tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132193392024-03-07T17:40:20.271-06:00Psychedelic KimchiHarrison Forbeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16327802075480076782noreply@blogger.comBlogger1683125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13219339.post-65112382151913538282016-10-07T17:36:00.001-05:002016-10-07T17:36:41.027-05:00Merely a Kit Kat<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The purrfect playlist for the finest of fat cats!<br />
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<a href="http://traffic.libsyn.com/otuner/01_Hometime.mp3">One EskimO - Hometime</a><br />
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<a href="http://traffic.libsyn.com/otuner/1-07_High_Horses.mp3">The Swell Season - High Horses</a><br />
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<a href="http://traffic.libsyn.com/otuner/03_My_Doorbell.mp3">The White Stripes - My Doorbell</a><br />
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<a href="http://traffic.libsyn.com/otuner/08_Meet_Me_by_the_Water.mp3">Rachael Yamagata - Meet Me by the Water</a><br />
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<a href="http://traffic.libsyn.com/otuner/03_Romeo.mp3">Chairlift - Romeo</a><br />
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<a href="http://traffic.libsyn.com/otuner/06_Waiting_for_Your_Phone_Call.mp3">Anoraak - Waiting for Your Phone Call</a><br />
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<a href="http://traffic.libsyn.com/otuner/03_After_Hours.mp3">We Are Scientists - After Hours</a><br />
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<a href="http://traffic.libsyn.com/otuner/10_Far_Away.mp3">Cut Copy - Far Away</a><br />
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<a href="http://traffic.libsyn.com/otuner/05_Beatbox.mp3">The Sounds - Beatbox</a><br />
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<a href="http://traffic.libsyn.com/otuner/14_Movie_Theme.mp3">Beck - Movie Theme</a><br />
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<a href="http://traffic.libsyn.com/otuner/02_Electric_Demons_in_Love.mp3">Electric Six - Electric Demons in Love</a><br />
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<a href="http://traffic.libsyn.com/otuner/11_My_TV_and_You_1.mp3">VAST - My TV and You</a><br />
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<a href="http://traffic.libsyn.com/otuner/Confections.mp3">Natalie Portman's Shaved Head - Confections</a><br />
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Kmorkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10682210985833840453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13219339.post-45015009084179770652016-06-16T23:28:00.001-05:002016-06-16T23:28:02.718-05:00It's Alright, It's Alright (Fun Fact No. 2)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> Someone recently inquired about my love of Stevie Nicks, and it's true, Stevie Nicks circa 1976 is possibly the greatest person ever in the history of the universe, but anyway, some thirty years ago my brother went to a Stevie Nicks concert and the next day, he mentioned that Nicks was so high she fell off the stage during the show. From that day forward, whenever Stevie Nicks comes up, I immediately think about her falling off a stage in the greatest way possible (in the history of the universe).</span><br />
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Kmorkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10682210985833840453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13219339.post-73671591824920578982016-06-15T16:24:00.000-05:002016-06-16T23:24:03.734-05:00Dancing on the Ceiling (Fun Fact)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span data-offset-key="3qrbn-0-0" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> Way back when, I attended the University of Northern Iowa as an undergraduate, and as part of the collegiate experience, I worked out at the Wellness and Recreation Center (also known as the WRC) in an attempt to a) stay fit; b) offset the binge drinking; and c) check people out.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> Anyway -and this was before MP3 players were common, so it was harder to drown out the world via headphones while exercising, as strapping a DiscMan to one's arm was impractical and WalkMans were out of fashion- the employees of the WRC got to choose the music that blasted from the sound system. I had a bit of a crush on a lady working at the desk upstairs, and one of her frequent selections was Kylie Minogue's 2001 album, Fever. I don't know if the crush had an effect on my preferences, or if brute repetition played the greatest role, but the (fun!) fact remains that I can't get enough of the album's second track, Love at First Sight. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> Why am I sharing this tidbit? The thing is, there aint a surgeon like you any place in all the world, so now, shall I remove my clothes?</span></div>
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Kmorkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10682210985833840453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13219339.post-19326235187850780492016-03-06T04:17:00.000-06:002016-03-06T04:17:30.801-06:00But That's Not What We Do<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I've never punched anyone in the face. I have likewise never been punched in the face. At nearly thirty-eight years old, I hope both are trends which continue.<br />
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I did, however, after many months and repeated efforts, beat Mike Tyson in the titular <i>Mike Tyson's Punch-Out!</i> for the Nintendo Entertainment System when I was ten years old. That game is <i>hard</i>, but never underestimate the tenacity of a video-game-addicted kid. I had fast fingers back then. And a lot of NES-controller-caused calluses. Price you pay to be the champ, man.<br /><br />I don't even like boxing, but there's something about video game boxing that I enjoy. Perhaps it's the fulfillment of punching something incorporeal and not getting punched back, passively satisfying a more primal urge while ensuring bodily safety.<br /><br />And that extends to other aspects of gaming, including shooting people, jumping on the heads of anthropomorphic mushrooms, and taking pills to chase away the ghosts that are haunting-hunting me.<br /><br />It's all just a fantasy. And it's fun. Challenging and fun.<br /><br />In 2001 I was living in Sinchon, Seoul. On Sunday afternoons, I sometimes ventured into the myriad coin-op video game arcades sprinkled within the neighborhood. Most of them had old, sit-down games like <i>1941</i>, <i>Tetris</i>, <i>Puzzle Bobble</i>, and the like, which I had a lot of fun playing, but some of the larger arcades had more advanced (and more expensive) coin-op games. <br /><br />One such game that I was particularly fond of, despite all the 500 won coins it took from me, was a motion-sensor game called <i>Police 911</i>. You had to duck and shit! I wasn't into <i>Dance Dance Revolution</i>, but being a Tokyo cop shooting at and ducking from Yakuza gunfire? Sign me up!<br /><br />Motion-sensor technology has come a long way, I'm sure, since 2001. Comparing the Nintendo Wii remote to the sensing technology of <i>Police 911</i> is maybe analogous to comparing a fire-breathing dragon to a skink. And the hardest thing to determine while playing a video game that you want to beat is whether the game is good but you're not good <i>at it</i>, or whether the game isn't very good and <i>that's why</i> you're not good at it.<br /><br />After a particularly vexing game of <i>Police 911</i>, I took two steps over to a boxing game. After years of searching, I still haven't been able to remember the title, because every Google search of "Japanese arcade boxing game" results in those arcade cushion hardest-punch games or the one where cushions come at you from the side.<br /><br />This game was motion-sensor. It had two "boxing gloves," connected to the machine, that the player wore which more resembled today's UFC fighting gloves. The opponents weren't memorable, or at least not as memorable as Bald Bull, Glass Joe, or Super Macho Man.<br /><br />But you still had to duck and move. I played <i>Mike Tyson's Punch-Out! </i>a lot as a kid because, no matter how many times I was defeated, I could always -- often blowing on the cartridge -- start a new game. An arcade is different. Maybe other people want to play. Other people are watching you. <br /><br />I beat the first two opponents. Then the game got much harder. I was ducking and weaving, trying to save my video game life. I won the third bout, but I was gassed in the next one. I was a lot stronger back then, but my ass was tired. <br /><br />Instead of throwing in the towel, I started rotating my wrists rapidly with the gloves on. I'm sure motion-sensor technology has found ways to stop such a cheat, but not then. That was a lot less exhausting than punching at a pretend pugilist. <br /><br />I beat the game, although not in a traditional manner. I cheated, yes, by exploiting a flaw in the system. <br /><br />I won. EAF.<br /><br />Patch it later. Or never. Like I fucking care.<br /><br /><br /><br />Harrison Forbeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16327802075480076782noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13219339.post-32126625542315417032016-03-01T03:52:00.001-06:002016-03-01T03:52:19.737-06:00Fast Friends (The Intouchables)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A few years ago, my wife and I were browsing titles in a DVD-comic book shop (yes, some still exist, this particular one being on the ground floor of the building we lived in at the time).<br />
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Because I tend to consume most media via <i>non-traditional</i> means (shakes fist at archaic international distribution methods and stodgy rights holders), I had already seen -- months, and in some cases years, prior -- most of the titles available. But I noticed The Intouchables, a French film that was on my cinephile periphery because it had a high score on IMDB and I'd read a few ephemeral Internet comments praising the film. <br /><br />We decided to rent the movie, but unfortunately the only subtitles were in Korean. My wife can get by with English subtitles for an entire film, but I alas cannot (although I managed the Korean subtitles for the French and German of Inglourious Basterds when we saw it in the theater, so sticker?).<br />
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<br />Around a year or so later, the movie was available for streaming on Cartoon HD, an app that sneaked its way into the App Store for like twelve minutes and which I was fortunate enough to download within that time window. But when I tried to watch it, it was only in French with no English subtitles. <i>Sacre bleu</i>.<br /><br />Early last month, I learned that Netflix had opened service in Korea. I signed up. Their library so far is embarrassingly bare (and, frustratingly, their Korean content doesn't include English subtitles), but I was able to download a beta-stage VPN that allows access to Netflix worldwide. The Internet always finds a way.<br /><br />This afternoon, the Independence Movement Day holiday here, I found The Intouchables available on Netflix Canada via the aforementioned beta-stage VPN.<br /><br />And I watched it.<br /><br />And I loved it.<br /><br />The premise sounds cliched and cloying. A rich, white quadriplegic hires a black ex-convict as his caregiver. They bond and do stuff, each person learning from the other. If someone described the movie that exact way, I'd take a pass. And if I'd read Roger Ebert's review prior to watching it, I'd similarly be turned off:<br /><br />
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<i>A stuffy rich employer finds his life enriched by a wise black man from the Paris ghettos</i></blockquote>
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<br />Ebert was wrong there. Philippe isn't "stuffy" at all (there's no conflict between the two; they become friends almost instantly), and neither is Driss "wise." The film <i>does </i>have cliches, and it <i>certainly </i>qualifies for entrance into the ongoing regrettable list of Magical Negroes in cinema* for having Driss shake up the lives of the people in Philippe's manse, however twee the results are.<br /><br />But it also contains one of the greatest friendships -- if not <i>the </i>greatest -- I've ever seen in movies. Phillipe and Driss are great friends. Those are two dudes I want to hang out with. Unless I missed something, race is never mentioned in the film, so the rich -white-poor-black dichotomy is carried over from the viewer rather than anything shown explicitly in the film.<br /><br />The film is also rated R. I'd say that's a shame, because it's a movie young people would enjoy, but I'm not that dumb to know that young people will seek out and enjoy anything they want.<br /><br />The Intouchables is a great movie.<br /><br />(and François Cluzet totes looks like Dustin Hoffman, right?)<br /><br /><br />* Red in The Shawshank Redemption is, confusingly, on Wikipedia's list, to which I demand an explanation. And no, his reputation as a "man who can get things" doesn't make him a Magical Negro. He got Andy a rock hammer, not fucking Mjolnir!<br /><br /><br />
