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Tony Danza: Doorstop

(viewed 2335 times)
"You want to know what true happiness is? Knowing your place. Being given a job you know you can do, doing it as hard as you can, and knowing you're good at it."

"Really."

"Really. When you're in that position, what you do becomes what you are. You could be a doorstop. But when someone asks you, 'Who the hell are you?' you can say, 'My name is Tony Danza and I'm a motherfricken' doorstop.' End of story. Not everybody can do that."

"Tony Danza? As in, 'Hold me closer, Tony Danza'?"

"Forget it. First name that came to my head."

"That worries me just as much as your philosophy."

"Well. Worry about Tony Danza if you want, but the philosophy is sound. If you know your own name and you know what you're good for, you are nine-tenths of the way to true happiness."

"What's the other tenth?"

"Maybe not being a doorstop."

[*]

Posted by Laszlo Q. V. St-J. Xalieri

9th Aug 2008, 02:34   | tags:comments (7)

Phobia

(viewed 1165 times)
I am afraid of heights.
It is a pretty serious problem i am told.
Given my line of work there are certain things expected of you. Even more importantly, i am not told, are things that are not expected.
Fear of Heights appears to be one of them. It is why i am seated here waiting.
My condition has been referred to the people above me and some form of reckoning or reconciliation is scheduled to take place.
I think it's a lot of fuss over nothing really but everyone assures me that, in my line of work , it isn't.

You see I am an Angel.

Posted by carlang

8th Aug 2008, 20:51   comments (6)

The Answer.

(viewed 1153 times)
Raven Black Hair. Lovely set of eyes over a lovelier set of lips.
The faintest hint of lingerie peeking through her blouse.
And she was looking at him.
"Dude. She's looking right at you."
"No she isn't." Brad's reply was quick.* Too quick*. Which meant he knew.
"She's cute."
"Er...Yes? I guess." Brad muttered.
"You guess?" I closed my eyes in frustration. "Get up and do something
about it. She's right across the road."
"Er?" Brad looked at the sky.
"You're a chicken." I said.
"No. I'm not. I'm just careful. She might be one of those sexy serial
killers."
"Chicken." I snapped.
He sighed in annoyance.
"Okay. Okay. I'll go meet her."
I watched his nervous gait as he walked across.

And that,* people*, is why the chicken crossed the road.

Posted by carlang

8th Aug 2008, 19:57   comments (3)

It's a Simple Question

(viewed 1064 times)
"The world ended for you, like, a billion years ago. Why are you still here?"

[*]

Posted by Laszlo Q. V. St-J. Xalieri

7th Aug 2008, 16:49   | tags:comments (2)

Contained

(viewed 1034 times)
It's nice how it's all neatly contained like that. All outdoors, stuffed into one tiny rectangle. Where I can keep an eye on it. Out the window. Neatly framed.

If you look out the window and blink your eyes away quickly, the list of things you thought you saw will be a much longer list than what you actually saw. Your brain fills in for you all the things you think you ought to have seen. And screens out a huge amount of what you actually saw that didn't jive with what you thought you'd see.

That's just how your brain works. If you don't like it, there's no one you can sue. Unless you're religious.

The upshot though, is that no matter how much you might want to see something new and unusual, no matter how inclined you are to see the magic, the fairies, the space aliens, the angels and demons, if they aren't already part of your experience, your eyes will just skip over it. Your brain will just skip over it, even if it catches your eye.

Here's evidence. Here's proof. There's something in this picture you won't allow yourself to see. No matter how hard you stare. See?

Don't cry. This happens to you literally thousands of times per day. Get used to it. Stay used to it.

And thank your lucky stars.

[*]

Posted by Laszlo Q. V. St-J. Xalieri

6th Aug 2008, 00:02   | tags:comments (6)

Dragon, Unfortunately Tamed

(viewed 2768 times)
Dragons were so much cooler before we found out definitively how closely they're related to chickens.

Not that chickens aren't themselves vicious beasts when they think they can get away with it, and I'm truly stretching the meaning of the word "think", but that's another story.

