Friday, April 28, 2006


Yesterday I got the necessary vaccinations for my trip. Hep A booster, Tetanus booster, Polio booster, then Yellow Fever, Typhoid, and malarial pills, oh my! I must have been allergic to one of the vaccines because four hours later I was sitting on my couch watching the Clippers game wondering if I needed to go to the emergency room. Instead I popped my leg with an expired EpiPen and tried not to worry that the constricting pain in my chest foreshadowed gloomy prospects for my time abroad. If I can't even handle the vaccines...

But I am strong of heart and spirit, and I will persevere. Three cheers for Simon Bolivar! Es caliente!!

Thursday, April 27, 2006


Tomorrow's my last day of work. FOREVER. Well, probably not. But for a good amount of time, at least.

I'm putting on my dancing shoes and heading south of the border. South of the Ecuadorian border, that is. Hey-oh. Off to the land of the short, stocky, large-torsoed and short-limbed people of Peru. What I'll do once I'm there is anyone's guess.

When I come back, I doubt it will be to Los Angeles. Possibly Ohio.

Life is funny, life is strange. Here is a thorough Wikipedia entry on the latest hip-hop craze, Hyphy.

Wednesday, April 26, 2006


I ate a roast beef sub from Quizno's last night and it made me sick. YMMV.

Wednesday, April 19, 2006


Well, at least someone else gets it.


This gallery is great. I really like this picture.

Also, check out my friend Sarah's photos here.

Tuesday, April 18, 2006


Twenty bucks says that Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes's baby girl will turn out to be retarded.


In the grocery store, I heard the song "If I were a carpenter," which reminded me of the poem I wrote yesterday. Did you know that that song was originally written by Johnny Cash? I didn't.

If I were a carpenter
and you were a lady,
Would you marry me anyway?
Would you have my baby?

If a tinker were my trade
would you still find me,
carrin' the pots I made,
followin' behind me.

Save my love through loneliness,
Save my love for sorrow,
I'm given you my onliness,
Come give your tomorrow.

If I worked my hands in wood,
Would you still love me?
Answer me babe, "Yes I would,
I'll put you above me."

If I were a miller
at a mill wheel grinding,
would you miss your color box,
and your soft shoe shining?

If I were a carpenter
and you were a lady,
Would you marry me anyway?
Would you have my baby?
Would you marry anyway?
Would you have my baby?

Ok, now watch this.

Monday, April 17, 2006


Is really awesome.


It is all too easy for a person with my certain disposition (being that I am a man inclined to melancholy and the vapors) to view the world through a darkened, hazy prizm. Black Gray Biv instead of Roy G. Biv. But when the world produces such songs as "Sullivan Street" by Counting Crows, then certainly not all is so bleak. Hope abounds, you just have to know where to find it. The goal in life is to be like the spelunker exploring the caves and caverns of his own soul, his headlamp like the beacon of a lighthouse, swiveling in the high tower and signaling danger to the passing ships of his fancy, warning them of the craggy rocks of hard-won experience, the travails of a ship's captain attempting to transport his cargo which is not unlike the burdens of a modern man in the crazy world, full of mixed metaphors and endlessly long, nonsensical, comma-filled sentences.

I had a good idea for a short story the other day, but I've forgotten. Now, literally nobody is going to be denied the story I wouldn't have ever finished in the first place.

A friend the other night accused me of having "carpenter envy" and I think that's funny. It's funny to me because it implies that my carpenter is small - an untrue claim.

I've not wanted to write lately, and that's why I haven't contributed much to this blog. Also, I've been working much harder at work. Though, if I were a carpenter, I would not have the ability to check the internet at all. Here's a poem:

If I were a carpenter
Tall buildings and cabinet doors
Sand the edges and hoist the beams
You are my sawhorse

Friday, April 14, 2006


Thanks again for killing our King and Savior.


But seriously, I forgive you. Here is my offering of peace.

Thursday, April 13, 2006


Editor, Times-Union:

We in the Mastodon City area should be pleased to have a man by the name of Tim Pletcher back in the area. Hopefully, he can and will help us with this purge of crime and drug use and sales by Latino and confused whites in our area. We (meaning our government) need to send the illegals where they belong and not in our backyards!

Neil Sedaris, via e-mail
Mastodon City


Editor, Times-Union:

Ref: To President Poll

Let's assume President Bush's rating is presently 46.

When asking someone how would you rate our President, the individual thinks of the war. I don't think that is a true rating.

I feel when asking someone, he or she should ask concerning two fronts: A - The home front and B - The war.

It is my opinion the rating on the home front would and should be 100. War front 46. Add the two and divide by two and you get the better rating, 73. I think 73 is a much more fairer and accurate rating.