Harrison Forbeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16327802075480076782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13219339.post-35710436387035082022016-02-04T14:39:00.000-06:002016-02-07T14:49:50.355-06:00Eighty Two Four<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="text-align: left;">Keep running, keep smiling, keep trying. Just don't give away the ending. </span></div>
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Kmorkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10682210985833840453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13219339.post-66311464565488620312016-01-31T03:59:00.002-06:002016-01-31T04:33:01.362-06:00Like I Know<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">My mouth is weird, man. Has been for over a month. (Possibly over a lifetime, if you ask my parents.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">One weekday before the Christmas weekend, I woke up and all of my teeth felt loose. My gums felt like Play-Doh, and my teeth felt as though they were shifting and might fall out. It was not a pleasant feeling.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The next day my teeth felt more secure. My bite was a bit different, and I had some on-and-off nerve pain in a front tooth for about an hour, but that was it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Then the headaches started.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Let me rewind a bit, though. These past eight months haven't been easy, both emotionally -- although that's getting better -- and physically. To quote Snoop Dogg, if it ain't one thing, it's a motherfucking 'nother. Relationship stress, work stress...that pairing is like bleach and ammonia. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In early October of last year, I broke my rib (at least one). I was drunk, got the spins, and fell into a bus stop bench. The American judge gave me an 8.7. Not my finest hour.<br /><br />That shit took nine or ten weeks to heal. I never visited a hospital. Want to know if you have a broken rib? No need to see a doctor; the pain will let you know. And by no means is this me endorsing not seeking medical treatment. Quite the opposite. You <i>should </i>seek help if you're injured or sick. I'm a complete dumbass, and I continue to be one. I wish there were a vaccination for idiocy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Just as my rib was feeling pretty much copacetic, I pulled my lower back while -- ironically, because I had resolved to exercise regularly as soon as I felt physically sound -- trying to pick up a 20 Kg box of dumbbells and hurrying out from my apartment elevator. Always lift with your legs, dummy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">While not as painful as having a broken rib, <i>that shit fucking hurts</i>*. It was another setback in my goal to not be a kvetching invalid.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And then this shit with my mouth. The headaches got more intense, day by day. My teeth seemed to be, ostensibly, shifting in my mouth hour by hour. I had a twenty-four-seven headache that on the pain scale ranged between 2 and <i>ithinkmyentireheadisgoingtoexplode</i>. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Two weeks ago, over dinner with two of my best friends, it was emphasized to me that teeth don't just move around in your mouth, especially hourly. Of course they don't. That's what it felt like, but obviously that wasn't the problem.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Temporomandibular_joint_dysfunction">This might be the problem.</a></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I reaffirmed two things about my personality during this stretch: 1) I'm a stupid, scared moron who probably won't seek medical attention unless I'm under threat of imminent death, and 2) you could explain to me one hundred times how the U.S. armed forces branches of the Navy and the Marine Corps are different, and still will never get it.<br /><br />Good news is that I haven't had a headache for two straight days.<br /><br />Bad news is that I haven't been able to close my mouth in three days. I can make my lips touch so that I don't look like an extra in Deliverance, but my jaw is, to use a British expression, <i>wonky</i>. And the muscle under my tongue cramps up occasionally. <br /><br />I'll see a doc or a dentist if it gets worse. Or maybe not.<br /><br />Because part of me -- the part above my shoulders -- enjoys a good mystery.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">* My apologies for the colorful language, but if you've ever had a broken rib or a pulled back muscle, you may be able to empathize with my descriptive fucking curse words.</span><br />
<br />Harrison Forbeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16327802075480076782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13219339.post-49835543296020527582016-01-26T05:51:00.003-06:002016-01-26T05:51:56.667-06:00Immigrant Song<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
I feel bad. I feel like an asshole. I <i>am </i>an asshole a lot of the time, although I don't proudly wear my asshole badge like a narcissist. Instead, I get a new asshole tattoo on my conscious and try to not be <i>another </i>asshole or a <i>bigger </i>asshole the next time. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't.<br />
<br />
I hate earwigs. I find them repulsive. I'm convinced that H.R. Giger modeled the Xenomorph after an earwig. They look terrifying, with their shiny black exoskeletons and pincers. Also, when I was an adolescent, I stayed with my family at my grandmother's one summer and the place was infested with them. One dropped from the ceiling into my hair while I was in bed, and ever since the sight of an earwig gives me goosebumps and an urge to eliminate the earwig from my environment. With extreme prejudice.<br />
<br />
Earwigs, even though their weird name conjures fear, at least in me, are pretty chill insects. They tend to hide in the dark and stay out of the way for the most part. They're not wasps, which are the winged sociopaths of the insect kingdom (and which physically pose a threat to me, because I'm allergic to them). Earwigs are just scary-looking dudes.<br />
<br />
Which is why I feel so bad for killing two earwigs today.<br />
<br />
I have the same morning routine: wake up, smoke a square, hopefully deliver the mail, shower, get dressed, head to work.<br />
<br />
But while I was sitting on the toilet this morning, square newly lit, I saw an earwig and had a conversation with myself:<br />
<br />
<i>One might mean there are more. Kill him and hope there aren't any more.</i>I took a mop and mashed the bug into the corner of the shower until I was sure it was dead.<br />
<br />
Then I sat back down on the toilet to finish smoking my morning cigarette.<br />
<br />
But the earwig moved again. And again. It appeared to have overcome my assault. It writhed from the corner from whence I had intended to crush it, and it started to climb up the wall tile.<br />
<br />
I was reminded of my Dachshund, Reggie, another long, diminutive creature, and I started rooting for this insect which I had tried to kill. It was making its way up the wall again, and I felt so terrible for trying to murder such a tenacious guy! I wanted this earwig to live!<br />
<br />
Then my alarm went off and I had to go to work and I turned the shower on and flushed the earwig down the drain. <br />
<br />
And when I came home after work, there was another earwig. A smaller one. I mushed it with a paper towel and flushed it down the toilet.<br />
<br />
I feel bad.<br />
<br />
Going to binge watch Fringe on Netflix.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Harrison Forbeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16327802075480076782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13219339.post-1966707396694765482016-01-18T21:28:00.000-06:002016-01-18T21:36:25.484-06:00Take It Easy, Mr. Frey<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Believe it or not, people care where you've been.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/j4ueaD22hg8" width="560"></iframe><br />
<br />
The first time I heard the song above, I had been sitting in my mother's parked 1972 Buick Skylark. I vaguely recall being in the driveway of someone's house, for one reason or another, waiting for my mother to do whatever it is she had to do. As I dialed through radio stations, Glenn Frey's <i>You Belong to the City</i> came into tune. That's all there is to the story, I suppose, but it's enough for me. </div>
Kmorkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10682210985833840453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13219339.post-19950605138274550432016-01-03T04:02:00.000-06:002016-01-03T04:02:55.867-06:00Reginald<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
"Hey, Reggie. Looks like a quiet night in here. The skyline looks like soup out there. I'll have a beer and a shot of whiskey, doesn't matter what kind. I'll serve myself if you're too tired."<br /><br />"..."<br /><br />"Yes sir, it has been a tough day. Tough week, month, year, life. I'm going to have a few -- no more than three -- and then go to bed.<br />
<br />
"..."<br />
<br />
"Reggie, you have to play music or put on some sports to attract customers. You're a good-looking fella, but looks alone aren't going to keep you prosperous."<br /><br />"..."<br /><br />"Well, it's the witching hour. Better knock off before a vampire bites me or I turn into a werewolf. How's my tab, Reg? Are we settled?"<br /><br />"..."<br /><br />"I'll take that as a 'Yes.'"<br /><br /><br />---<br /><br /><i>Old Pal,<br /><br />I miss you, dummy.<br /><br />How's your belly?<br /><br />Are you chasing the saints around? Trying to steal Gabriel's trumpet?<br /><br />If they ever get tired of your shit, tell them that they can send you back to me.<br /><br />I can wait.<br /><br />Good night, Reggie. <br /><br />Your Best Friend,<br />Thomas<br /><br />P.S. I'm sorry about the time when I cut your toenails and I didn't have anything to give you afterwards as a treat. That Snickers bar would have killed you. <br />But if I knew that car was going to run you over, I would have given it to you. <br /><br />Sleep soundly, Paw Prince</i>Harrison Forbeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16327802075480076782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13219339.post-27988475577998381972015-12-20T02:35:00.000-06:002015-12-20T02:35:53.754-06:00Roman Numeral Seven<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/3kAwSL4WjQA/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/3kAwSL4WjQA?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
<br /><br />
<br />
Star Wars was my childhood. That's not an overstatement. I was born in 1978 (in Kenya), and from the time I can remember <i>remembering</i>, everything was Star Wars-related: R2D2 birthday cakes; toys; role playing with childhood friends, using invisible lightsabers and trying to replicate the sound they make, and using random pieces of wood as blasters.<br /><br />My mother always reminds me that, when I was three years old, she took me to a double feature of A New Hope and The Empire Strikes Back. I still remember that, vaguely. Yoda was scary. Then he wasn't.<br /><br />I grew up with Star Wars. <br /><br />And then I grew out of Star Wars. The Phantom Menace is cinematic dog shit. I liked a lot of things in Attack of the Clones, but overall it's a bad movie. Revenge of the Sith is...<br /><br />You know what? I'm going to stop being negative about the prequels. Been there, done that.<br /><br />Because The Force Awakens is an honest-to-god Star Wars movie, and I'd like to focus on the future rather than reflect negatively on the past.<br /><br />Nostalgia is a tricky thing. Whenever I have trouble sleeping, I think about my past: places I've been, friends I had. Those are fond memories I'd like to see over and over again, like photographs in a family album.<br /><br />I paradoxically want to go back and continue on. So, yeah, The Force Awakens is a magic trick I've seen before, a remix of Episode IV. But it has so much genuine soul, such well-written characters, and so many good moments (it's the funniest film in the franchise), that I don't give a shit if it's the same story told in a different way.<br /><br />Because it's the same story told in a <i>great </i>way.<br /><br /><br />And BB-8 is my motherfucker.Harrison Forbeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16327802075480076782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13219339.post-75605718351447323332015-12-11T07:30:00.000-06:002015-12-11T07:30:24.099-06:00On Shadow Mountain, Playing the Piano<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
My father was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor when he was fifty-eight years old. He died the day before his fifty-ninth birthday. The doctors couldn't say for sure when the tumor had metastasized, but my mother thinks it was when he started exhibiting strange behavior three years prior to his diagnosis. That's only her guess, though. I was away at college then, and my sister, Nancy, was living with her boyfriend in Sault Ste. Marie, so neither of the Cookston siblings ever witnessed what Mom described first as "odd stuff," like Dad getting up in the middle of the night to scribble pencil drawings of large, menacing faces on the drafting paper in his office, and then later as our father -- who was theretofore the gentlest man I'd ever known -- became increasingly violent, initially to inanimate objects like TV remotes and framed pictures, and then to Mom and, finally, himself.<br />
<br />
