Well, they finally figured out how to install energy expanders on the Hoover Dam. Now, all the way out in Ohio, we can get our power from that giant concrete machine.
Yep, Colombus, Ohio, powered the Hoover Dam.
Named after J. Edgar Hoover? Well, the Central Intelligence Agency is no more. It's all run by the English. Something about proper diction in court trials or something, we're not sure. But they're gone, zip, zang, boom.
But everything's way to organized. We've gotta park in these spaces, within millimeters of our neighbor, and then it zooms down into the ground, while we just stay there in that momentary threshold of space, and then the ground closes up beneath us, quicker than you can say Jimminy Christmas, and there you are, falling to the ground on your bottom.
After you do it a few times, you can extend your legs to the standing position while your car is leaving your seat at supersonic speeds. Some say they stand up on the future ground, while they're still in their car, beating the parking system, but that's all mythology and psychedelic drugs. Don't believe it.
But it's all magnets and robotics. And huge underground storage spaces. All those storage space company/dynasties paid off for those guys, they make fortunes in that underground parking. Off course that threw off Ford's solar-powered car campaign, but who drives Fords anymore anyway?
The other big change are the kitchens. Resteraunts rent out small branches into your house, powered by nanobots. But pay close attention to the big "FOOD READY" and "FOOD NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT READY" indicators, they had to enlarge them. One of the first prototypes caused the death of a middle-aged New Yorker. He grabbed is Whopper before the nanobots where done cooking it, and they just followed their programming, and cooked him. Inside out.
The doctors thought he had a fever for the first three hours.
What else? We've got a Chinese colony on Mars. Apparently the population control is not in effect there, so that's where they all go.
Understandably, the did not anywhere New Tiananmen Square.
But NASA is making huge steps. After the administration of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, we poured a bunch of money into the Space Agenda, because some telescope maker in sweden claimed he saw large
elephant-shaped creature on the Moon. It turned out that it was a shadow puppets on the International Space Station.
But we got up there again, and said, "Hey, it's pretty cool up here. Why'd we give it up for so long?" And made the commitment. And for punishment, we stuck that Swede up in a conservatory on Europa.
And finally, the reality TV genre is long extinct, thank God, and we all for watch the news channel if we get tired of fictional shows.
Finally, some one with a lot of money knows what they're doing.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Seriosuly, World. Vampires?
I think it's time to say, what is this obsession with vampires?
I can take a little bit of Bram Stoker, it's a classic, but this is getting a little bit ridiculous.
There's been movies, HBO shows, books galore, and more and more kids wanting to be, of all things, a vampire.
People, this is not healthy. The vampire psyche is all about taking from people, and hurting people, and sometimes turning people into one of them.
To think of it, vampires are reminescent of how a lot of people actually live. Or maybe they live that way from learning from vampires.
I don't know. But something's very wrong about it.
And there's smaller fascinations with other mystical and supernatural beings.
I enjoy a good wizard movie as much as anyone, but why make so much of an obsession?
And werewolves? What is so appealing about a character who has two sides, and can't control when he becomes one or the other?
What is so bad or boring about human?
I was at the movies last night, and I just sat outside with my grande caramel latte for a while, listening to all the high school kids pimp-walking around, and whispering and giggling to each other.
Who started teaching these kids that there was something better then being themselves?
There is no way THAT many natural gangster-wanna-be's walk the streets of our fair world.
Who started dousing the flames of loving life and creativity and beauty, and told them all how to live, and what was important?
Was it my fault, and those my age? Was it the fault of the generation before me?
Somebody must still have the power to change these ways of thinking.
I just have no idea how.
I can take a little bit of Bram Stoker, it's a classic, but this is getting a little bit ridiculous.
There's been movies, HBO shows, books galore, and more and more kids wanting to be, of all things, a vampire.
People, this is not healthy. The vampire psyche is all about taking from people, and hurting people, and sometimes turning people into one of them.
To think of it, vampires are reminescent of how a lot of people actually live. Or maybe they live that way from learning from vampires.
I don't know. But something's very wrong about it.
And there's smaller fascinations with other mystical and supernatural beings.
I enjoy a good wizard movie as much as anyone, but why make so much of an obsession?
And werewolves? What is so appealing about a character who has two sides, and can't control when he becomes one or the other?
