of the french fry, the benefits of tasty bacon prevailed over the subject's ketchup(catsup)induced inhibitions. Clearly, more work needs to be done in this area before any solid conclusions can be reached. Work, which you can do in your own home for only $41! It's for science, people! It's worth it! Send your results to sanehaven@shaw.ca!


Soon after I wrote up this report, I finally realised that I couldn't support myself on a pet appraiser's income, and with a heavy heart, I went off to architecture school. School took up so much of my life, that I had no time for follow up experiments. Now I seem to have lots of time for stuff. Maybe it's time to get back into the swing of old things... unless I go back to my architecture job. Wow, life always comes full cirle, doesn't it?

I feel like I'm at a fork in the road I've been at before, like some kind of proverbial Robert Frost. But which way do I go this time?

Saturday, November 05, 2005

A Go To Adventure

Hey, everybody. I bet you're all wondering what happened at Old Man Guptar's on Hallowe'en night. I kind of left it as a cliffhanger. So here it is... the exciting conclusion of The Morning After!

A Couple of Days After the Morning After - A Go To Adventure

1
It would take words far beyond your linguistic capacity to accurately express the oppressive dread you feel as you stand before the palpable evil radiating from the house before you. It's only too clear to you now why one does not tread upon the property of Old Man Guptar lightly! You wouldn't be the first person to have made it their last mistake. You start to wonder just how many others had stood there as you stood and felt as you felt. The mailman, surely; Some Jehovah's Witnesses, perhaps; Maybe even some birds, or a stray cat?
Five minutes of just standing there goes by. You idley speculate that you may have become paralysed, but in your heart you know you are just stalling. Overcoming your trepidation, you face the fact that you have a job to do. You have to break into this house. You see two possible points of entry: a door and a window, both an equal distance from where you stand.

If you make your way to the window in a stealthy fashion, go to "4".

If you quickly head over to the door and see what happens, go to "6".


2
All the objects are equally strange and foreign to you eyes in this dim light. Picking one at random, You slip it into the pocket of your jacket. Suddenly, inexplicably afraid, you creep back out the window and don't stop running until you're putting your keys in your door. Safely inside, you examine the object under 60 watt light, but no secrets are yielded to you. Frustrated, you take to your bed. Sleep does not come easily or quickly,but eventually it does come. In the morning, after troubled dreams of eldritch horrors and cyclopean monoliths, you head on down to the local pawn shop with your new prize. The old man behind the counter examines your ill gotten gain with much thoroughness and care. "Ah, yes. Incan perpetual motion machine.Very rare." He says. "I'll give you $50."
Sold! Unfortunately, this is the bad part of town, so as soon as you step outside a drug dealer approaches you, trying to sell you crack. Always interested in trying new things, you give him your $50 and he hands you a small bit of folded paper, inside which is your 50 rock of crack (Actually you get ripped off and what you have is a lean 20 rock at best, but you're new at this so you'll never know). So you get home and within an hour you've smoked all your crack. Admittedly, you did get pretty fucked up, but now you have nothing and want more. Really, really, want more. As the weeks and months go by, you dimly perceive the loss of all your possessions and the alienation of your friends and family, though it doesn't really matter to you. It is only when you wake up one day and you are falling as the garbage truck empties the dumpster you were sleeping in, that you finally understand you've hit rock bottom. You laugh because "rock" makes you think of crack, and then the trucks' crushing machinery comes to life and you think of nothing ever again. For you, ya fuckin' crackhead... This adventure is over.


3
You turn away from the promise of danger in the deeps and tippy toe over to the rooms' only other door. You crouch next to the doorframe and slowly peek out into the hall. Your eyes adjust easily, as even in the hall the light is dim. Ordinarily, you'd have guessed that candlelight was the source of the illumination, except for the total absence of candles in the hallway. Strangely, there also appears to be no lanterns or light fixtures in the hall, functional or otherwise. You find the presence of light without an explanitory source to be unusually unsettling. You wonder if it's possible for walls to be giving off a luminescent glow. But then you chastise yourself for becoming distracted and lost in your thoughts about the lights. You are invading Old Man Guptar's home, and you need to be alert with your wits about you if you plan to leave here alive. Suddenly, you detect the sound of quiet voices. You freeze, listening over the sound of your own blood pumping. The voices sound angry, like arguing, though you can't make out the words. A bout of quiet laughter suddenly erupts, and the arguing resumes. After a few minutes, when you're sure the voices aren't coming any closer, and you take your first cautious step into the hall. There are no other doorways, so you have no choice but to head down to the far end... towards those voices.
Reaching the far end, you peek into the next room, and are relieved to discover that those noises were being emitted, not from people, but from an old television set. You find it's incongruous presence oddly conforting in this otherwise unnatural place. As you prepare to inspect this new room, your eyes are drawn to the screen and you realise that Family Ties is on. Compelled forward, you take up residence in the chair in front of the T.V. Oh, Alex! Is there anything you won't do for a buck? For one half hour... this adventure is over.