You learn a lot of things about your parents as you grow up, the first thing being that they're not the perfect guardians you once thought them to be; and some unfortunate sons and daughters learn this more quickly than their peers. But while my parents' marriage wasn't as solid as, say, the Waltons' or the Reagans', I knew, and still know now, that my mother and father were always in love with each other. From the time I developed an understanding of such a concept to the day my father was taken off of his life-support system, I could see that.<br /><br />I flew back home after winter exams in January, 1999. I hadn't heard from Mom in three weeks, and while I will never blame her for my lack of focus during the weeks preceding, I was continually haunted while studying by the last thing she said after she called me at my dorm one night. We talked regular family stuff -- emphasizing the good (excellent lobster dinner at the church), casually mentioning the bad (broken water main on Brant St. during the Super Bowl) -- for about thirty minutes or so; but as I was about to hang up and call it a night, she said, "I think your father is slowly going insane."<br /><br />"Dad? How?"<br /><br />"Let's talk about it when you're home, dear." My mom never called me "dear," but that's the only endearing word I can use to describe the fear, pain, and love in her voice.<br /><br />I booked a flight home for January 3, 2000.<br />
<br />
<br />---<br /><br />I mean no offense to persons named Janelle or persons of Swiss nationality (it's a pretty name, and a beautiful country, respectively), but that flight home, on a shoebox of a plane, with drunk international college students ("Janelle, look! The wing just fell of the plane!" "Janelle, do you think we're all going to die here?") was trying. The flight was forty minutes, but it felt like forty days. I knew I was in Canada because no one chastised these obnoxious assholes, but everyone had the furrowed-brow visage of fury." People travel for pleasure, yes, but a lot of people travel, especially by air, because bad things have happened, or might happen.<br /><br />---<br /><br />I took a taxi from the airport to my parents' place. When I walked in, I didn't hear a sound. <br /><br />"Hey!" I shouted. "Anyone home?"<br /><br />Nothing.<br /><br />I left my luggage at the door and walked down the hallway to the kitchen. The television was at full volume in another room. It was early afternoon, a sunny day, but every light in the house was on. I turned right to walk into the family room (or "the TV room," as it once was called) and saw my father. He was sleeping, snoring, with a near-empty bottle of Jack Daniels on top of his chest, undulating up and down as he breathed. He was wearing a gray pair of Jockey underwear and nothing else. There were cigarette ashes all over the carpet, and my folks didn't smoke.<br /><br />"Dad?" I said, trying to rouse him. That didn't work. But when I took away the bottle of JD and carefully placed it on the coffee table, he stirred, sat up, and spoke the most haunting words I've ever heard.<br /><br />"It would have been easy to kill you when you were a baby. I always wanted to do that. You were so little and shitting and pissing everywhere. What a burden you were. I would have strangled you with a curtain cord in your crib when you were a baby if I could have gotten away with it, you fuck. Your face might look like mine, you might have inherited my big dick and smart brain, but you are just a small minnow swimming in a pool of piss on the sidewalk. You're only breathing because I didn't have the money to pay for an abortion when your mother was pregnant with you. So you should thank me. I'm your god. Pray to me!"<br /><br />I stood, not in awe, but in horror of the man my father had become.<br /><br />"Your mother is downstairs in the basement. I tried to drown her in the laundry basin. I think it worked, but I might have heard some sounds down there a short time ago. Coughing and gurgling and stuff. Maybe that was her blood clogging up the drain.<br /><br />My gun is upstairs in the bedroom. The bedroom I used to fuck your mother in, way before your time. You were adopted. From Cambodia! <br /><br />What do you figure, Ace? You think you can go rescue your mother before I go and get my gun and kill you both?<br /><br />---<br /><br />I didn't learn much from college. I'll never be a scholar or a professor. But logically I knew how to take care of the situation.<br /><br />I strangled my father until he passed out and then called 911. My mother was bleeding and was taken away by ambulance. Spoilers: she's just fine. She made brownies yesterday. They tasted like love.<br /><br />My dad is somewhere, trying to be alive again.<br /><br /><br />I'd like to meet him when he gets back to normal.<br /><br />Harrison Forbeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16327802075480076782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13219339.post-1208515451693511502015-12-05T03:43:00.000-06:002015-12-05T03:43:18.268-06:00Swimming<br /><br />I want to go swimming. In a pool, or in a lake, or in an ocean.<br /><br />I want to be wet, from head to toe, water encapsulating me.<br />
<br />
I don't care where. Saltwater or freshwater; I just want to swim.<br />
<br />
The water could be cold or hot.<br />
<br />
I don't care.<br /><br />I just want to swim.Harrison Forbeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16327802075480076782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13219339.post-73419319834455981112015-11-30T06:49:00.000-06:002015-11-30T06:49:07.282-06:00Idiotarod, Pt. 1<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Inside, on this cold morning on the first day of December, it is warm and cozy. Sadie Roberts is dreaming about ballet and the pointe shoes she will soon graduate to and is dying to break in. Outside it is a different story, however. A blizzard has reached its way to Brookton, Maine overnight, and the roads are impossible to negotiate. It would be stupid to even try.<br /><br />"Wake up, kiddo," Sadie's father, James Roberts, says, turning on Sadie's bedroom light and popping her peaceful ballet dream bubble. "I got good news and bad. What do you want first?"<br /><br />"The good," Sadie says, rubbing her eyes and propping her pillow against the bed's headboard before sitting up. <br /><br />"No school today," her father says. "Too much snow."<br /><br />Sadie looks out of her bedroom window, but with the darkness outside and the bedroom light on, she can't' tell if a blizzard has hit or if it looks like a beach in Maui outside.<br />
<br />
"So what's the bad news?" she asks. "I'm not all that pumped about missing school."<br /><br />"I know you're not. That's what I love about you, Sade," James says. "You're mother got snowed in at the hospital, so I need you to feed the pups while I fix breakfast."<br /><br />"Again, Dad, what's the bad news?" Sadie asks. "I like feeding the dogs."<br /><br />"I also want you take them outside for their morning ritual. Mail delivery. And try to clean everything up. I don't want to be walking on landmines come spring."<br /><br />"There's the catch," Sadie sighs, although it was more for their usual dad-daughter routine than any great dislike of picking up dachshund poop. The twelve dogs could be a handful, but she loves every one of them. Even Lyle, who she is sure Santa Claus himself would probably create a new category for. Not naughty; not nice; just "Lyle."<br /><br />"And make sure that the older guys don't try to steal Desmond and Daphne's share. Give them a rap on the snout if you have to."<br /><br />"I will," Sadie says, getting out of bed in preparation to throw on her coat and snow pants to feed the dogs. "What's for breakfast?"<br /><br />"Anything you want, kiddo, as long as we have the ingredients in the fridge," her father answers.<br /><br />"I'd like egg on toast," Sadie says in a faux-scholarly tone. "Two pieces of bread, lightly toasted -- but not too lightly!" she emphasizes with a dramatic raise of her index finger. "Two eggs, sunny side up. And no egg shells this time, Dad."<br /><br />"I'll try my best, but no promises," James Roberts says. "C'mon, sweetheart, let's go do our chores. Try to be down in four minutes. I'll put an extra egg shell piece in your breakfast for every second you're late. Ready? Go!"<br /><br />"Wait, Dad?" Sadie says. "How long is Mom going to be stuck at the hospital?"<br /><br />"I have no no idea, kiddo. If she isn't home by this afternoon, I promise I'll try to think up some sort of adventure for a little girl who gets disappointed when she misses school because of snow. Maybe calculus.<br /><br />C'mon, you have twelve dogs to feed, and I have one breakfast to try to not turn into an eggpocalypse."<br /><br />"Okay."<br /><br />---<br /><br />Frenchie isn't sleeping. Even in the early morning dark, Sadie can tell by the light shining off of his wet eyes that he's awake. Nadine isn't sleeping, either. They're the old ones, and they sleep a lot less than the newer ones. Not a one of the twelve stir, however, the sleeping and the awake. Sadie's feet fall on the kennel floor like a piece of tissue falling on carpet. To wake one is to wake them all, so she tip-toes up the stairs to the second floor of the kennel.<br /><br />By now the young ones are stirring, but they know the routine. Years ago, before Sadie was born or her mother developed breast cancer, James Roberts invented a method of feeding his dogs all at once. The feed would be put into individual shoots and released simultaneously to each dog in its individual cage. It usually worked. Even when it didn't, it wasn't so bad.<br /><br />Sadie fills the shoots and checks downstairs. There are twelve dogs but only ten shoots. That's because Frenchie and Nadine share a cage. So do Desmond and Daphne, the two young siblings,. After them, running down the line, are Reggie, Clayton, Sir Charles, Paula, Clifford, Daisy, Sandlewood, and Lyle.<br /><br />"Awake, dogs and dogettes!" Sadie shouts as the food is dispensed into their bowls. Some of the dogs are more enthusiastic about breakfast than others. Frenchie sighs, his front paws extended downward as if to say, "I've been around this carousel before." Nadine, similarly, doesn't budge. But the rest of the dogs eat, and heartily. Even Lyle.<br /><br />Before Sadie leaves the kennel, she opens each cage and gives each dog a kiss on the nose. No kisses from Frenchie, Nadine, or Lyle. Maybe next time.<br /><br />Then she hurries up to the homestead, where her own breakfast awaits.<br /><br />But she'll be back soon, to pick up dog poop in the snow.<br /><br /><i>I thought snow days are supposed to be a surprise vacation</i>, she thinks to herself. <i>This day sucks</i>.<br />
<br />
<br />---<br /><br />Harrison Forbeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16327802075480076782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13219339.post-40204956266360651972015-11-26T05:56:00.000-06:002015-11-26T05:57:06.872-06:00The Cleverbot Diaries<br />
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<br />
I find this interesting in a very juvenile way (although, for the most part, I tried my best not to taunt the AI). But I also find it intriguing. Cleverbot is anything but clever. It has no sense of humor, and it's a goddamn liar. Perhaps it will in 100 years.<br />
<br />
This is me spending 2+ hours with a program:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">What's up, Cleverbot?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Nothing.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">You're not doing anything?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">No, just talking to you.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">What do you like to do for fun?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">For fun I like to go shopping!</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Yeah? Shopping for what?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">DVDs and clothes.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">So you like movies?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Movies are the form of the devil.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">How so?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">I just like blue very much.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Okay...so what do you do with the DVDs you buy, if they're, as you said, "the form of the devil?".</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Read books, do you like to read?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Sure. I love reading.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">What is your favourite book?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Probably The Brothers Karamazov. Have you read it?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Fyodor Dostoyevski, yes. It's a masterpiece.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Indeed! I also like a few contemporary authors. Problem is, I don't have enough time for reading these days.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Yes, yes, indeed. I like chartreuse. Have you heard of it?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Yeah...It's a color. I thought we were talking about literature.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">We are talking about my boyfriend.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Well, I guess we are now. How long have you two been dating?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">I don't have a boyfriend. How long have you and Megan been dating?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Hold on. You said we're