Scientists in Montana (or maybe Minnesota), where hobbies are hard to come by, are twiddling the genes of chickens to make them express a few vertebrae towards whiplike tails. Scientists across the border in Canada, where they really ought to know better, are working on giving them their teeth back. Or maybe I have that reversed, the tails and teeth parts, who's doing which. I mean, it hardly matters unless you're a scientist. Or a chicken.

Crocodiles and alligators are fearsome. Anacondas and pythons, Komodo dragons--you can see how these encourage the legends. The bones of giants in the earth--these go a long way in the "larger than life" direction. Fuel the fire of the romance of the mighty.

We could never really decide whether they were supposed to have wings. But we gave them flaming breath and the benefit of the doubt.

And that brings us to now, where all the doubt's in the fryer and their wings give us flaming breath, if you follow the recipe made famous in Buffalo, New York.

How the mighty have fallen.

[*]

Posted by Laszlo Q. V. St-J. Xalieri

5th Aug 2008, 03:11   | tags:comments (6)

Encapsulated

(viewed 1107 times)
When we are most ourselves is when we are barely present.

Doubly, trebly encapsulated, cocooned in sights and sounds and smells that have nothing to do with fight or flight, with feeding, with procreation.

This is the new form of sleeping, and it is old, old, old.

Dolphins sleep half of their brain at a time. That's nothing. We've got it up to nine tenths.

And that is beautiful.

[*]

Posted by Laszlo Q. V. St-J. Xalieri

2nd Aug 2008, 17:25   | tags:comments (3)

Romero

(viewed 1442 times)
Let's try a true story for once.

There's, well, let's call him John. John comes by every now and then to clean up the place. He's short -- about my height -- and maybe a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet. With rocks in his pockets.

John looks rough. He's doing something nonsensical that looks like cleaning, but isn't. He's wiping dust off of some ethernet cables with his hand, accidentally unplugs one, pushes it back in, wipes the top of the little network hub. With his hand.

Here's how rough John looks. He's wearing an undershirt and walking shorts, and he has big splotches of blood on his shirt. Oh. And a pretty decent drippy wound to his left temple. He's walking with a kind of a shuffle.

"What's up, man?" I say. "You all right?"

"Mruh um urhumuhumur urh. Murhuhmurhmuh." He's leaning on a large rolling garbage can for support, which isn't very clear thinking. "Muhhuhrrhuh," he adds.

Some of the equipment -- the cutter, the shrinkwrap machine, a couple of work tables -- have been unceremoniously shoved around a bit. Oh, and there's blood all over the floor and the walls.

Whaddaya know. A George Romero one-man-show performance art piece. One man audience, too.

John is one of the most talkative people I know. Ordinarily. The smack is to the left side of his head. Most people keep all their words on the left side of their head. 911 would seem to be in order. I grab a phone.

"Just making a phone call, John. You find a place to sit and relax."

"Uhruhmuhurhuruh uhrumuruh."

He follows me into the building lobby and makes to pick my bookbag up out of my chair. I tell him not to bother and take it from him gently. He reaches for the desk, which he knows is too much for any ordinary human being to organize. I tell him I'll take care of it.

He wheels another garbage can uselessly around the desk and I tell him to relax and take a load off until his ride gets here. He lays down on a sofa in the lobby.

The fire department gets all the best paramedics in this neck of the suburban woods. A couple of friendly, helpful individuals show up in just a couple of minutes and decide they need to take even more blood out of him (but not too much), and an ambulance shows to give him a lift to the hospital that's pretty much the next block over.

After he's gone they clean up all the rubber gloves and swabs and stuff, but they leave me a few souvenirs. Like this handy set of instructions for professional bondage gear.

And the George Romero set back in the production area. I have an hour or so before the customers are supposed to start coming. I get to work.

 -

Last I heard, John's in the ICU for at least 24 hours' observation. Nobody's got any expectations of any kind at the moment.

[*]

Posted by Laszlo Q. V. St-J. Xalieri

29th Jul 2008, 22:04   | tags:comments (2)