What do you think?

Lilly E. Johnson
Mastodona Lake

Wednesday, April 12, 2006


A scientist who clearly spends much more time thinking about women's bottoms than squeezing women's bottoms has devised a formula that purports to calculate the perfect rump; shake-a shake-a rump shake-a.

According to the article, the magical figures are (S+C) x (B+F)/T = V, where S is the overall shape or droopiness of the bottom, C represents how spherical the buttocks are, B measures muscular wobble or bounce, while F records the firmness. V is the hip to waist ratio, or symmetry of the bottom, and T measures the skin texture and presence of cellulite.

This study seems suspect and shabbily devised to me, and though I appreciate its creator's zeal, I must say that I'm not entirely impressed by his results. Butts are like boobs - they way they feel often betrays the way they look, and vice versa. The only true way to determine the quality of a fine steak of ass is to squeeze both cheeks with both hands. Until that study comes out, I remain unimpressed.

Wednesday, April 05, 2006


Editor, Times-Union:

Changing the time on all my clocks is a real hassle.

If the governor hadn't assured us that commerce was going to pick up and implied we would all be so much better off financially, I would really be upset. I'm going to use my financial windfall to take trips to Hawaii and Arizona so I can make fun of all those poor unenlightened losers who don't realize how much better off they could be if they changed their time twice a year.

I feel so much better about being a Hoosier now, knowing that the rest of the country no longer thinks of us as country bumpkins. Thanks a lot, Governor Daniels.

Rick Lane, via e-mail
Mastodon City

Tuesday, April 04, 2006


The other night as I lay in bed reading, I had a wonderful idea for a piece of art. Later, as I worked it through my head, it become a series of artworks, ultimately germinating into a basic though somewhat revolutionary ethos.

The acorn idea planted in the soil of my imagination which gave rise to the forest of a new and better day was this: a hand-made typewriter, constructed completely of wooden parts. Simple enough. Gears and wedges and hammers, all made of wood, all pieces expertly crafted and assembled with care. It would be interesting, I think, in the same way that any painstaking reproduction of a regular object is interesting. The reason the idea of a wooden typewriter appeals to me is because of its purity, its separateness from the mass-produced world of trinkets and machines we find ourselves living in, an object with no equal or at the least no clone, whose value is derived not from its ability to lessen the burden of work from our shoulders but rather, inversely, from the incredible amount of human labor invested in its creation.

I continued to think and decided that it would be interesting to fashion a ream of handmade paper and a significant pool of ink and, using the wooden typewriter, write a story from purely handmade materials. The story would be unique, as all stories are, but would also have the added dinstinction of being expressed through the only wooden typewriter I have ever made, typed onto paper that I had made, with ink that I had culled.

But as with all things, the need for perfection does not lessen but rather intensifies as you near your quarry. It became clear to me that in order for the typewriter to be pure, the tools with which I used to create the typewriter would have to be of my own creation. And the hard hammer and rock used to fashion those tools would have to come from my hands as well. Likewise, the timber and bark used to created the typewriter and paper would have to come from my efforts; naturally, this would mean that I would need to construct an axe to fell a tree, that I would have to find some way to sand the wood down, that I would need to fashion instruments to gently carve and break apart the material necessary to construct a typewriter.

Where, though, would I fell a tree? If I purchased property simply for the purpose of cutting down a tree, then that land would be tainted - obviously I had purchased the land with money made by means not directly related to working with the land, i.e., I did not create the land myself. The only option would be to steal the tree from someone else's property. In turn, the entire production would have the element of theft and proprietorship - an interesting additional nuance that may, someday, be played out in our country's courts. Who owns the wooden typewriter that I so painstakingly labored over? Me or the man who's property formerly held the tree whose timber I stole?

Ultimately, the question posed is this: why do we work? The modern (wo)man specializes in a field and gains knowledge specific to that endeavor. The more precise the knowledge, oftentimes the more compensation he or she derives from their work. What has happened to the generalist, the handyman, the jack of all trades? The man who can not only create a wooden typewriter from a piece of lumber but who can also create those tools needed to create the typewriter, and the tools needed to create the tools. Let us draw it back to the beginning and ask what the value is of the man who understands the importance of an ethos of self-reliance in an age of societal safeguards. Is he a loon or is he a savior? Will the world forget that he once existed or will they find the necessity and value of his work?

That's all.

Interestingly, not two days after my epiphany, I read this quite good short story.

Monday, April 03, 2006


This guy's work. Check out the whole gallery here.


And unable to craft a hilarious or poignant or insightful or inspiring post, please read this, as it is humorous and may make you laugh.