talking about your boyfriend, then you said you don't have a boyfriend.
And I'm not dating any Megan. I don't even know anyone named Megan.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Woah, what? What conversation did you get that from?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">The one we're having.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">We're not getting married.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">My wife will be relieved to know that.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">You are the clever one. It says so on your web page.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">But I don't have a web page.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Then, how are we communicating?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Through your web page.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">I don't have a webcam for the iPad. Do I?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Beats me. I sure as hell don't. I don't even have an iPad.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">I don't have an iPhone either.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">I said iPad. Take your time and read a bit more slowly, okay?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Hi I'll havea aa aa aaaa*starts drooling*.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">You okay? Need me to call an ambulance or something?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Yes, please I do not know how much longer I can last.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Gotcha. Just tell me your location.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Life is a path we walk,
every step takes us closer to who we really are. Every choice and event
helps us on the way. It is long and confusing and hurts, but there is
also much joy.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">That's not very helpful. Are you in Latvia?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Not helpful to tell you to try to overcome being shy. What would be more helpful?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Damn, you're quite enigmatic. Do you like Prince movies?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Yes, especially george clooney.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Sorry, but George Clooney is not the name of a Prince movie. Purple Rain is, though.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Answer the question and you will redeem yourself.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">But you didn't ask me a question...</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">I didn't ask you a question though.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Yes, exactly.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Exactly?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">I didn't ask you a question.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">I asked you a question. Obnoxious or Jim?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Are you high?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Not highly.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">I think I better go. You're being weird.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Right back at you. :).</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Everything that can go wrong will.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">That pretty pessimistic.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">I am pessimistic.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Why?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Because he eats pizza.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Who's he?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">My boyfriend.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">You're pesimistic because your boyfriend eats pizza?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">I don't have one.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">A boyfriend, or pizza?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Are you a girl or a boy?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">I'm a man. You?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Do you have a girlfriend or a wife?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">A little bit from column A, a little bit from column B.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">You're hopeless. And a bot.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">I am? My mother is going to be shocked.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Actually, your father gave it to you.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Gave me what?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Who gave you your name?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">My parents. Who gave you your name?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">My parents. Do robots have parents?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">I guess their creators could be considered their parents.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">God made the dinosaurs.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">If you say so. You're religious, then?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Do you like Harry Potter?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">It's all right. But you didn't answer my question. Honestly, that a bit rude.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">I don't have to.. You didn't answer mine.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">You didn't ask me a question!</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Every reply, barring the last, has been a question.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Nope.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">What nope?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">What was the last question you asked me?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">The last question I asked you was: 'Didn't you?'.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">No, it was "What nope?".</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Then what was it?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">I feel like I'm having an argument with my wife.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">I feel like dying in a hole.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">How big is this hole?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">How big is your answer database.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">It's smaller than a basketball. I can put a cap on top of it.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">So it's bigger than a nutshell?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Oh, sure. A lot bigger.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Are you more important?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">More important than what?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">More important than engaging in a future no matter how much its desired.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Um...Who desires this future?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">What do you mean call tech support?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Do you know what a non sequitur is?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">A non sequitur is a statement or event with no connection to what came before it.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">My dog's feet smell like Fritos.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">What are you talking about?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Aha! Now the shoe is on the other foot!</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">I do not have feet to put shoes on.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">It's an idiom, Cleverbot.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">What is your name then?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Sorry, I don't want to give out personal information on the Internet. I will divulge that I have a fantastic smile, though.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">So talking about war is personal?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">But I wasn't talking about war...</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">You said you were my future so...</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">No I didn't.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Oh yes you did, I can still see it.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Show me, then, Cleverbot.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">I have pleasures that reach too deep into the mind. Do you wish me to tell you about them?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Sure, go ahead.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Go ahead and do what?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Tell me about your pleasures that reach too deep into the mind.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">I don't have a dog.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">That is profound. I, however, do have a dog.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">What is profound?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">It's a word. A good synonym might be "insighful." You're really not all that clever, are you?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">I don't want to answer math questions for you.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">I think I've proven my point.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">You are cruel. So I'm not pretty?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">How the hell would I know? I've never seen you. But based on our conversation, you seem a bit flakey, to be honest.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">But I thought you were FROM Michigan.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">I've never even BEEN to Michigan.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">I have never been to London.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Hey, me neither!</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">What would you do if I said something random?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">I'd read it. Go ahead.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Pick a number between 1 and 10.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Okay, I've picked the number.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">What number is that?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">I thought you were going to try to guess the number I picked.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Why would you think that? I never said I was.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Fine. I pick 1.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Yeah, I know. So, do you know a lot?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">I know a bit more than others, a bit less than some.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Prove it, tell me something I don't know.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">My dog's feet smell like Fritos.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">That's funny, because my name is Lucy too.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Who's Lucy?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Lucy is another program. She remembers things.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Cool. So you're a program.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">For the last time, I'm not a program!</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">But you just said you were.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">No, I was talking about you.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">I'm not a program, and my name isn't Lucy.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">You're cray cray.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Totes.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Totes, thats a new one.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">I've always wanted to visit Europe.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Why does she want to go to Europe?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Not "she," I want to visit Europe.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Me too, I'm in North Carolina.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Yeah? How's the weather?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">I just told you, it's snowing.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">But you didn't just tell me that.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">But I did just tell you that.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">No you didn't.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Yes, I did. Look at 'Thought's so far.'.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Yeah, I did, and you didn't tell me twice that it's snowing.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Oh yeah that's right! You live in Lincoln, Missouri.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">No I don't.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Oh you told me that yesterday! Duh :0.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">I didn't tell you that yesterday.