Other Blogs That Are Good:
+ CAN-SMASHING ROBOT
+ Spacebeer
+ THINGS I FOUND AT THE THRIFT STORE
+ That Joke Isn't Funny Anymore
+ The Loom of Ruin
+ Adventures In A Hurricane
+ The Guillotine in America: a Non-Existent History
Keeping up appearances.
All I ever seem to do when I get on my computer is write cover letters and sob at my bank account. The closest thing I seem to do to blogging is in the form of a Bill Hicks-esque stand-up routine at band practice. It’s not that good.
One of my bandmates is the skinniest person I know who is probably not battling an eating disorder. He eats white castle and drinks diet soda. He won’t drink ‘dark’ beers. He’s the most mentally stable of all of us. How does that work?
Immortal - Blashyrkh (Mighty Ravendark)
A buddy of mine has turned me onto black metal from Norway, Sweden, & Finland. I do chuckle at the tropes that contribute to it all, what with the face paint, vocal styles, and ridiculous lyrics. This is as close to liking Kiss that I will ever get.
I forgot most of what happened in this dream when i woke up…
I do not remember the beginning or the end of the dream I had last night, but part of it included getting yelled at by catholic grown-ups (I forgot to mention, I was a kid in this dream), and then running around outside at night and shooting light out of my fingertips.
BILL RIPKEN - Obvious candidate for your co-hort of fellow survivors for the zombie apocalypse. HE NAMED HIS BAT ‘FUCK FACE’.
I can’t tell if early 1990’s baseball card graphic design sucked or was incredible.
Totally awesome dream:
My wife and I wake up. Our daughter is also awake. We mention to each other that we are pretty hungry and we begin to list breakfast spots that we’d like to go to. We think of places in St. Paul that we haven’t been to. I suggest a restaurant. Incidentally, this is a restaurant in which I’ve received cryptic notes while dining ( note: this has re-occurred a couple times in dreams before. The first time had Matt Walsh as my server who I originally suspected of giving me a very strange, nonsensical note. ) So we go to this restaurant.
We get to the restaurant and order food. Our waitress refills my coffee and mentions that we’ve met before, but I don’t know her at all. She tells me that her other employer has an opening that I’d be suited for. I dismiss the conversation until I find a note in front of me that lists an an address, date, and time. There’s also a large amount of incoherent phrases written on it that try to tell the story of a pilot on an airliner.
I come to a few seconds later outside of some sort of sod house, and an older man who looks like Hans-Joachim Roedelius lets me in when I knock on the door. There are several people inside, including my waitress. The walls are made of old wood, the floor is dirt, but yet there are many tables and desks with computers on them. I begin issuing instructions to people around me on what to do and I seem to be well liked. I go into what must be the back office of the sod house and read a newspaper article about myself. I am supposedly working on some sort of avant-garde computer game that will unite humanity despite language and cultural differences.
I find myself in the bar of a fancy and modern hotel where I am sitting with a group of people who I recognize as my friends, late at night. I am interrupted by the waitress from earlier and a group of people who seem slightly upset with me, but ask me to come with them. I follow them to an elevator, and eventually to their hotel room. Everyone but me begins to search the room for listening devices. I sit on the bed and look out the window of the hotel room and note that it is too high of a window to jump out of without dying.
I begin to feel worried until everyone relaxes and takes a seat. The waitress explains to me that these people in the room are actually representatives of an extra-terrestrial intelligence seeking to prevent the fascist president-elect from initiating a world-wide police-state which would begin with America. She tells me that the video game that I’ve helped developed has made me a billionaire and that this president wants me on his cabinet, which would make me an ideal candidate to get close enough to poison this man.
I then woke up outside of my dream in my actual house. I was actually awake. I thought for a while how my subconscious came up with this dream, and I realized that on my lunch break at work, I had read a bunch plot summaries of Philip K. Dick novels on wikipedia (obvious themes of facism and alien intelligences). I also realized that the sod house was one I had visited in South Dakota as a kid and that the waitress was an employee of mine from a few years ago.
Post reblogged from Imaginary Image Blog with 11 notes
A photo of Mr. Rogers on set smoking the biggest blunt you’ve ever seen, with Jordan 1’s on
Source: imaginaryimageblog
So a blogger (aka Robocratic-States) walks into a doctors office…
… and says, ‘Doctor, I’m having all of these problems.’ Then the doctor says, ‘That’s because your body stopped being able to process vitamin D in February 2011.’
Massive quantities of vitamin D is the exact same buzz as a vicodin, but you don’t have to worry about having a beer with it. And you can’t sleep.
I agree…
…. With Dr. Mystery on this one. Nostalgia serves, at times, an important and nice purpose. Usually it’s not though. Usually it’s cloying, stupid, and a waste of time.
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