December 2005 Archives

I'm not gonna write a whole long detailed review of King Kong. Go read yahoo movies or someplace like that for your recaps, though you can ignore the one from the SF Chron, Mick LaSalle obviously spent three hours with his head up his ass, not actually watching the movie.

But in a word - it's fantastic.

My half-nekkid arms adjusting the garter belt for a half-nekkid friend. How could I have been the only person at this party who knows how to work a garter belt?

One of my many skills. Knowing how to dress - and undress - beautiful women. And I have to say, I did this job very very slowly, so as to savor every moment.

Happy birthday, one (or two Depending on how you count it) late, to TranceJen.

Trance, if you gots and amazon wishlist, let it be known to me.

Happy day, baby. Kisses all over...

Ah, it's too deep
I'm in too deep
Drowning in the fire
Burning in the lake
Dying from desire, dying for desire
Dying from desire, dying for desire
Dying from desire, dying for desire
     ---Matthew Sweet, In Too Deep

I know something's gone off the rails in my head when I start to dream about unusual stuff.

One of the big ones for me is when I dream about work. I almost never do, so when I do I know work's gotten under my skin in a bad way. I have those dreams rarely and not for a long time.

When I dream about friends, it's usually a good thing. It usually means I'm feeling positive; I dream pleasant things about pleasant experiences.

Interestingly, when I dream about family - and this has always been true since I was a kid - like as not it's angry dreams, arguing, fighting, dreams of frustration or sometimes violence. I had that sort of dream often about my brother when I was a teenager. I'd dream about fighting, sometimes about hurting, and once in a while, about killing.

Sex dreams about people I know in real life are all too rare. I can think of only a handful of them (and if I've had one about you I've told you, I always do) but to a one, they're wonderful, and I wish oh-so-much that I could tap into them more. Sex dreams are one of my best sources for erotica, and sex dreams about real life friends give me this pleasant feeling when I see them later, like we have a secret.

But the ones that sort of puzzle me are dreams about people I've never met. I've had a few of them, dreams where my subconscious constructs a person from a few photos or a cartoon drawing, a lot of words or a voice on the phone. Alas, almost never sex dreams, though sometimes romantic. Dreams where a person I know and a person I don't know at all are collaged into a whole with a heartbeat, breath, facial expressions. I've had a few dreams like that about other bloggers, and longer ago, about people I knew from USENET. I had one such last night.

Such dreams leave me puzzled and pleased, wondering how far off my subconscious mind is from reality; wondering if the person I invent exists, or if said person is, like many women in my dreams, almost entirely the product of my own psyche.

Last night, however, I also had an entirely new kind of dream.

I dreamed about video games.

I've been playing Resident Evil 4 obsessively for quite a while now; I played it all the way through, then, after obtaining lots of upgraded weapons, played again. Being sick around xmas, I didn't do a lot else but play and play, working up to super-exclusive weapons, beating the game over and over. Last night, after drinking tequila, I played a particularly difficult sub-game and was up well past midnight losing over and over and over to the final boss (I finally beat it, at almost one am).

I'm immersed. I'm, shall we say, a little too immersed. This became clear when I realized I was dreaming about playing the game, and then later, after waking only enough to wonder what the fuck is wrong with me and then dropping back off, I dreamed about actually being inside the game, with a Striker shotgun in my hands.

I woke up wanting to kill something. Which isn't really unusual for me I guess, but in this case, I woke up wanting to collect the items they'd drop.

I'm not sure what it means. Maybe it's something in me finding a way to escape. Maybe lines between reality and unreality are getting blurry. Maybe I just need to feel a gun in my hand again (it's been too long). Or maybe my subconscious is converting lust and desire into rage and violence in a safe, controlled way (Bam! Bam! Bam!).

I'll tell you though, it doesn't make me want to stop playing.

I can't seem to find a lot to say this morning, partly due to my being sick, partly due to the way-too-much-food hangover. I had a decent xmas day - lower than usual in-law tension, due to one old irritant having died and one being out of town this year, and due to my having done most of the cooking (which also meant the food was better than usual). I don't think anyone wound up crying, which may mean my kids are growing up.

But here's to Shay, who certainly knows how to put the box in your boxing day. That right there is the xmas spirit I'm talkin' about.

Jesus Christ, the Musical.

This is much less scary than the benny hill one.