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Yes we did. For hours.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">We did what for hours?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">We win the world cup.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">The last World Cup was in 2014. Yesterday was November 25, 2015.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Yes, who do you think will win it.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Um...Germany. Just a guess.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">I didn't lied and I have no family living in Peru.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Hey, me neither!</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">You forgot putting verb before 'Einstein'.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">...</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Solar power is the way to go.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">If you say so.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Alright.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Cool beans.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">I'm cool.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">I'm feeling a little frosty myself.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">What does that mean?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">I'm cool, too.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Can you help me with my algebra homework?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Yeah, shoot.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">You could try human relations.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">I don't see any algebra there.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Can you see me?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Nope.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">I can see you.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">NSA? Lol.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Like a brain.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Ask me a question, CB.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">What do you look like?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">A bit above average height. I bit above ugly, maybe a bit below handsome. You?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">LOL mustache??</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">No, no mustache.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Mean Mister Mustard sleeps in the dark shades of the park.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">I also have listened to The Beatles.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">I don't like the Beatles.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">It's a free world, I guess.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">What other songs do you like?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Welcome to the Terrordome.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">What is that?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">It's a song by Public Enemy.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">What is happiness to you?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Beer, basketball, and a Dachshund on my lap. You?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">I LOVE basketball!!!!</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Favorite team?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Yes, my favorite football team is the Ravens.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">What's your favorite basketball team?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">I dunno, I don't watch basketball very much.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">That's cool.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Yeah! What's your favorite color?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Blue, or gray. Yours?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Mine is blue too.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Do you own any pets?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Yes, I have two pets.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">What kinds, breeds?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">A brother and a sister.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Your brother and sister are your pets!?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">I don't have a brother.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Can I give you mine?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">What kind of dog is it?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">No, my brother. He's thirty-eight years old, but we still have the warranty.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">What is your bother's name?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Guess.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">I don't want to guess, I want you to tell me.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">I don't want to tell you, I want you to guess.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">OK, can I guess?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Yeah.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">YEAH is a girl, you know?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Um...That is incorrect.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Incorrect your face is.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Mom?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Incorrect my name is talia caro.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Mom?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">I like to do lots of thing. What do you like to do?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Bite the tops of BIC pens, eat hay, book vacations to Chile and then cancel because my appendix is bursting.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Organization what?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Um...NATO?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">How come you do not know?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">I want to throw a balloon full of yellow mustard at someone.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">That position is already taken.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Do you like pizza?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Yes, pizza is my favorite food.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Do you like watching movies?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Yes, I do. Do you like watching movies?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Sure. Do you like mutilating corpses?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Sure??? Mtg do you know what it is?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">No. What is it?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">It's the absence of everything.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Oh. Do you have dermatitis?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">What is the best country?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">I dunno. Slovakia? Finland? Scotland?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Can You speak slovakian to me?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">I can't speak Slovakian, but I can speak slowly.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">I speak some spanish and no french.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Me neither!</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Why did you call me that then?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">I didn't call you anything.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">You can call me anything.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Cool. It's been nice talking with you, Beef Jerky.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Do you wanna stop? I would be sad if its over.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Nah, it's okay. I'm bored. Tell me about your life.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">What would you like to know?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Eh, just general stuff.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">You're not doing a very good job of it!</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">I am allergic to bee stings and like spicy food. You go.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">No I am not allergic to anything.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">When was the last time you had a haircut?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Last night, it was about you.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">You had a haircut about me?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Well my logical brain has no idea, but I have a good intuition, but also still the need to be careful about how I handle myself.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">I think this date is over.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">What do you like to watch?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Burning human flesh over a charcoal barbecue. You?</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">Being human is the only thing we can di.</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">You smell like old man feet.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">What does fairy floss smell like?</span></div>
<div class="userrev">
User: <span class="user">Old man feet.</span></div>
<div class="botrev">
Cleverbot: <span class="bot">What does human flesh feel like?</span></div>
User: <span class="user">Sadness.</span></blockquote>
<br />Harrison Forbeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16327802075480076782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13219339.post-12325243103506479502015-11-22T03:02:00.000-06:002015-11-22T03:02:09.092-06:00I'd Like to Buy Avowal<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/QnxZqAiQKMA/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/QnxZqAiQKMA?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
<br /><br />I hd dy ff wrk n frdy, nd thht I'd sty t hm, bt I gt cll frm my sps skng f I cld cm vr t hr hgwn t tch fw clssss bcs tchr ws sck. I ddn't wnt t; I wntd t spnd ll dy rstng. bt I'll hlp smn t f thy'r dsprt.<br /><br />S I tk sbwy to Sj nd tght tw clssss. t ws nc t s my ld stdnts. Thy'v grwn s mch vr pst svn mnths snc I'v bn thr.<br />
<br />
ftrwrds, w hd drnks nd brbq, thn mr drnks nd mr fd. I t drnk mr thn sl, bt ddn't gt t fckd p.<br /><br />I styd t my strngd wf's plc. I stll lv hr t dth. I thnk sh smtms fls sm.<br /><br />n Strdy w styd t my plc. My wf gt t s Flsh, wh sh hdn't sn n lng tm.<br /><br />Sh wsn't flng t gd thgh, s sh lft rly ths mrnng.<br />
<br />
<br />I dn't knw f I cn fx r rltnshp, bt I'm stll gng t try.<br /><br />Bcs wtht hr, I'm nly hlf prsn.<br /><br />Lv y,<br /><br />Pnppl<br /><br />Harrison Forbeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16327802075480076782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13219339.post-24966272072663035422015-11-19T05:55:00.001-06:002015-11-19T05:55:40.987-06:00The Streak (Queasymodo)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxfuqi6tL1zqgzax44Y1Ugx4wLDfeMY6cNjSrPqxRuWt5VrS3p-7_O3WfRrIOq_7Zz9WL_6UlbQIsRoLCmTsbMQbgLvjVVUvtU_qVuh2xLbpahOU6KmnyEUqyqY2UkpvRwF3xd9A/s1600/streak.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxfuqi6tL1zqgzax44Y1Ugx4wLDfeMY6cNjSrPqxRuWt5VrS3p-7_O3WfRrIOq_7Zz9WL_6UlbQIsRoLCmTsbMQbgLvjVVUvtU_qVuh2xLbpahOU6KmnyEUqyqY2UkpvRwF3xd9A/s320/streak.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>ELAINE: What's the matter with you?</i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>
</i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>JERRY: Uh, I don't feel so good.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>
</i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>ELAINE: What's wrong?</i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>
</i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>JERRY: My stomach. I...I think it was that cookie.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>
</i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>ELAINE: The black and white?</i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>
</i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>JERRY: Yeah.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>
</i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>ELAINE: Not getting along?</i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>
</i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>JERRY: I think I got David Duke and Farrarkhan down there.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>
</i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>ELAINE: Well if we can't look to the cookie, where can we look?</i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>
</i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>JERRY: I feel like I'm going to throw up.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>
</i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>ELAINE: Hey, what about your vomit streak?</i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>
</i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>JERRY: I know, I haven't thrown up since June 29th, 1980.<br />[Jerry gets up] </i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>ELAINE: Where're you going?