What is so bad or boring about human?
I was at the movies last night, and I just sat outside with my grande caramel latte for a while, listening to all the high school kids pimp-walking around, and whispering and giggling to each other.
Who started teaching these kids that there was something better then being themselves?
There is no way THAT many natural gangster-wanna-be's walk the streets of our fair world.
Who started dousing the flames of loving life and creativity and beauty, and told them all how to live, and what was important?
Was it my fault, and those my age? Was it the fault of the generation before me?
Somebody must still have the power to change these ways of thinking.
I just have no idea how.
Monday, September 28, 2009
I Heard The Ghosts
I heard the ghosts in my wardrobe.
They came from Narnia.
They were nymph-ghosts.
They were not human ghosts.
I heard the ghosts in my closet.
They came from Monsters INC.
They were monster-ghosts.
They were not human ghosts.
I heard the ghosts in my bathroom.
They came from the sewer.
They were turtle-ghosts.
They were not human ghosts.
I heard the ghosts by my bed.
They came from the dead.
They were human-ghosts.
And they scared me to death.
They flew around my fan.
They stepped on my back.
They chilled my spine.
And I don't sleep very well anymore.
They came from Narnia.
They were nymph-ghosts.
They were not human ghosts.
I heard the ghosts in my closet.
They came from Monsters INC.
They were monster-ghosts.
They were not human ghosts.
I heard the ghosts in my bathroom.
They came from the sewer.
They were turtle-ghosts.
They were not human ghosts.
I heard the ghosts by my bed.
They came from the dead.
They were human-ghosts.
And they scared me to death.
They flew around my fan.
They stepped on my back.
They chilled my spine.
And I don't sleep very well anymore.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Hard To Say, Hard To Tell
It's all kind of all a blur.
But I think I can rememeber some things. Just a few particles of subconscious.
Not all of it, mind you.
But just small fractions of dreams. Or maybe it was all one dream.
Hard to say, hard to tell.
Because there's no way of knowing how long it was. It could be anywhere from all night, six or seven hours, or it could've only been two minutes long.
Hard to say, hard to tell.
Too many times I wake up from them, without really remembering what just happened. It's like amnesia. It's in there, but nowhere to be found.
Probably in that extra brainspace that a scientist said we don't use.
Hard to say, hard to tell.
Maybe I should regulate my sleeping more often. Playing myself to sleep seems to make me peaceful, while Daft Punk and Fear And Loathing' leaves me restless. How can I make my subconscious at ease?
Hard to say, hard to tell.
If I wasn't so alone, I bet I'd be more at home. Be more myself, be more attended to.
And then, I could remember my dreams, for remembering them is the path to make them come true. It'd be a feat to accomplish this.
Hard to say, hard to tell.
But I think I can rememeber some things. Just a few particles of subconscious.
Not all of it, mind you.
But just small fractions of dreams. Or maybe it was all one dream.
Hard to say, hard to tell.
Because there's no way of knowing how long it was. It could be anywhere from all night, six or seven hours, or it could've only been two minutes long.
Hard to say, hard to tell.
Too many times I wake up from them, without really remembering what just happened. It's like amnesia. It's in there, but nowhere to be found.
Probably in that extra brainspace that a scientist said we don't use.
Hard to say, hard to tell.
Maybe I should regulate my sleeping more often. Playing myself to sleep seems to make me peaceful, while Daft Punk and Fear And Loathing' leaves me restless. How can I make my subconscious at ease?
Hard to say, hard to tell.
If I wasn't so alone, I bet I'd be more at home. Be more myself, be more attended to.
And then, I could remember my dreams, for remembering them is the path to make them come true. It'd be a feat to accomplish this.
Hard to say, hard to tell.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Going To Sleep With Socks On
I usually hate going to sleep with socks on.
I usually hate going to sleep with most of anything on.
But there are also those times, liek the other night, when I decided to put on my jeans and tshirt, and fall asleep that night. I slept fully clothed.
And tonight I decided to wear socks to bed. Sleep.
If there's one thing I've learned as I've been growing up, it's that I am habitually inconsistent.
I feel liek I'm an old-fashioned, old-habits-die-hard kind fo guy, but I know for a fact that I can drive the pople closest to me crazy with my inconsistency.