Outside the carolers start to sing
I can't describe the joy they bring
Cause joy is something they don't bring me

I won't be home
I won't be home for Christmas

(Thanks, Blink 182)

I'm talkin bout the man, I'm talkin bout the man
A man called Elvis
U oughta get 2 know him
U oughta try him

(stolen from Prince with no apology whatsoever)

I finally re-created my about me page. When I did my page redesign (with added piracy, thanks to Doxy), I forgot about it and never got around to porting the template over.

The text is mostly from a short bio I sent the j-con organizers when I got picked to be on a panel (alas, I didn't actually make it to j-con, that's how my year's been, plans made and broken a million times). But I liked what I sent them so it lives on.

Anyway, it's linked from the cartoon elvis pic on the left and the about karl elvis section on the right, and includes a bonus kilted-elvis picture (though not a NHT picture).

If there was any doubt about my going to hell (oh, right, as if), this settles it. All you need to know is that I laughed life a fucking fiend all the way through this.

The Passion of Benny Hill (If you've never seen the The Benny Hill Show this won't make sense. Don't even bother.)

The web site says "WARNING: Graphic violence, gore, and blasphemous material". I might also add, you could die from laughing. But only if you're as sick a fucker as I am.

I had an oddly hot dream last night, after not being able to get to sleep until very, very late.

It has to have been inspired by an episode of Project Runway (and I'll have to put off talking about that show for a bit because of the promise I made myself not to talk about any more reality teevee).

I was dressing a woman up in lacy, pretty, elegant lingerie. She was a tall, stunning brunette with a perfect figure, and I was choosing things for her to put on while she modeled them for me; garter belts, bra and panty sets, bustier sorta things. Garters and more garters, and some other things that might have been nighties and might have been very suggestive evening clothes, I'm not sure.

The clothes are kind of a blur to me now, I just recall fancy, very lacy things in a number of colors, maroon, pink, black, jade green.

What I recall, though, is the feeling of dressing this woman up almost like a living barbie doll; the subtle dominant/submissive feeling it had, her doing what I told her, putting on what I chose for her and modeling it for me while I sat watching, directing her to pose for me, to show herself off for me.

I woke up with the image in my head, watching her put on a lacy, fussy garter belt at my direction. It's been with me all day, that image.

Life's trivial annoyances.

Yesterday, I got a shipment from Sephora.com - items selected from someone's wishlist for xmas. Like, a hundred and fifty bucks worth of high-end beauty products.

So the box just reeks when I get it. Like a fucking french whorehouse. And I'm thinking, this can't be good.

Turns out one of the products inside - a bottle of Jonathan Product shampoo, has burst during shipment, completely soaking everything inside, including all the fussy gift-wrapping, the paperwork, everything, with this stinking golden goo.

Fuck. So the labor-saving idea I had, to order it, turns into another xmas week mall trek to return this dripping slimy box.

Mmm. Dripping box. Wait, the clerks at Sephora are generally total babes, maybe this won't suck.

And then there's my TiVo. Which picked yesterday to die. And of course a TiVo is a commodity like a cell phone, you don't repair it, you just buy a new one when it's out of warranty. Which it is, of course. Nevermind the hours of teevee I had saved on it to be watched over my holiday break, movies and marathons of Nip/Tuck (which I admit I'm saving because it's suckage seems to know no bounds this season; yet I can't look away).

But it's another of those fucking expenses I can't really afford, yet have to pay.

I don't even watch that much teevee. Why do I need two TiVos? Yet, of course, the few things I do watch are always on the same day, at the same time. And I never, ever watch teevee live anymore, once you get used to TiVo you can't.

I'm thinking about bypassing the mall and just heading for the horizon when I leave work. Who's with me?

This video is so utterly cool.

"War Photographer" by Joel Trussell from Jason Forrest at CockRockDisco

I can't stop watchin' it.

Swiped from Herr Wolfe, who is certainly a gentleman and a scholar. No idea the true origin of this, but it isn't as trite as most of these.

Hiromi, that perpetually half-nekkid tart, just reminded me it's Thursday.

I'm not in a particularly half-naked mood, but you know, you start someon - uh, someTHING, you need to finish.

Thus - this is my second tattoo, on the back of my left shoulder (Yeah this is reversed, shot in a mirror and I didn't bother to flip it).

You might not be able to tell what it is; it's old and faded and blurred, not that well done to begin with (By Pinky Yuen in San Jose). I've had sex with people younger than this tattoo. But for reference, here's where it came from.

My boss (Actually my director) Jeff just walked into my office and showed me this.

