Dammit!

What was that bit about logic again?

Heh

A E O U

No more lower case I’s. That’s i’s . Really. Stop it

These guys came up with the idea of sticking that letter in front of their products. Nobody comes close to emulating their style and flair, so stop trying to rip off their naming scheme.

iPods, iMacs: allowed.

iCommodes, iBurgers, iRivers: Not so much.

In another sign that The Universe Is Ending, I have spent more on getting my shirt cleaned at the dry cleaners than I originally spent on the shirt.

The first sign that The Universe Is Ending was something I realized this weekend. Strip clubs, Bowling alleys and the backs of cabs smell exactly the same. Something to do with wormholes and temporal physics I’m sure.

In a related matter, when I moved into this apartment in September, I had in a burst of unrealistic enthusiasm, decided that I would start cooking regularly. Healthy meals and stuff. To further that aim, I had stocked up on vegetables and um...stuff. The frozen vegetables are currently in cryogenic suspension in my freezer. I was aware of their existence and was making a staunch effort to ignore their reproachful looks whenever I opened the refrigerator door.

However, I had forgotten about the potatoes. They’re in the cabinet below the knife drawer. No sunlight or water or fertilizer. But in a move that bodes well for the survival of the species Solanum tuberosum the potatoes decided that they would move to a higher plane of existence.

So, I now have a rampant potato based ecology in that cabinet. A small little wannabe potato bush. I will be following its progress with keen interest. I call the bush iPotato.

Creak, creak, creak

The middle ages...

No, not the fun ones with Knights and swords and maidens and dragons and wizards with pointy hats.

The boring ones. The boring one. Middle age. The point where you are officially dead. I’m haven’t quite gotten there yet, but I am.

Slowly but surely I am.

And the inexorable slide towards that dreaded period began this weekend. And it wasn’t the fact that I spent New Year’s Eve at work , trying to desperately beat a deadline, or the fact that I was so exhausted that I fell asleep through that momentous minute, or the fact that I did not bother to make plans because I knew I would be working.

No what drove it home were the events of the next day. I went furniture shopping. To an Ikea showroom. Furniture shopping. Bah! And not for anything reasonably irresponsible, like a bar stool or a Laz-Boy recliner. What I went looking for was a Chest of Drawers. Something Nice. That Would Go With The Carpet.

And the sad part of it is that I did not go shopping like I usually do. In and out with a minimum of fuss. I spent time comparing products and visualizing furniture placement. Where has that boy gone, the one who fell asleep as his parents were shopping for living room chairs, the one who refused to leave the car as they were looking for new curtains. (For the record I haven’t sunk low yet. Yet.)

I finally have a car. I have named it “Debt”. I own one of the cup holders and some of the air in the trunk. My bank owns the rest.

I’ve figured out the exact time when you’ve become old. It’s when someone says that you look younger than you actually are and you take that as a compliment.

Oh yes, a Happy “Gratuitous Obscenities and Assorted Expletives” New Year. To all those I forgot to call up, and that list is longer than I am comfortable with, I apologize.

Now go get drunk.

Boo!

You know who you are.

Aah

It’s 23 degrees (Fahren-fuckin-heit). I’m at the train station at 4 am waiting for the train to Newark Airport. Since it is four in the morning the waiting room is shut and I’m out on the platform, at the mercy of the elements.

I have dressed in layers. An overcoat, a blazer, shirt and a T-shirt. Well layers on the top, where I am uncomfortably warm and beginning to sweat. The rest of me feels like your average Naked Person Stuck At The North Pole In Winter.

So…If we average it out, I am actually quite comfortable.

Side note: Me, Gym Shorts and Shakira having an Orgasm on the Gym Television screens. The potential for embarrassment looms large. (Yes I did mean that double-entendre.).

I vote that Shakira get the award for Best Televised Orgasm. She can win the sub-categories too, Best Orgasm with a Sports Car, Best Orgasm with a Sand Dune, Best Orgasm with a Can of Black Paint, Best Orgasm with a Rolled Up Newspaper, Best Orgasm With a Non-Rolled Up Newspaper. And the critics award, Best Moan in A-Minor.

I dislike most music videos. I truly do.

I do like the New Victoria’s secret advertisement. According to it, there are mind bogglingly gorgeous women who lounge about in their underwear and moan suggestively. They are a more evolved form of humanity that has gone beyond the need for any clothes which cover more that a square inch of skin. Their purpose isn’t quite clear yet, but I’m sure that with time enlightenment will come (This one was completely unintentional). Personally, I believe that they are here to solve world hunger and end human conflict. Perhaps by making out with each other. However, making any conclusions now would be premature (Freudian slip).

I will now end abruptly and leave you hanging (Gah!).

Peace out

Looking at the kitchen at my office, I see that we are out of any kind of tea that I may drink. The only teas left there are the Hippy teas, teas that would wear goofy jeans and talk about flower power and Marx. Teas with chamomile, and jasmine and essence of orange rinds and apple extract. Teas in bright yellow boxes, and teas in gently blushing cardboard cartons.

Bah.

Those are not the kinds of teas that I drink. I want a tea that could run an empire, teas that would suitably subdue the natives and decimate the local ecology.

Guess I’m going to have to settle for tea’s mutated pirate half brother. Evil icky black coffee.

'Tis a many splendored thing

I like the chain supermarket near my house. No really I do. It is large, carries my favorite brand of cereal and has copious amounts of dead animals(Aisles and aisles of frozen corpses, as far as the eye can see.). Most importantly, it is open round the clock.

I have no reason to complain.

None what so ever.

Um…

Except for one.

Their slogan, catch phrase, national anthem, whatever you may call it is, well, fucked up.

They have signs with it all over the store. Sign that boldly declaim, “I love this store.”

Now, there are two interpretations to this statement. Perhaps unsurprisingly I have a problem with both of them.

The first is that the supermarket is being narcissistic and is brimming with admiration at the supermarket’s beauty and wide display of… stuff. Unable to contain itself, the supermarket loudly proclaims its self love from the roof tops and other high places (Including but not limited to telephone and electrical poles, the top of basketball players heads and the radio antenna behind the supermarket).

Now, being the peaceable, easy going person that I am, I can live with this. As long as I can get the aforementioned cereal, I have no problems.

But, the second interpretation is far, far more sinister. It could be that the supermarket is proclaiming my love for the supermarket. And that scares me. I like the supermarket, one could say that I feel mild affection for it, but I do not love it. I would not donate a kidney to the supermarket if it needed one. I would allow it to borrow my vacuum cleaner, but I would not take a bullet for it. If tomorrow, this supermarket went up to that great big strip mall in the sky, I might shed a quiet tear, and then I’d go back to wasting my time.

The thing is I haven’t been going to this supermarket for all that long, and I do not think we have yet reached that stage in our relationship where we can bandy about words such as "Love". Things are going too fast. I know that this place looks good, but there may be something new around the corner. I think that I should see other super markets. Perhaps ones with longer aisles, or more rounded checkout counters, or maybe ones with shopping carts that did not infernally squeak. And only then make my decision.

I guess the point I am making, (The tumbleweed that blows through this blog faints with surprise. A point in this blog? Tis not possible.) is that no customers fucking love chain supermarkets. They are as interchangeable as things that are easily interchangeable and are often used in sentences as similes for things that are interchangeable. Please for heavens sake, come up with a slogan that is a little less inane. Here is a suggestion: “Rajneesh’s favorite cereal and aisles and aisles of frozen corpses.”

Pyroblast

Addiction is a beautiful thing.

Writer's[sic] block

So turn the volume up and click here.