One day, I'll say that I like to have the blinds open so I can view the world, and feel a part of it all, and go on and on and on and on and on, and so on.
The next day I'll say, I hate the world. I want to live in a box, in a dark room, with only alarm clocks, TV's, and computer screens and the occasional lamp to light my way.
When I as young, I had the worst time going to sleep. As I got older, the problem became that I just couldn't go to sleep, but when I was younger the problem was the time from getting tucked in, and Mom or Dad closing the door, until that eventual going-to-sleep that you never remember happening in the morning.
But that period of time was the worst. I had/have a waaaay too overactive imagination. Monsters or (because I read so much) horrific mythological creatures would be lurking somewhere, I just knew it, waiting to catch me off my guard. I don't know what I would've done, had they attacked, but I still kept close watch.
Or I would seek means of security through building walls around myself, made of stuffed animals, dinosaurs, and pillows.
My parents chocked it up to youthful eccentricity, I guess, why the heck I needed so much stuff on my bed at night. I guess that's what it was, but whatever. Of course, every night, my comfy architecture did it's job, and made me feel at ease enough to fall alseep.
The worst was when my imagination discovered that unseen threats existed as well.
My mind, influenced by movies, could only call them ghosts, or... poltergeists. Yeah, I knew that word. And it haunted me. Pun.
For years I had horrible nightmares in which my worst waking fears would come true. To a 20 year old, they might bring a chuckle of described, but even though seemingly comical now, they still bring a chill to my spine.
One of my favorite remedies was when I decided I wanted a dog. Or twelve. I had twelve imaginary dogs. I can't remember all their names; Chiri, Taco, Goldie, Lassie were a few. And I would imagine where they all were sleeping. On the floor, at my feet, or by my side.
And they'd keep watch over me.
I've never had a dog before, but I've almost had twelve.
So I wonder if wearing socks is a little subconscious remedy to my nocturnal fears. OR my feet are just cold.
I usually hate going to sleep with most of anything on.
But there are also those times, liek the other night, when I decided to put on my jeans and tshirt, and fall asleep that night. I slept fully clothed.
And tonight I decided to wear socks to bed. Sleep.
If there's one thing I've learned as I've been growing up, it's that I am habitually inconsistent.
I feel liek I'm an old-fashioned, old-habits-die-hard kind fo guy, but I know for a fact that I can drive the pople closest to me crazy with my inconsistency.
One day, I'll say that I like to have the blinds open so I can view the world, and feel a part of it all, and go on and on and on and on and on, and so on.
The next day I'll say, I hate the world. I want to live in a box, in a dark room, with only alarm clocks, TV's, and computer screens and the occasional lamp to light my way.
When I as young, I had the worst time going to sleep. As I got older, the problem became that I just couldn't go to sleep, but when I was younger the problem was the time from getting tucked in, and Mom or Dad closing the door, until that eventual going-to-sleep that you never remember happening in the morning.
But that period of time was the worst. I had/have a waaaay too overactive imagination. Monsters or (because I read so much) horrific mythological creatures would be lurking somewhere, I just knew it, waiting to catch me off my guard. I don't know what I would've done, had they attacked, but I still kept close watch.
Or I would seek means of security through building walls around myself, made of stuffed animals, dinosaurs, and pillows.
My parents chocked it up to youthful eccentricity, I guess, why the heck I needed so much stuff on my bed at night. I guess that's what it was, but whatever. Of course, every night, my comfy architecture did it's job, and made me feel at ease enough to fall alseep.
The worst was when my imagination discovered that unseen threats existed as well.
My mind, influenced by movies, could only call them ghosts, or... poltergeists. Yeah, I knew that word. And it haunted me. Pun.
For years I had horrible nightmares in which my worst waking fears would come true. To a 20 year old, they might bring a chuckle of described, but even though seemingly comical now, they still bring a chill to my spine.
One of my favorite remedies was when I decided I wanted a dog. Or twelve. I had twelve imaginary dogs. I can't remember all their names; Chiri, Taco, Goldie, Lassie were a few. And I would imagine where they all were sleeping. On the floor, at my feet, or by my side.
And they'd keep watch over me.
I've never had a dog before, but I've almost had twelve.
So I wonder if wearing socks is a little subconscious remedy to my nocturnal fears. OR my feet are just cold.
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