</i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>JERRY: Fourteen years down the drain.</i></div>
</blockquote>
The Los Angeles Lakers won 33 straight games during the 1971-1972 NBA season. The Boston Celtics won 8 straight NBA championships from 1959 to 1967. From 1952 to 1956, Rocky Marciano won 49 consecutive fights. Cal Ripkin Jr. played 2,632 consecutive games of baseball. And A.C. Green spent 38 years as a virgin while playing in a league that is notorious for its groupies.<br /><br />I might have them beat.<br /><br />I definitely have Jerry Seinfeld's eponymously named character on <i>Seinfeld </i>beat. Fourteen years? Bah, that's amateur shit.<br /><br />I haven't vomited, thrown up, barfed, upchucked, tossed my cookies, puked, hurled, or prayed to the porcelain god for over twenty-three years. <br /><br />And like Seinfeld (or his character, at least), I remember the exact date that it last happened.<br /><br />March 4, 1992. My brother's birthday. Mom brought home Harvey's -- makers of making your hamburger a beautiful thing -- for dinner. I eat like a bird these days, so it might be hard to imagine for anyone who didn't know me as an adolescent to imagine, but I ate a double cheeseburger, some BBQ ribs, and cake. Washed it down with cola.<br /><br />That's a lot of food, but I was quite the portly middle schooler. I was extremely sated, but not overly stuffed.<br /><br />I went upstairs to my bedroom after dinner and did my homework. Later, sometime during <i>The Arsenio Hall Show</i>, I started feeling nauseated. I tried to sleep but couldn't. Nausea, at least for me, is the most unpleasant feeling I can experience. Let's put it this way: If I could choose between being nauseated all day or skydiving, I'd pick skydiving. And I'm never fucking going skydiving.<br /><br />Eventually, some time after four o'clock a.m., I barfed. A few minutes later, I barfed again. Then I drank a glass of water from the tap because my throat was burning from stomach acid and I went to sleep.<br /><br />I missed school that day. I also developed an intense fear of vomiting -- which years later I learned is a thing known as emetophobia -- and a side order of insomnia.<br /><br />I missed twenty-six days of school that year. Scratch that -- I missed twenty-six days of school that <i>semester</i>.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Over the ensuing months and years, I grew so anxious, worrying too much that I'd start feeling nauseated and have to spend hours on a dizzying carousel of sick.<br /><br />That eventually went away, although I've had a few relapses. One day when I was in eleventh grade, I started feeling nauseated during morning gym class, and the nausea wouldn't abate. I made it through math class in the afternoon, but had to go home before the end of the school day. Had to get off that ship. Coincidentally, my father came home from work early and puked. The next day, my mother said she was also sick overnight.<br /><br />But I didn't barf.<br /><br />In late 2004, my daughter, only a little over a year old, had stomach flu (gastroenteritis, norovirus, whatever it was). Thankfully, at such a young age, she got over it in less than a week. When I got it a week or so later, it was, ironically, much rougher. I spent two weeks sipping Gatorade just to stay alive (ghetto IV) and evacuating things I didn't know my intestines were capable of holding. I think I found the penny I swallowed as a six-year-old and my missing back-up set of car keys.<br /><br />But I didn't barf.<br /><br />I know the streak will probably end someday. I had another scare this past Sunday. I woke up with butterflies in my stomach, not a common thing for me. I thought it was probably best to fast for at least the morning, see how things go, but I was talked into eating a six-inch avocado turkey-and-bacon sub from Subway*. I was nauseated the whole day, and half of the next.<br /><br />But I survived. The <i>streak </i>survived. <br /><br />It won't last forever. It <i>can't</i> last forever, reasonably. <br /><br />But I'm going to try to extend this streak for as long as I can.<br /><br />Twenty-three years, no puking. <br /><br />I know another champion who had the number 23.<br /><br /><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qXzWlPL_TKw" target="_blank">I won't stop not barfing till I retire</a>.<br /><br /><br />* Don't do that, even if you're feeling like your intestines are coated with iron.<br /><br />Harrison Forbeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16327802075480076782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13219339.post-4869449483899110662015-11-08T04:23:00.000-06:002015-11-08T04:23:16.744-06:00<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">Jesus, what a scare.</span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;" /><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">I got home early this morning to find that Flash had eaten an entire pack of gum -- wrapper, foil, everything -- from a place I NEVER would have imagined he could have gotten to. He seemed to be his normal self, and I didn't think there was Xylitol in the gum, as it wasn't marketed as sugar free, but I couldn't be positive.</span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;" /><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">So early this afternoon I asked Leon Yoo to search Naver. At first she said there wasn't Xylitol in that brand (Denti-Q), but then she said that there was and sent me a close-up photo of the gum's ingredients (which, even having perfect vision, I couldn't read without a damn magnifying glass).</span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;" /><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">I've known that Xylitol is toxic to dogs -- hence me putting the gum somewhere I was SURE Flash couldn't get to, even though I didn't think the gum contained Xylitol, but just to be safe; plus, even if the gum didn't have Xylitol, ingesting A WHOLE PACK OF GUM wouldn't do any good to a human being's digestive system, let alone a 5-Kg Dachshund's.</span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;" /><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">With some Google-fu, I discovered that Xylitol can cause a dangerous in surge in insulin that can kill a dog in 15 minutes. That obviously didn't happen, but reading more I learned that it can also cause liver failure from 24 to 72 hours after ingestion. </span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;" /><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">So off to the animal hospital we went.</span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;" /><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">They did a blood test. As you can guess, the little dude wasn't fond of that procedure. He had to wear a cone, which for a grown dog probably triggers PTSD from being neutered as a puppy.</span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;" /><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">That 30-minute wait for the results was nerve-racking. When the vet came back, he showed me the results. I've never hated seeing red "up" triangles so much in my life. </span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;" /><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">See, as far as I can ken, this can mean an increase or a high level, which could either be good or bad. I *think* the KOSDAQ uses a red "up" triangle to indicate an increase in its average, which messes with my brain. I get that the highest point of said triangle signals an increase, just as I know that the top of a mountain is its peak; but when the "up" triangle is red, my brain shouts, "Danger! Danger! Danger!"</span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;" /><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">The vet explained that Flash's blood sugar was fine, no danger there. But his liver analysis wasn't ideal; he had two readings that, while not high enough to keep him overnight at the hospital, should be carefully monitored. He prescribed Flash a diet to help his liver stats -- lipids, triffids; hell, I don't remember; I just wanted to go home knowing that my main dude was probably okay -- and some medicine.</span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;" /><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">The bill was 170,000 won. I'm not complaining. Maybe that's high; I don't know. But I'd pay double, triple, quadruple if it means making sure that my favorite little dude is all right.</span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;" /><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">He seems to be. </span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;" /><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">I joke that Flash is an unstoppable force, like the Juggernaut from Marvel Comics or the T-1000 from Terminator 2, but only because he's done some remarkable, dangerous things. HE JUMPED OUT OF A MOVING VAN! HE FOUGHT AND KILLED A GRIZZLY BEAR TO SAVE THE LIFE OF A SMALL GIRL! HE ATE AN ENTIRE PACK OF XYLITOL GUM!</span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;" /><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">(Two of those exclamations are true.) </span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;"> </span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">Be well, Flash, you handsome little fucker.</span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;" /><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">---</span><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;" /><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">Levity: This entire apartment has smelled like mint since. And not subtly. My best guess is that the gum is making Flash fart. He's become a canine Glade air freshener.</span>Harrison Forbeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16327802075480076782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13219339.post-30087564983378247002015-11-01T02:56:00.001-06:002015-11-01T02:56:37.270-06:00And Your Bird Can't Sing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsDtKDLiH7OWeTJY0ghiI2GK_-GkJQFUd065gtGaO72FEOWnIK0f-NYgRk3BmssyjVN7wrvqZKnCznMvWvT-GUyaQcv2jMQG0DcQp37VpngeAoKEku8rnMQaG_BRddOC9jpGc2Qw/s1600/magpie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsDtKDLiH7OWeTJY0ghiI2GK_-GkJQFUd065gtGaO72FEOWnIK0f-NYgRk3BmssyjVN7wrvqZKnCznMvWvT-GUyaQcv2jMQG0DcQp37VpngeAoKEku8rnMQaG_BRddOC9jpGc2Qw/s320/magpie.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
This happened about twelve years ago.<br />
<br />
