The iPhone Can Blog

It is fairly easy these days to publish content from virtually anywhere. I have a data plan on a mobile device featuring an HTML browser. (Alternatively, blogging/website platforms Word Press and Tumblr have mobile apps for iPhones and Android devices.) The options seem limitless.

They aren't. WITH GREAT POWER COMES EVEN GREATER ULCERS!

Considerations Before The Holiday

Public schools and their political correctness make for silly bedfellows at times. The word "Thanksgiving" doesn't seem to be tied into anything overtly religious; the title says thanks, not "praise the Lord." So I found it interesting when the Child came home from school insisting it was called "Turkey Day," because that is what the teacher was telling all the kids to call it. Since the inoffensive Thanksgiving Day moniker is, obviously, too offensive. Hence why she didn't check spelling...

Hoppy Thonksgiving

The Ish Report, 11-whatevertodayis-2010

So I was driving to work this morning when the damnedest thing happened: this older gentleman in a Chevrolet midsize pickup decided to declare his angst for pedal-depression with a more active form of protest in hitting my car. He was very enthusiastic about it -- and I'm definitely quoting what I presumed my make-believe telepathy would have uncovered -- thinking often that he was "sticking it to the Man." Somehow.

I'm fine. I smell like shit and piss, because the older gentleman had some issues controlling himself while we were exchanging information. Otherwise I'm fine. Except for the blood.

Here There Be Coda

No matter which way you look at it, this is gratuitous hot action.

Who wants to change oil now?

Now then.

The Best Post In The World

It has been a time since I have posted anything. It was a difficult time for most of you, I know. But it was tough for me as well because of all my readers, who missed me. I felt their collective agonized yearning for the Ish as waves of astral energy, and it invigorated me during my deadlines, but it also set upon me a terrible burden: the desire to ease the thirst for Ish.

Writing...Possibly...One Day

I've been entertaining a notion of writing some fiction and posting it on here. It isn't any of my planned fiction -- by which I should admit to not working on very frequently -- but more of a spontaneous, episodic, I write whatever I want kind of thing, but within the boundaries of what I've created already. That's a cumbersome way of saying I'm going to write short stories set within a world I made up for other stories but will now shamelessly exploit. 

Hey, It's Friday

It is the one day of the week where stating repeatedly what day of the week it is serves as a sufficient response to pretty much everything. You can tell people the day of the week in a revelationary and excited tone, like as a response to a greeting or even just a reminder to other people about how retarded you're going to act later tonight. I shall give you illuminous examples now:

• Walking in to work, as a general announcement: "WHOO IT'S FRIDAY!" (but don't smack your coworkers' ass, that's going too far)
• On everyone's Facebook: "yay it's Friday, can't wait to get my party on." (or some such "cool" synonymous term, as clearly I don't "get my party on" much)
• When asked how you are: "dude, it's Friday."
• When asked how you feel, as it looks like your body is stiff and sore: "f*ck you, it's Friday."
• Getting home from work: "where's my brewsky, it's Friday!" 
• When asked why the hell you seriously just said that: "well you do look like you stepped into a wind tunnel. But...it's Friday?"
• On being arrested after all those brewskys: "BUT IT'S FRIDAY!"

You Don't Get "It"

To start: click play and listen to the tunes while reading. Then you will be in the appropriate "special place" for this post.

Angry Irishman

It is catch-up with the Ishes* today! I have no anger in me, not even the type supplied by the title: two parts Irish Whiskey (thanks, Slick), two parts Irish Cream, and some ice cubes. The last time I even made said drink of anger was for guests, some time ago.

But I'm kind of starting in the middle here, as first I want to share some random lyrics to set the tone. 

Free Things Are Good Things

Most of you probably know this, but for those of you who don't, let me give you some straight knowledge-bombs here. You'll thank me forever, you'll see. Ok, here it goes: the glue on envelops tastes awful. I'm not such a big fan of that glue, nor is my tongue. Avoid it at all costs.

Dangit, Relapse

There's a few things I've done or been a part of in life that I really could have lived just fine without experiencing. One of those things I mentioned a bit ago, in the post Where I've Been. I speak of alcoholism or, in broader terms, addiction. I myself am not an addict.

This Heat Makes Me Grumpy

I get grumpy. Ask Sassy. I'm already an old man in some ways, and getting grumpy is one of them. I wish I felt bad about it, because then I'd be compelled to want to improve. But I don't feel bad about it. I know I get grumpy. It isn't personal. 

Shoulder Cat Or More Than You Cared To Know About Ocicats

Truth be told, Coda was a bit of an accident. Wait, let me start at the beginning: I have two Ocicats.* Ender is older by three days, male, and colored cinnamon. Coda is younger, female, and colored tawny. 

It's Been Slow

Before I get into anything else, here's a picture of my neck in its present condition. It looks good, the doctor says the scar shouldn't show too much. Now, it actually hurt a bit to tilt my neck back like this, but the scar wouldn't be visible if I didn't get a little light on it, and I did this to show all of you.

My Normal Is Her Small

We're not simple folks. We can't have butter on our toast, because chances are Sassy wants to put garlic in that butter, and Kid wants to punch garlic in the schnozzle. We also can't have one browser on this computer; we are a family of multiple browsers.

My Soul Is Screwed (In)

This is the handiwork of science and surgeons (not sturgeons, which taste terribly fishy, and fish is not something that will be going down the gullet you see here). There's some screws, a metal plate, and a cadaver bone betwixt them.

Today is Monday; Tomorrow is Apocalypse.

This is a very personal sort of post, one I will contemplate even "publishing" online because of its very private nature. It is a journal entry in the purest form. So bare with me as I expose my vulnerability. 

Tomorrow I have surgery. It really sort of pisses me the fuck off, because I can't have a drink of water after midnight, and I don't check in the next day until like 10:10, and that's a whole lot of water and Denny's I could be enjoying, but oh no don't have a drink of water because we're going to stick tubes down your throat later.

See, this is really personal shit here.

Not Fully Realized

We say it a lot within the confines of a relationship: "I love you." We say it a lot, and for the most part, we mean it intently each time. But like any other repeated habit, verbal or otherwise, there are also times when it is said as a goodbye, or a hello, or a goodnight -- no less meaningful within the context of sharing, but not felt as intensely in those moments either.

Bureaucratic Athletics

I am readying myself for a surgery later this month. This is a difficult enough proposition, emotionally and otherwise, because these things typically hurt real good. Adding to the excitement, then, is the whole employment issue -- as in, keeping myself employed and my monies coming into my bank throughout it all.

See, you can't just get yourself all messed up and get some operational healing and come back to work when you damn well feel like it. That'd be too easy an explanation of what actually happens. In this "reality" of job-centric living, though, your employer believes it has to "approve" your time off.