Misplaced Muse

Another combination of letters, numbers, words, punctuation, and copious parenthetical references filling the void which was, well, here.

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Honk if you can read this.

This is not the time for me to expose my religious beliefs. I'd prefer my curmudgeonly comportment to be perceived as unbiased and unencumbered by spiritual constraints.

I am an equal-opportunity, non-denominational malcontent. At least in public.

That said, this rapture thing is wonderful; it exposes the ignorance of the believer and atheist alike. First, there is as much proof that any given day will be the rapture as there is it won't. Second, raise your hand if you even know what the rapture is. (Now, I know the readers of this blog will have their hands in the air, reaching towards the heavens, but that's because you're smarter than the average bear. Because, you know, you read my blog. And bears are, well, bears.)

If you believe that the rapture is today, and it's after today, don't fret: your prediction was correct. Jesus just doesn't love you.

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Let a gentleman see just how nice a dame you can be.

Who won both a math competition and a library contest on the same day? That's, right - this guy (I, for those of you who tend to miss the obvious).

If you previously held the idea that such a feat was impossible, well, now you know that dreams really can come true. Tell you friends. Hide you kids. Paint a puppy. Rinse. Repeat.

I may never be famous or wealthy. I'll probably never learn how to sing well. All I can promise is that I will always have a fresh supply of up-to-date dictionaries for all your logophilic pleasures (and I may have something for your other pleasures, too). Also, I can math good.

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La balle au bâton

What do Al Gore, René Descartes, and Robert Bunsen all have in common? If you guessed "a love for baseball," you'd be very wrong. But who cares, right? Because it's Opening Day and that means baseball and theonlythingthatmatters on Opening Day is BASEBALL.

Breathe.

Good.

Now, we all know that the important part of the season doesn't start until tomorrow because my team doesn't play today and, well, my team is better than your team. But it's still spring, and it's still baseball, and it's still good.

[historythings]

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Does being angry at the improper grammar in a mock medieval embroidery make me an asshole?

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Read Like It's 1989, or Cleanup in Aisle Four, with apologies to Johannes Gutenberg.

I love libraries. I am not talking quixotic, Platonic love. This is the Real Deal™. As you read this, I am probably spreading my love all over the TK1541-TK7895 stack (that's right, I'm too good for Melvil Dewey and his decimal classification system). Okay, perhaps I am slightly exaggerating (I can't believe I spelled that right the first time*) my fondness for the athenaeum, but I take great comfort in being surrounded by books (I don't know how to put this, but I'm kind of a big deal†) and other literary treasures.

More and more frequently I hear talk related to the declining state of the library system. Librarians and library administrators seem to be in a panic over declining funds and membership (a recent library board meeting eavesdropping session confirmed this). Publishers are encouraging book pirating through restrictive lending policies and steadily rising retail costs. Generation X has produced the dumbest people the world has ever seen. All-in-all, the situation is grim for bibliophiles.

However, the root cause of all this is in the writing on the wall. Or the picture on the wall.

In this library hangs a shiny poster of This Great Nation's president encouraging patrons to read. Next to this poster hangs another bearing the same message. It is slightly less shiny. The corners have curled inward. The lettering has taken on a yellow tint. On it is pictured a man with amazing Kid n' Play hair. And this man knows reading.

As a matter of fact, this man knows everything.

This man is Bo Jackson.

Also, the librarian-on-duty looks like he fell out of 1973.

Need I say more?

*Admittedly, I am a terrible speller. I'm probably not as bad as I think I am, but I sure get an awful lot of red squiggly lines under things as I type.

†I'm very important. I have many leather-bound books and my apartment smells of rich mahogany

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Credo quia absurdum

I have become so absurdly lazy that I am avoiding blogging by blogging. Of course, I am not industrious enough to devote much time to this post, but I am committed enough to my unproductivity to be here.

Turns out, I am even too lazy for this.

Coffee!

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Tous pour un, un pour tous.

I'm sitting in a library, surrounded by a collection of books that would make Roland of Gilead's head a splode. Of all the activities being participated in at present, reading a book seems to have escaped the realm of possible options. This library has been transformed into an Internet café without the café and with really crappy Internet (to be more accurate, the Internet is the same but the connection to it sucks).