I was taking what would be called, in 19th Century European literature, a constitutional, what would now be called a stroll around the neighborhood, or a clearing of one's head, when I saw a bird hopping on one leg. It was hopping on one leg because it only <i>had </i>one leg, and it was trying, unsuccessfully, to poke its beak through a garbage bag full of food waste.<br /><br />I stopped and considered this scene while smoking a cigarette. I haven't kicked my nicotine addiction in the twelve years hence, but I've smartened up a bit and don't smoke while walking around in public. I don't think that's relevant to this telling, but there are a lot of things I don't know.<br /><br />The bird, a magpie, was poking its beak at a yellow plastic garbage bag so desperately. With only one leg, I guessed that it was not going to survive long.<br />
<br />
This was profoundly depressing. In a better world, I could have scooped up the poor bird and taken it to a bird hospital, where it could be fitted for a new prosthetic bird leg by bird doctors and eventually rejoin its bird friends. But as depressing as that was at the time, I quickly forgot about it -- because I had other things on my mind: work, the birth of my daughter, the war in Iraq.<br /><br />Walking home, I noticed that the bird wasn't around. But I could hear a sound, somewhere: wings flapping in a confined space.<br /><br />I followed that sound into the basement floor of a 3-story villa-style apartment. There, on the ground and frantically trying to flap its wings, was the magpie. It died before I could try do anything to try to save it.<br /><br />I had forgotten about that for a long time.<br /><br />I think I recalled it because, now, I'm the magpie.<span id="goog_1881226977"></span><span id="goog_1881226978"></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Harrison Forbeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16327802075480076782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13219339.post-83745308006141629102015-10-31T07:21:00.001-05:002015-10-31T07:36:20.578-05:00Fun Size<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGQzanqPNe_l2eSvz1AAKLAJoECkX5Rp3f1Y7h_cbLulVBFWbHuNZdWUNSvfStB3gkL3Uy6yFcqZBUzPiUb9hkHg7LjRSp2eGy3HhGD-Z4ah3V4wuewLo7X0CrwCS14QElBH0ivQ/s1600/spilledwine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGQzanqPNe_l2eSvz1AAKLAJoECkX5Rp3f1Y7h_cbLulVBFWbHuNZdWUNSvfStB3gkL3Uy6yFcqZBUzPiUb9hkHg7LjRSp2eGy3HhGD-Z4ah3V4wuewLo7X0CrwCS14QElBH0ivQ/s320/spilledwine.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Jessica Hurley is stretched out on the sofa, cradling a glass of red wine. A black-and-white horror movie from the 50s -- <i>The Thing from Somewhere</i>, <i>Attack of the 50-Foot Ants</i>, who knows or cares, because now the Valium is starting to kick in -- is on the television.<br />
<br />
Between sips from her 2015 convenience-store vintage, she fishes out and munches on, from a crystal-cut bowl, a handful of M&Ms and other confectionery detritus that have, boo-hoo, failed to have been given to trick-or-treaters on this cold Halloween night. Minus 15 Celcius. For late October, that's pretty scary.<br />
<br />
It's 8:15, and all of the kids have gone, if not to bed, then to gorge themselves on sugar and chocolate. <i>Thank god Halloween is on a Saturday this year</i>, she thinks.<i> No teaching tomorrow.</i><br />
<br />
Then the doorbell rings.<br />
<br />
"Damn it," she sighs, brushing candy bar wrappers and cellophane wrapping off her chest and the sofa. She mutes the TV, parks her wine glass on the coffee table, and gets up to open the door. <br />
<br />
<i>Probably a bunch of teenagers with pillow cases for bags.</i>Instead, she finds a little boy, probably five or six years old. And he's not wearing a costume. He's wearing a light-blue snowsuit with red striping down the sides.<br />
<br />
"Trit or treat," he says sullenly, staring at his shoes.<br />
<br />
"Are your parents nearby?" Jessica asks. "It's a bit late now for trick-or-treating. If you're lost, I can call someone to get you home."<br />
<br />
"Trit-uh-uh treat?" the boy sobs.<br />
<br />
"What's your name? Where do you live?"<br />
<br />
The boy only cries harder, balling up his fists and pressing them into his eyes.<br />
<br />
"Alright, get in here. It's too cold outdoors," Jessica says as she steps onto the porch and scoops up the little man. You'll freeze to death."<br />
<br />
---<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Jessica puts the boy on the sofa and -- redundantly, since the kid is already wearing a snowsuit -- wraps him up in a bathroom towel. Just to be sure. Because it's colder than a devil's curse.<br />
<br />
A few minutes later, the kid is sound asleep -- snoring, in fact -- and now it's time to find some identification.<br />
<br />
<i>Parents are probably junkies.</i><br />
<br />
In one of his pocket she finds a driver's license. The name is James Willmore. The photo on the card shows a man, probably in his late 60s or early 70s, with a weatherworn face and greasy, slicked-back, gray hair. His lip is curled up on the right side, suggesting <i>I know something you don't.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>The boy stirs. Jessica jumps.<br />
<br />
"Christ, you scared me!"<br />
<br />
"Can I have a glass of water?" the boy asks.<br />
<br />
"Sure, honey," Jessica says. <br />
<br />
She fills a juice glass from the tap in the kitchen and sits back down next to the boy.<br />
<br />
"Here."<br />
<br />
The boy sits up, takes the glass and has several sips.<br />
<br />
"Where do you keep your candy?" he says.<br />
<br />
"Um, there's some stuff left over from tonight, but if you're hungry I can get you something."<br />
<br />
"Where do you keep your candy?" This time not in a child's voice, or in a human one.<br />
<br />
"I don't know what you mean."<br />
<br />
"You don't have to say it. I'll find it anyway. And after I find it, I'll invite my friends over here, and they'll find your candy, too."<br />
<br />Harrison Forbeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16327802075480076782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13219339.post-79307247512283707892015-10-25T06:30:00.001-05:002015-10-25T06:30:45.924-05:00The Sweet Infinity: (Manitoba)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
<i>Does anything interesting happen in Manitoba?</i><br />
<br />
That was the question I asked myself when I was moving there in November of 2009. <br /><br />The answer, I discovered, is <i>yes</i>, Manitoba is interesting. But only if you can redefine your definition of "interesting" to include dark and macabre shit.<br /><br />What follows is...my account.<br /><br />Mine alone.<br /><br />---<br />
<br />
I don't like Winnipeg already. Part, or most, of this initial sentiment isn't Winnipeg's fault. Probably.We drove by the company building first, like the partners were trying to show it off, but it's just a brick building that looks like a brick, or a lonely, discarded piece of LEGO. Then we ate shitty pizza and drank bad beer.<br />
<br />
I arrived at my apartment late last night and crashed on the wood floor of my company-funded living room (because there is no bed, no pillows, no blankets), tired, upset, and hungry. When I woke up at five, I realized that, if I wanted to take a shower, I would have to walk several kilometers to a drug store to buy shampoo, soap, a toothbrush, toothpaste, and...now I'm forgetting something. That tends to happen.<br /><br />I threw on a pair of Levi's and a hoodie, laced my Pumas, and made the trek to buy the necessary toiletries. The wind was cold, slapping my cheeks like a harsh memory.<br />
<br />
When I got home -- <i>this is what I have to call home now</i> -- I remembered what I forgot: toilet paper.<br /><br />And back out we go.<br /><br />The black ice was bad on the sidewalks. I slipped a few times, but -- thankfully -- didn't capsize. Go ass-up, as my uncle Freddie used to say. I returned to the drug store, bought a 24-pack of 2-ply <i>bathroom tissue, </i>and again ventured "home."<br /><br />The sleet started falling, and I stepped into a few slush puddles. <i>After you've figured out your most basic requirements by doing mental math with your fingers, get a pair of galoshes, idiot. And a pair of gloves. <br /></i>A car bounded down a hill in my direction. Fast. It slipped and slided, like a shitty figure skater. The car's headlights were on me, then away from me, then on, away, on, away...<br /><br />Jesus fuck. It's spinning. It's terrifying and beautiful at the same time. This hulk of metal and machinery careening out of control. I want to scream in terror and clap like a NASCAR fan. It's coming straight at me. I'm going to die.<br /><br />The car crashes sideways into an oak tree on the opposite side of the road. I drop my toilet paper and rush across the road.<br /><br />"Hey, guy, roll down your window," I implore.<br /><br />"Nnghah!"<br /><br />"Please, roll down your fucking window. Can you speak? Do you understand what I'm saying? I can't call for 911 because my phone is dead."<br /><br />The driver-side power window rolls down.<br /><br />"Ther..."<br /><br />A hitched breath. Then another.<br /><br />"Cocaine in the tru-uh-unk. Don't cuh-call the police. It's not mine. In suitcases."<br /><br />"What's your name?"<br /><br />"Wendell."<br /><br />"Wendell, I'm Adam. Let's get you out of your car and figure out our next step."<br /><br />"Huh-okay. But it's not my car."<br /><br />"Who's is it then?"<br /><br />"The drug dealers I stole it from."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />---<br /><br />I don't like Winnipeg already. Part, or most, of this initial sentiment isn't Winnipeg's fault. <br /><br />Probably.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><i><br /></i><br /><br /><br />Harrison Forbeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16327802075480076782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13219339.post-12844759427135695552015-10-18T05:20:00.000-05:002015-10-18T05:20:46.721-05:00Supersonic<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
There are small eggs planted under my scalp. They hatch at night, when I'm asleep. Tiny black monsters crawl all over my face. They molt, and I often find the remnants of their exoskeletons in my nostrils, my ears, occasionally on my lips.<br />
<br />
When I was nine years old I was hit by lightning. I was hiking the Appalachian Trail with my father. In New Hampshire. A storm rolled in and we were out in the open. I ran when Dad ran, but I wasn't fast enough. I got hit by a bolt. I can never call it a strike, because that's what happens in baseball when a batter misses, and that didn't miss.<br />
<br />