4
Cautiously, quietly, you creep across the yard towards the window, knowing that the darkness that conceals you from others could just as easily be concealing others from you. Your stealthiness pays off, though, as you make it to the window without incident, save one loud fart that rings out as you crouch beneathe it. For long, breathless moments you remain still. Finally,when you are confident that your indiscretion has gone undetected, you turn and peer into the window. Through a small corner not covered by the curtains, you see that the room beyond is dark, though a sliver of flickering light eminates from the hall beyond. The window itseld appears to not be secured in any fashion and opens easily with the rough sound of wood on wood. When it is open enough for you to slip through, you crawl inside. Standing, you take your first look at the interior of Old Man Guptar's.
Illuminated only by the light from the hall, you can still see the room is a cluttered mess of dusty crates and boxes. Lining the wall are a series of shelves of a quality that suggests they were the work of an apprentice or student for hire. On these shelves are many strange and arcane objects or devices of inscrutable purpose and unknown origin.

If you pick up an object and examine it, go to "7".

If you pocket one of these objects, go to "2".


5
Gingerly, you inch forward into the pitch black stairwell, one step at a time. Your vision is of no aid in your descent; There is nothing to see but absolute darkness and those squigglies that float around on your eyes. As you head further into the depths, the steps become wet and slippery, so it's extra precarious. After what seems an eternity, you begin to perceive shades of grey, rather than just the blackness of before. A light source must be nearby. Another few moments and the stairs abruptly end at another triangular doorway. Stepping through, a hellish vision awaits you.
A ghostly moon casts a gloomy light on a terrible, impossible landscape stretching out before you. Clay earth of the colour of corpses churns and twists like unwholesome life burrows below, pools of water pulsate upwards and downwards like the hard breathing of a creature run to death. Voluminous steam issues noisily forth from cracks in the surface. A grey sea in the distance foams and claws at the land. Above it all, atop a flying carpet, his beard distinguished and his turban bejeweled, was Old Man Guptar. In that moment, you realise his terrible secret. Old Man Guptar is, in fact, none other than the Swami Abbajay Gutra.
His eyes open and his mouth twists into a terrible sneer as he sees you. The clay earth shudders and quivers violently, and the grey sea becomes a maelstrom of of elemental fury, rising up and crashing down and splitting the clay landscape in twain. The surging grey waters are already half way to you before you can move. You turn and you run and you run and you run, the sounds of dead waters crashing at your heels, threatening to swallow you up forever, growing ever louder. Tears form in your eyes as you fall on the steps again and again, every miststep is a costly delay you cannot afford. It seems hopeless.
But then the top of the stairs appear, and beyond that the room of antiquities you left seemingly ages ago. You stop for none of this. At full speed, you dive out the window and continue down the street, never looking back.

Go to "8".

6
Well, as it turns out, nothing happens at all. After a half assed attempt to turn the knob and push on the door, you convince yourself that the place is sealed up tight and someone would have called the cops anyway. You'll come back and investigate further some other time... probably in the daytime. Pussy. For today, however... this adventure is over.


7
All the objects seem equally strange and foreign to your eyes in this dim light. Picking one at random, you hold it close to your eyes, hoping for some detail or purpose to be revealed. As you run your hands over the irregularly shaped object, your fingertip catches on a small depression with an audible click. You spin around as you hear a "whoosh" behind you. Where there was once only the featureless grey of the far wall, now there was a featureless grey wall with a big black triangle on it. Curious, you approach. As you draw closer, you discover that the black triangle is actually an opening in the wall, large enough to allow the easy passage of any man, though a bit of a tight squeeze for a bear or something of that nature. But whatever was beyond that your eyes could not tell; the darkness did not permit it. Having uncovered a secret door, though, you feel compelled to explore where it leads. Cautiously feeling forward with hands and feet, you quickly ascertain that a stairwell lies beyond, leading into unknown depths and untold dangers.

If you take the stairs to see what lies beneathe, go to "5".

If you turn back and go out into the hall, go to "3".