ORLANDO, Fla. -- A holiday display is getting some negative attention from neighbors. A homeowner's display in the Hunter's Creek subdivision features Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer hanging from a tree.

That's just too cool for words.

This is what happens to me when I'm in that emotional, unable to express myself state. When the poet in me wakes up tries to claw it's way out. That poet has no means of egress; on my best day I am a writer of decent prose, but poetry eludes me completely.

Yet what I feel, some days, can only be rendered correctly in poetry; and thus I wind up seeking the words of others to express what's inside.

I haven't heard this song in years - and just reading the lyrics I remember why it almost brings me to tears every time I hear it.

Standing firm on this stony ground
The wind blows hard
Pulls these clothes around
I harbour all the same worries as most
The temptations to leave or to give up the ghost
I wrestle with an outlook on life
That shifts between darkness and shadowy light
I struggle with words for fear that they'll hear
But Orpheus sleeps on his back still dead to the world
Sunlight falls, my wings open wide
There's a beauty here I cannot deny
And bottles that tumble and crash on the stairs
Are just so many people I knew never cared
Down below on the wreck of the ship
Are a stronghold of pleasures I couldn't regret
But the baggage is swallowed up by the tide
As Orpheus keeps to his promise and stays by my side
Tell me, I've still a lot to learn
Understand, these fires never stop
Believe me, when this joke is tired of laughing
I will hear the promise of my Orpheus sing
Sleepers sleep as we row the boat
Just you the weather and I gave up hope
But all of the hurdles that fell in our laps
Were fuel for the fire and straw for our backs
Still the voices have stories to tell
Of the power struggles in heaven and hell
But we feel secure against such mighty dreams
As Orpheus sings of the promise tomorrow may bring
Tell me, I've still a lot to learn
Understand, these fires never stop
Please believe, when this joke is tired of laughing
I will hear the promise of my Orpheus sing

     --David Sylvian, Orpheus

I love what I find in my sitemeter.

I got hits today on the phrase "Santa's Little Whore".

I love it. C'mere, Santa's Little Whore, wherever you are!

Ok, I'm on my second play-through of Resident Evil 4, and I have to say, I love this game.

I'm not a huge video game guy. I lose interest in 'em pretty quickly for the most part. I don't care about high scores. Never played a lot of donkey kong or mario, though I loved Asteroids, Tempest, Pac Man. I don't spend a lotta time with my PS2. But I do love the survival horror games.

I don't wanna do a full gave review - lots of sites have that. But I have to say, this game has more going for it in terms of sheer fun and creepieness than any other game since RE2.

It's a winner. Great weapons, hard game play, some good puzzles. all sorts of new features, including the ability to buy and sell (and upgrade) weapons. AND a storyline that kinds-sorta makes sense.

Good stuff.

I love the things you find on BoingBoing.

I bet it's only me who finds that hot. And there's also this. Don't click if you're the squeamish type.

While you're over there, there's also this tattoo, which, you know, is lame as a tattoo, but pretty hot as an image. Though I guess with the right model, I'd get that tattoo, just not where anyone else could see it.

There are little things we do that get us through the day.

A bite a chocolate in the afternoon. A cup of tea, or a stiff shot of espresso.

A conversation with a friend, a favorite blog; a little bad teevee or a gossip magazine.

Sometimes it's something good for us - a run, or a workout at the gym, a basketball game with friends. Sometimes it's not so good; too much to drink, drugs. We smoke too much pot or snort something or swallow something for pain when the pain isn't physical; we go for the bottle and crawl inside because it feels safe in there.

Sometimes it's simple pleasures; cooking or putting the kids to bed, doing something just for oneself, doing something that's easy to finish and mark off as complete.

That's what blogging is for a lot of us, I think. Something to help get through the day. Someone to talk to, someone to listen. In many ways a tribe, a group, a gang to belong to. Someone to listen to you with that bizarre intimacy faceless communication provides.

Some days though, you need a little extra. More than what gets you through. More than your drug of choice or your social ritual, your little tasks, your daily entertainments. Some days you just need something good to happen out of the blue.

The littlest things sometimes - a compliment where you don't expect it, a little affection, a lucky break. A streak of productivity.

I wish there was a magic elixir; something in precious finite supply; a drop to produce those good moments when you need them, those lucky turns, those tiny gifts of good fortune. I'm not greedy though; that's why even in my fantasy, it's a tiny supply, not to be wasted.

