8-27-01

Sunday, a friend of mine brought over a homemade peach pie made with juicy fresh peaches straight from the farm. We baked it this evening, and let me tell you…if you want to get on my good side. Bring me a fresh peach pie. Yum. Apple pie, too. That's my favorite. This peach pie was almost good enough to supplant apple as the apple of my eye. Or something like that.

My new hair-brained scheme: I'm thinking of starting a clothing line, mostly t-shirts at first, with this loser guy and his cool girlfriend. He's a good designer, but, I mean, he's such a loser that when he was put up for adoption as a kid, the only people who would adopt him were blind mole rats. Actually, they were dead, blind mole rats, but they looked slightly lifelike. This guy's such a loser, the convenience store often rejects his lotto picks. He's such a loser that he didn't lose his virginity, it ran away. Thank you ladies and gentlemen, I'll be on the web all night. His name is Billy. You'll find him in the phonebook under "L." But at any rate, our design concepts are top secret at this stage. So top secret that we don't even know what they are. Why am I doing this? I think it would be fun, and it would be artistic. It's a long shot to success as it always seems to be with my hair-brained schemes (I remember the time I thought I could earn a living by sitting very still on my couch while bees flew up my ass - that didn't go to far), but it sure would be nice to work for myself someday.

I want to get my latest art pieces into the gallery section. I've been doing sculptural and mixed media pieces with barbed wire; I'm pretty happy with them. And some time in the near future, I'm going to fix the Thoughts section so you can access entries by date rather than having to scroll through the entire file.

The Return of Fred

Fred the Gargoyle sits patiently on the dome of Dr. Odo's pod. He doesn't move for eight hours. The sun rises on the horizon like a sickly, jaundiced Venus striking a painful pose, streaks of neon clouds its only habiliments. Fred is watching the walkways; wealthy citizens almost never expose themselves to the elements any more - too many deadly toxins, extreme temperatures, potent winds - but they do travel through public walkways. Fred is waiting for the tube connected to Dr. Odo's pod to discharge its human seed. Fred senses a slight movement; he vaults high into the air, increases his density to maximum, curls into a ball and then plummets rapidly toward the walkway. The scientist is transporting down the tube at a leisurely pace, eyeballing a projected computer screen. Fred impacts the tube just a few feet in front of Dr. Odo's position. The transparent hard plastic instantly bows inward like a deeply dented soup can and for a moment it seems as if it might rubber band Fred back into the sky. But at the last second Fred gouges out with extended claws, and deep cracks appear at the impact point. Then he's through. With large shards of plastic dangling behind him like broken bones, Fred leaps on the stunned scientist and pins him to the ground with a massive paw.