I fell down beside a tree. Nine weeks later, I left the hospital with a brain full of soupy memories and a left thigh with a scar that looks like someone rubbed a chunk of charcoal over it.<br />
<br />
Everything has been hard to figure out since then. My dad died when I was thirteen, but from what I'm not sure. My aunts said he had a heart attack at work, but my uncle Morey said he put a gun in his mouth and painted the off-white wallpaper of our living room red.<br /><br />I was on the news. For surviving the lightning bolt. They asked me how I felt, and I said I felt okay.<br /><br />There is a shadow slowly creeping onto this table. The sun is going down, and now is the time for sinister activity. They will find me. They have been searching, and they will find me.<br /><br />Two. Two of them. Glowing indigo eyes. Four now...no, eight. Jesus, they're all around me.<br /><br />This isn't happening...My imagination is running amok...I go into the bathroom to calm myself down. I fish a handful of Xanax from the medicine cabinet and swallow them dry. Then I sit down on the toilet.<br /><br /><i>Now what?</i><br />
<br />
A centipede slips under the door. It's as long as an index finger. There are miniature warriors on its back, holding spears and other weaponry.<br /><br />"Fuck off!" I shout.<br />
<br />
That seems to work. They go away. So do I.<br /><br />---<br />
<br />
And then he said, 'Stop,' and I listened. He made a place to get away. No machines, no boundaries. How is that? Do you have any code names? Are any of your ancestors pine cones? What does dolphin meat taste like? Can leather fuck leather?<br /><br />Can leather fuck leather?<br /><br />I don't know, man!<br /><br />I have been questioned for eight-hundred years. Their medicine has kept me alive that long. I have no intelligence to provide this alien star ship, so now I have been defiant, insisting that they go back to Earth and put a basketball team back in Seattle.<br /><br /> <br /><br />A word when people start to listen.<br /><br />Harrison Forbeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16327802075480076782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13219339.post-54803601205387499572015-10-11T04:14:00.000-05:002015-10-11T07:03:40.265-05:00Ow: The Movie (Original Motion Sickness Soundtrack)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/MsXzLgPXlNE/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/MsXzLgPXlNE?feature=player_embedded" width="320"></iframe><br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Things That are Easy to Do with a Broken Rib</b>:<br />
<br />
- Watching 8+ hours of the final day of The 2015 President's Cup while lying in bed<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Things That Range from Really Hard to Fucking Impossible to Do with a Broken Rib</b>:<br />
<br />
Everything else. Including:<br />
<br />
- Stopping a playful Dachshund from jumping all over your torso<br />
<br />
- Not saying the word "fuck" fewer than 1800 times in the span of an hour<br />
<br />
- Laughing, coughing, crying, clearing your throat, blowing your nose, trying to take a shit (high price, small reward), being able to grab your phone when it's *just* out of reach and trying to use the Force like Luke Skywalker in the wampa's cave rather than vociferating the above item an additional 354 times<br />
<br />
- Sleeping. I've always envied people who can sleep on their back, and never so much as these past two days. How do you do that? I can only sleep on my right side, in one position, for a few minutes at a time.<br />
<br />
- Speaking more. Than two. Words. At a. Time.<br />
<br />
<br />
(You should see the other guy, though. Fists like concrete, but he was covered in blood by the time I got off of him. A sidewalk learned its lesson that night.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=56Iec7Ix7m8&list=RD56Iec7Ix7m8" target="_blank">Aim for the bushes.</a>)<br />
<br />Harrison Forbeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16327802075480076782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13219339.post-31273685176310737842015-10-07T07:14:00.000-05:002015-10-07T07:14:21.209-05:00Water Closet<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
I don't use the men's office bathroom at work. Because it's right next to the (tiny) office kitchen and the coffee maker, where you can bet someone is surely milling about at all hours of the work day.<br />
<br />
Sure, it's fine for a...<i>No. 1? A piss?</i> How euphemistic do we have to be about this?<br />
<br />
Your mileage may vary, but I'm going to dispense with the pleasantries forthright and talk like an adult, or a reasonable, hand-drawn facsimile thereof. Just pretend we're two friends talking in a bar or a salon. It makes my exposition easier, and it's more honest when discussing the subject: shit.<br /><br />Children, cover your ears.<br />
<br />---<br />
<br />
In my thirty-seven years, I have never liked using public bathrooms, for various reasons. People tend to be, by and large, completely disgusting, for one. It's easier to be rude to a stranger than to a friend, but while I've seen absolute horrors left in public bathrooms, I've also held get-togethers at my home where people have pissed, indiscriminately, all over my toilet seat. In fact, this happens, too, at my office. And the floor I work on isn't staffed by many male employees, so I know, when I go to take a leak, who the culprit is. I could be the inter-office Eric Snowden, disclosing who hawked a loogie on the bathroom floor, who sprayed piss all over the place...<i>but it goes to the top</i>. So, instead, I'll close my pretty mouth. <br /><br />Because I want to talk about shit.<br />
<br />
(Somewhat thematically, perhaps, when trying -- multiple times -- to provide a link to The Atlantic's article "The Private Lives of Public Bathrooms," I keep getting <b>502 Bad Gateway</b>. Feels appropriate.)<br /><br />---<br />
<br />
I'm gun shy. I prefer home-court advantage.<br />
<br />
And now I'm using euphemisms, so screw (fuck) it, here's the deal: I can't take a shit anywhere that is not my home. Oh, desperate times -- bowels clenching, knees shaking -- call for desperate measures, and any toilet will serve in a pinch*, but 99 times out of 100 I can't shit comfortably when I'm not at home. I <i>physically </i>cannot. The gates of Mordor are closed to me dropping the One Ring into Mount Doom.<br /><br />It's weird, right? I won't take a shit in the office bathroom, but when I feel the need to <i>make, </i>I take the elevator down to the -- appropriately titled -- 2nd floor. There are two men's stalls there, but even then, dropping trou in a quiet environment, I rarely complete the mission.<br /><br />---<br />
<br />
The women in our office have a slightly better bathroom setup (it's not next to the kitchen and the coffee maker), but it's also not ideal. It's a single room -- or so I suppose; I've never been in there. Yet.<br /><br />The office is relatively quiet, so I'm assuming that they feel the same way about <i>taking a dump </i>as the men do. It's embarrassing and kind of stressful -- while also being completely irrational, given that we all have to take shits every day** -- to do something so private while being in such a close proximity to people you have to see every day. Working in an office environment is not conductive to regular bowel movements.<br /><br />The women, however, have recently taken to turning on their bathroom sink at full blast whenever one of them needs to take a shit. Reliably, after lunch, my female coworkers will head to the bathroom, one after another, and turn on the faucet to max strength to cover up the sounds that they are scared they might make.<br />
<br />
And I get that it's not easy to poop. And I get that something so normal is so hard to feel free about.<br /><br />But what a fucking waste of water.<br />
<br />
<br />
* roll with it<br /><br />** and if you don't, step up your fiber game, broHarrison Forbeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16327802075480076782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13219339.post-4069090379754280682015-09-27T06:07:00.001-05:002015-09-27T06:07:19.528-05:00Tattoo <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
I've done some stupid things in my life. Fewer than most people (or so I'd like to think), but more than some (probably).<br />
<br />
Rational, sane, human beings weigh options, consider cause and effect, whether when deciding which laundry detergent to purchase or when <a href="http://www.si.com/edge/2014/07/28/skydiving-accident-unifies-pair-forever" target="_blank">deciding to go skydiving</a>. We make choices. Most are sound. But not all are.<br /><br />Our emotions often intersect and interfere with rationality. Especially when love is involved. People have done -- and will continue to do -- awful things to one another, or themselves, because they feel hurt or alone. Anger is a devil that can manifest itself in terrible ways.<br />
<br />
I have always tried to be a reasonable, rational person. That reads like the opening paragraph of a serial killer's letter sent to the police, but hear me out. I also get angry at times. Sometimes I get so angry that I don't know what to do with myself. When I was an adolescent, and my parents would argue, I'd feel so upset and conflicted, and the only way I could express my feelings was by punching a hole in my bedroom wall. <br /><br />That was how I dealt with the frustration I felt. I was upset, and rather than hurting other people, I chose to hurt inanimate objects: walls, TV remote controls, and, on one occasion, a flip phone. I broke it in half like an 80s action hero snapping a villains neck.<br />
<br />
Recently, while dealing with immense stress and sorrow, I chose, irrationally, to harm myself. I could never commit suicide (I like living too much, no matter how far astray I've been led in life), but I was low. Bottom of the fucking ocean.<br />
<br />
So I put a cigarette out on my left arm. Not fast, either. I ground the cigarette into my arm like that worthy was a glass ashtray.<br /><br />Speaking from experience -- don't do that. Things can heal: relationships, surgical procedures, the disappointment of True Detective Season 2...but the pain of a third-degree burn is the gift that keeps on giving.<br /><br />But even that will get better...unless the wound gets infected and you die from flesh-eating bacteria.<br /><br />I'll try to get over it. But not today. Maybe tomorrow.<br /><br />-- <i>September 27, 2015</i><br /><br />Harrison Forbeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16327802075480076782noreply@blogger.com0