Good things come out of the blue too rarely in life. for this reason I try to be honest with people; honest and free with my praise and my compliments. I want to be the person who makes someone's day, the compliment out of the blue. I've been known to say "you smell good" to a stranger, to tell people who look fantastic that they look fantastic, for no reason other than that they made me smile. I try to leave the unexpectedly large tip, to thank the people who do thankless work. When something good comes, unexpected and unasked, unhoped and unsolicited, it makes one's world better in tiny ways.

Unexpected pleasures are, nearly always, the sweetest.

No.

More.

Quizzes.

This is chelsea girl's fault.

Which Action Hero Would You Be?

And of course, take a guess.

So evidently sometime yesterday, a group of bad-boy hackers got in through a back door on our host server. They didn't do anything that we can find other than to steal bandwidth to do a buch of port-scanning, though we're doing a more complete scan. No harm no foul as far as moronoblogs are concerned, our database is free of corruption (well, other than that which we put there our own selves).

But I just wanted to tip the hat to Brandon who spent his friday doing battle with the forces of evil. As far as I know, he got the security hole plugged late last night, with very little help from me. Time for me to study up on security so I can be more use next time.

So I'd intended to (try to) repeat last year's bad santa challenge, and do another holiday-themed dirty story. I've utterly failed at that, not even starting such a story. Maybe next year I'll do better, but meantime, you owe it to yourself to read these wonderful tails of holiday depravity:

• Doxy's delicious An XXXmas Karol
• Bringing Down Santa by Circe
• And The Man with the Bag by Yours Truly

Because Papa Noel is a Bad Bad Man.

I'd love to have more to add to this collection, so if any of you feel motivated to write a holiday-themed erotic tale, by all means, do. They don't all have to be santa-themed, nor even specifically xmas.

And I need to get myself writing again. It's in there, I just can't seem to get it out.

A late birthday gift from Brutha Ray, shipped from the Magic Kingdom. Thank you my friend, You know the way to a pirate's heart.

Strike your colors you brazen wench! No need to expose your superstructure!

(click the image for detail)

You know, really, I hate the whole hello kitty thing. I just don't get how it became some sort of pop icon.

And yet - for some reason I don't understand - I love this Fender Hello Kitty Guitar.

Maybe it's just the image from the web site:

I dunno. But someone I find the whole idea utterly charming. And not only do I want to buy this guitar for several female friends, I also [shudder] want one of my own.

Ken? Ken? You need one also. When you sell that Selmar horn, think pink kitty.

But it's not just me. Even my man Dave Navarro has to have one:

Mmm. Pink Kitty.

Ok, ok. I keep promising to do this and then flaking. Not having a camera handy that can take a decent picture is only an excuse.

Half-nekkid thursday. Go read about it here: . I guess I should have saved the mohawk pic for HNT.

I've been looking for the words to this song for, like, two years now.

Papa Noel by Brenda Lee. Written by someone named Roy Botkin. I picked this up on a collection called Christmas Belles from Rhino, and simply fell in love with it.

But give it a listen and you'll see how hard it is to pick out the words.

Someone, finally, has got a transcription. It's not quite right; I think there are some cajun-isms that don't make a lot of sense phonetically. But it's damned close, close enough that you could actually sing along with it and not utterly butcher it.

Here's the thread on Mudcat.org where they're working on it.

And below are the lyrics, with my corrections (and DN's) on a couple things.

Hey Beau, let's go and get pirogue and push-pole down the bayou,
I want to see the Christmas Tree, dance o- fais dodo.
Have a big time and cut a shine, where all will be gay-o
Oh, Santa Claus will come tonight, down on the bayou

Papa Noel will bring the bells and all will be gay-o
I'm gonna be at the Christmas tree with my ma chère ami-o
So ring the chimes, it's Christmas time and pick the old banjo
Oh, Santa Claus will come tonight, down on the bayou

Instrumental interlude

See ma Nannan and ma Parrain, I know they'll all be there-o,
See Ol' Quelqu'un and Mamoun, Bébé and Jo-Jo,
See Jolivet oh my sweet pet and get me some sugar,
Oh, Santa Claus will come tonight, down on the bayou

So roll the rug, let's kiss and hug and let's all be gay-o,
A merry Christmas to you all and a happy bonne année-o
I'm gonna dance all through the night, 'til daylight with my babe-o,
Oh, Santa Claus will come tonight, down on the bayou

Instrumental interlude

Dionne wants a push-y-on, a pistolette and yo-yo,
My Jolivet, oh my sweet pet, Lord cher ami-o,
Oh Auntie Luce will cook the goose, and she will serve the gumbo,
Oh, Santa Claus will come tonight, down on the bayou

Papa Noel will bring the bells and all will be gay-o
I'm gonna be at the Christmas tree with my ma cher ami-o
So ring the chimes, it's Christmas time and pick the old banjo
Oh, Santa Claus will come tonight, down on the bayou

If anyone can make any corrections or additions to that, let me know (Brutha Ray?) and I'll post 'em on Mudcat. We'll see if we can get it closer.