8
You arrive at your doorstep and wonder if you've run far enough. How can anyone get far way enough from terrible sights you've witnessed? And the Swami himself saw you as well. There can be little doubt he'll come looking for tonight's unwelcomed visitor. Sleep will not come easily tonight. You lie awake in bed, wondering how much longer until your prostitute roommate gets home. Maybe she'll help you relieve some of your tension. Yeah... right. Like that'll ever happen.
At least this adventure is over... For now.

Tuesday, November 01, 2005

The Morning After

Well, I hope you all had an interesting Hallowe'en! Because I now live in an apartment, I don't get any trick-or-treaters at my place. So, ordinarily, the night would have gone by in an unremarkable fashion. But Stephanie had stolen some sheets from the hospital and ripped them up to create a sort of ghost/mummy costume with the intention of doing some trick-or-treating herself. She's a little on the short side, so we figured she could pass as a just another regular child. The most important part of creating this illusion would be hiding those incredible melons of hers, which I'd normally be against, but this was a special occasion and some sacrifices had to be made. Anyway, we pulled it off with reasonable success, though the fact it was dark out worked in our favour, too.

While the costume may have been less than stellar, our candy gathering efforts were a remarkable success. When the night was over, we went home with five bags of candy! At first it went slowly, as it no doubt does for any child. But when an hour of trick-or-treating garnered only one and a half bags of candy, she said we should stop by a nearby convenience store to get some condoms. I didn't really understand why it was so important just then; I assumed she had a last minute improv to her costume in mind.Then we resumed our candy quest. Whenever a guy answered the door, she would go into the house with him and I was left standing there on the street( I was posing as her parental supervision). I didn't really mind waiting, as it gave me a chance to observes all the neat costumes the kids were wearing this year. I saw ghosts, dogs, Ghost Dog, vampires, Buck Adam Tomato, the bastard offspring of monoclonius and a unicorn or some such nonsense, Posh Spice, some Batmen, a dragon, Legolas, a couple of Obi-Wan Kenobi's and Anakin Skywalkers, and even General Grievous (who was dressed up as C-3P0!). When three or four minutes would go by, I'd start to get suspicious and angry about what might be going on in the house, but then she'd emerge with a full bag of candy, and it's hard to be upset about that! This went on at three different houses before she decided we were done.

We got home and examined our loot. In addition to all the regular sorts of goodies, we got a giant chocolate dinosaur (obviously left over from easter), some loose Lucky Charms marshmellows, gold coin chocolates, some over ripe blueberries, a half banana, an empty unicef box, a pair of children's mittens, a half kilo of lean ground beef, soy sauce, some sugar and ketchup packets, a brass eagle, a family portrait, $4.75 in loose change, and three wallets with $175 and five credit cards between them.

All too soon, though, Stephanie had to change into a different "costume" to do a different kind of "trick or treating" so she could afford a different kind of "candy". I think that analogy went way too far. Anyway, this left me all alone to figure out what to do with myself for the rest of the evening. I was dismayed to discover she'd taken the wallets with her, which meant I'd have to be extra creative about occupying myself.

Plum out of ideas, I took to the streets, pedestrian style. By now, just shy of the witching hour, most children had retired to their residences with their loot. The teenagers, on missions of hooting and hollering and pumpkin smashing, were taking over. I allowed none of this bother me as I absentmindedly let my feet take me where they may. I might have vetoed their choice of destination if I'd known where they were taking me. But by the time I realised... I was already there.

Old Man Guptar's place is the one place in the neighbourhood that everybody's children know to steer well clear of. If it's dark and foreboding appearance wasn't discouragement enough to the curious, the "Private Property" sign surely was. And on this particular night, it's appearance was exceptionally dark and foreboding, and the letters in "Private Property" loomed especially large. As I stood before this ominous abode, visions of the last time I took to mindless wandering flashed through my mind. I had to look no further than my own torso for the evidence of how well that had turned out. Alarm bells metaphorically rang in my brain and my whole body metaphorically screamed out "Turn back!"

But something in my head, possibly a parasite or tumor, urged me onwards... and I listened to it.

I took my first tentative step towards the home of Old Man Guptar. The whole property was cloaked in the night, as though even the streetlamp light feared to fall upon this evil earth. A cold wind came up out of nowhere as my foot came down on the lawn; More dry, cracked earth than grass and loam. Dead twigs crackled underfoot with each successive step. I froze, suddenly aware there were no shrubs or trees or wheelbarrows to hide behind should Guptar happen to look outside. Only the darkness was my ally in this regard, though I had little doubt it was more his ally than mine.

Stay Tuned! I might not have made it out alive!