Lest one believe Þe Olde Internetworke is being used for academic purposes, I have taken it upon myself to conduct an informal survey of actual usage (read: I spied on people). Based on my highly scientific questionable census, some percentage of people are watching YouTube videos of whatever award show was on last night, another (smaller) percentage of people are taking advantage of the zeroth law of thermodynamics by napping on the relative warmth of their laptops, and everyone else is conversing in a volume unacceptable in this establishment while allowing their computers to show off their screensaver skills.

Before you cite me for hypocrisy, this is my recess from reading (file Recess from Reading under "cool band names") having now completed Richard Pevear's translation of Dumas' The Three Musketeers. If you have, for one strange reason or another, not read said novel, your concept of "good book" is wrong*.

*Or, at the very least, not entirely informed.**

**This is not to say that you have bad taste, or that I have good taste***, but that The Three Musketeers is my favorite novel and, since I can judge good taste only by comparison with my own, the aforementioned book is necessary for complying with my opinion of all things in good taste. Which may or may not be the same as all things which taste good.

***De gustibus and all that.

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I'm on a boat. A cafeteria boat. Sans boat, where "on" also equals "in". And periods are left outside the quotation marks.

Lonely people are lonely. What's worse? They make me feel lonely (I apologize if I did not give you enough time to answer on your own; I will make this up to you). Since I am already lonely (by definition and choice, as I am sitting alone, and not by, e.g., abandonment), and happy (ignoring my nagging headache), these other lonely people are really dragging me down, man.

Now they, the aforementioned other lonely people, may very well also be happily alone. All I ask is that they respectfully modify their disposition to something other than downcast and gloomy and depressed and sad (guess who bought a thesaurus today?). Read a book. Blog. Play Monopoly, 21, checkers, or chess. Start a fire in the garbage can. Turn off all the lights and start singing Happy Birthday to the wall. Simple things are all I ask. Just stop looking so very lonely.

If, by chance, this loneliness has been entered into by some religious decree, I apologize. Next time, shave your head and put on a robe. Look the part, damn darn it!

Also, I am looking for lunch partners. Really, though, it's because I want someone who will take my raisins in return for a Hostess Cupcake. I will probably ignore you the rest of the time, because can't you see I'm trying to finish my homework?

And no, I did not but a thesaurus today, but I figure you have had, by now, enough time to guess someone who did.

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(?)

I have come to the sad realization that this (a)pathetic blog (or whatever the kids are calling it these days) is seriously lacking in the as-promised-in-the-blurb-to-your-left parenthetical reference department (as is this senten . . . wait . . . fuck). As I am seeking even wear of the keys of my keyboard, I shall endeavor to rectify this sorry situation. Also, expect copious Qs and Zs and various squiggly things (like ~ and & and 8).

Now back to your regularly scheduled programming.

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aeiouPhone

The coolest person to sport a turtle neck was Carl Sagan. Now you know that.

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Thanksgiving.

I finally solved the mystery of my web browser's capriciousness. Now I can experience the Web 2.0 in all of its ad-infested, flash-vomiting, socially networked glory. It is a red letter day, indeed. Literally. My calendar has "Thanksgiving" printed in red ink. Thank you, medieval scribes!

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POV?

So, who wants to lend me a point of view? This place is starting to resemble Berlin, Nevada but without the paleontological significance or old cars.

Does anyone know a suitable emoticon for tumbleweed?

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Peekaboo!

I see you!

But not really. I was just making sure you were paying attention.

That is all.

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Why?

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Hi.

Chances are you're reading this page because there was a link to it somewhere. It's a pretty neat coincidence because that happens to be the same reason why I'm writing it. I think it's important to have something here -- after all, it was empty and lonely before I came along. Almost 2 billion Internet users yet here I am, staking my claim to this vast expanse of unused possibility.

Here I sat, listening to the quiet hum of my computer's circulatory system while pondering the intricacies of boredom when it occurred to me: I could really use a cup of coffee. Then another, more profound, though awoke in my uninspired (and severely uncaffeinated) head: where have all the flowers gone? Once I realized that winter was the likeliest culprit, I was shocked to find, lurking in the dusty and cobwebbed depths of my brain, a third thought: I miss writing.

Thus, I brewed myself a cup of delicious coffee and began my journey. Here I landed, planted my flag, wiggled my fingers, and began to write. I may be rusty, and you may be bored, but have some compassion. I am but one man, a wandering traveler through the incomprehensible domain of space and time. I only hope you will join me along the way.