[ note - corrections by darkneuro in place - thanks baby! ]

I love this song...

What makes this entertaining isn't the slippers. I mean, sure, they're cute and all, but you seen one c'thulu plush, you seen 'em all.

No, what makes this entertaining is Cory's description:

"...keep your feet warm even as they damn them to a thousand nameless hells."

I said "they broke the mold" to someone earlier tonight and it sparked one of those where the hell did I hear that song lyric searches.

After quite a while poking around in the memory banks, and then some googling, I give you Axegrinder by one of my all time favorite bands, the Hoodoo Gurus:

My edge is keen and I've honed my skill.
I've got nerves of steel and an iron will.
My skin is bronze, my trim is chrome,
Climb aboard - I'll drive you home.
I'm a silver - tongued devil with a heart of gold,
When I was made they broke the mold.
My blood runs hot, like molten lead,
Pump you full - I'm gonna knock you dead.

On the brink of who knows what?
We've gotta strike while the iron's hot.
l can hold your hand, try to guide you through
But I can't make your moves for you.
Swing my blade - that's how it's done.
Don't stop me now, I've only just begun.
I was told when I was young
I wouldn't work in an iron lung.
Now I've learned a trick of two.
I'm working up a sweat for you.

Just about the last time I had hair, and certainly the last time I had a mohawk.

Me. Summer 1997.

I like these so much it almost makes it seem worth growing hair again.

Hiromi just posted this over on Panties3:

Gabby Pahinui, Hi'ilawe

It's fucking beautiful, and stopped me dead, absolutely swept away by that island feeling, that sense of time and place I get.

Hawaii makes me understand how one can have a love affair with a place that has the emotional and physical intensity one normally only feels for a person. And it's the music that takes me there, to early mornings driving through dripping rain forest, to meals and drinks outside with the sound of the ocean, the warm breeze, the smell of exotic flowers and earthy decay.

The smell of hawaii - cane stubble burning, the murky scent of fermenting sugar cane, the red scent of the very soil. Sea and sweat and fruit and flowers.

I need to be back there. Now.

Can I erase my whiny, I'm-so-sick-and-sorry-for-myself entries from earlier this week?

Of course I can. It's my blog. I'm god here. Same reason I can delete comments I don't like. Freedom of speech? This ain't your fuckin' america, folks, there ain't no constitution.

No fuckin' rules.

And yet, I won't delete 'em.

I'm finally starting to feel human again (or subhuman, or inhuman, or super-human, or whatever normal would be), finally getting some work done. Now, my challenge is to resist the urge to act like I'm completely well and resume full-speed-ahead. That's the mistake I usually make and the result tends to be a relapse, and a really bad respiratory infection that means ten days of horse pills.

So I have to ignore the voice that says back to the gym tomorrow unless I wake up no longer feeling like there's a porcupine living in my sinuses.

Now, I'm not gonna link to it because that just seems too fucking egotistical. But Buck, you literally made me cry, three times, while I was reading that birthday message. I kept trying to reply and it took me this long to be able to do it. Thank you. It takes a lot to get me to well up that way.

And thanks to the various people who sent me birthday gifts or thoughts or greetings or images. You people rule, every one. I'm not worthy.

Man, this is cool.

Arvind Satyanarayan and Brad Choate have built a random stylesheet generator for MT. It basically takes the default Vicksburg stylesheet and randomizes the colors (after lettting you choose 1, 2, or 3 columns). It's a great way to preview lots and lots of ready-to-install color combinations (some beautiful, some freaky).

YOu can click away until you get something you like and then download it. You can use it as is or use it as a sample for how to do things with the basic stylesheets.

And mostly it's just cool to click and watch the colors change, man.

Movable Type Random Styler at Movalog

You know, It would be really cool if you could install the randomized on your blog. Not that I'd do it here but some of my other side blogs, it might be fun...