Remember that friend in the intelligence community who I turned on to “24?” He’s hooked. He did at least half of Season 1 yesterday.
Spy Guy via text: “this wasn’t the right show to watch when I have things to do!!”
But it got funner when he “dammitted” me: “DAMMIT DUDE I NEED TO TURN THIS OFF.” (Because spies have an abhorrence for commas.)
Wouldn’t it be funny if an intelligence professional were late for work because he stayed up watching “24?” I’m pretty sure that’s the definition of irony.
Late night memos make me a garrulous Batman.
A … curious new trend on the Internet has been brought to my attention by Len Ornstein, and has been the source of some bemusement for a few Mary Washington College alumnae. Evidently, people are scanning and uploading yearbooks to the net? As I understand it, this is being done not by graduates or those depicted, but … just by random people who enjoy uploading yearbooks?
This strikes me as a totally random and bizarrely specific technology-related hobby. Then I remember arguing in the imdb.com chatrooms with 15-year-olds in Britain about the cultural implications of Wesley Snipes’ “Blade.” (The implications are more divisive than you might expect. That Brit Kid called me a “bellend.” Then everyone laughed at me on Facebook when I posted to ask what the term meant.)
At any rate, allow this to fuel your paranoia, as it has mine. Photos of you that were taken 20 years ago are now available via keyword search. Len, a schoolteacher in Arizona, had his mug brought to his attention by his students.
And if you suffer from the same apparent mutation that I do, pay attention to your mysteriously expanding head.
Exhibit A: Look at the first picture below, which is a page from the 1994 (?) Mary Washington College yearbook. Look at me in the top left corner. (Yes, I majored in psychology, and, no, the irony is not lost on me.) My head is small — and I mean TINY. I don’t think that this was a trick photography gag employed by the yearbook club, because Photoshop kind of wasn’t a thing yet. (My passing resemblance to Danger Mouse here is also a separate matter entirely.)
Exhibit B: Look at the second picture below, which was taken quite recently. My forehead is HUGE. I don’t have a receding hairline. I DON’T. But yet I cannot explain why my forehead appears to be growing at a geometric rate. Seriously, look at it. I should rent out space on that thing. It would go a long way toward supporting my poetry. This might be why Pete Buccellato (also the Class of 1994) has opined repeatedly that I look like “Guy Smiley” from Sesame Street.
I know that one of Green Lantern’s nemeses (Herman something …?) has a giant mutated cranium, but that developed with super-intelligence and telepathic abilities, neither of which I’ve seen evidence of in my life just yet. I keep telling myself that Morrisey also has a large forehead, and I’m pretty sure he gets all the girls, even if he blew it that time with Tori Amos.
Whatever. You can take your mind off your troubles by noting the affable face of a one Mr. Mike Merritt at the bottom right, with whom I am thankfully still friends. That smile informs us once again that he was a sublimely well adjusted kid. It was great knowing Mike back at school. I still remember encountering him on Campus Walk around The Fountain after partying in New Hall. If I was a bit deep in my cups, I would accost him with my endlessly repeated pun for his name: “Merritt Baaaaaaaaaadge!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” The law of diminishing returns apparently worked backward in my 20-year-old mind, because the joke just got funnier every time I hollered it.
In fact, if you are an alum in Virginia and you have occasion to see Mike, would you please yell it at him for me? That’d be just great.
Seriously. Dude has a full-time job in the intelligence community, and he’d never seen a single episode of the program.
So the joke always fell flat when I would call him on the phone and scream, “THERE’S NO TIME, JACK!!!!!!”
Last night he did a Season 1 marathon. And all because a chain-smoking liberal poet told him to.
“IRONY, CHLOE!!!”
Head on over to see what 4-LAN the Robot has to say about “Thimblerig’s Ark,” by Nate Fleming.
A groundhog protagonist? Packs of wild dogs? The Great Flood? This book actually does sound like a hell of a lot of fun!
http://thebookmarketingnetwork.com/profiles/blogs/what-i-am-reading-14
This was passed along to me tonight by a friend and reader of “Dogs Don’t Bark.”
You’ve got me pegged, Carrie — this is me in more ways than one! (Four out of five ex-girlfriends agree.)
Last month was National Poetry Month, and I was linking to various poems — including those penned by friends of mine around the web.
I meant to share one by Jason Sturner, who is a prolific writer and very nice guy. Here is a link to “Out of the Ad Space,” a speculative poem that was voted best poem in the September 2012 issue of “Aoife’s Kiss.”
I was distracted by a poem request from a West Coastie friend, and I took Jason’s out of the queue to accommodate Robert Frost.
Apologies, Jason! Nice work! 🙂
http://jasonsturner.blogspot.com/2013/01/out-of-ad-space.html
America’s most badass emerging poet.
Your grandkids will be reading his stuff in gradeschool along with Poe. And possibly waking up after 1 am with nightmares.
The upside? They’ll understand classical references better than you do.
Seriously. Like, right now. There are a ton of Payday wrappers down here. I thought I was the only one who was facing that challenge in life. (The first step is admitting you have a problem.) Also, that Mickey Mouse ankle sock you lost. (Tasteful.)
Don’t look so surprised. You knew I was a weirdo when you friended me on Facebook. And now I’ve used a public records search to find your house.
Please — nobody say “Yeah, but at least you’re out of the closet.” Because I’ve been getting a lot of those jokes lately, and I’m not sure how to respond to them. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.)
Seriously, though — what I mean is that I am a contributing writer for the May 2014 issue of Under The Bed Magazine, available at the link below for just $3.99. (And if you love the mag as much as I do, you might consider getting a subscription in which each issue is only $1.99.) My horror story is entitled “The Song of the Wheat,” and visits a dark, sprawling Kansas farm where children need never be lonely. For those of you who’ve enjoyed my science fiction-horror, this is my foray into supernatural horror. Think of it as an empiricist’s walk on the wild side.
I can’t describe how fun and cool it is to be able to contribute to Under The Bed. Check out the magazine’s caveat: “Under the Bed contains gruesome violence, adult situations, freaky sex, unconsequenced drug use, and stuff that will almost certainly give you nightmares. Under the Bed is intended for mature audiences. Keep out of reach of children. Please indulge responsibly.”
I am so pleased at the opportunity to work with Managing Editor Wednesday Lee Friday, and I am honored to see my story featured alongside Under The Bed’s talented other horror writers.
Enjoy!! 🙂
http://www.fictionmagazines.com/shop/u-t-b/under-the-bed-vol-02-no-08/
Pictured here is my sophomore year college roommate, Dave, celebrating International Star Wars Day. Perched on his back, quite capably instructing him in the ways of The Force, is his son, Dashiell. I am not sure why Dave also appears to be carrying a small Easter basket, though I might just return to Catholicism again if it were made known that Jedi hid the Easter eggs.
The photo arouses insecurity in me because *I* wanna be the sci-fi movie geek in this town (“this town” being the entire Internet — I’m prone to delusions of grandeur). And now I find out that my old roommie Dave has way better sci-fi flick fan street cred than I do. So I have a whole new mid-life crisis to contend with.
I actually HAVE done cosplay, after a fashion. For years, I purchased my suits for work based on what members of The Syndicate wore in “The X-Files.” Nobody picked up on how awesome I was being. To enhance the effect and better represent Mulder’s nemeses, I spoke vaguely and elliptically to every question asked of me at the office, to conceal a nefarious underlying motive. No one appreciated the flourish, because, let’s face it, I pretty much do that most the time anyway.
Oh, well. I wish Dave well in his fandom, even if I resent the way he’s outshined me here. One, he was a sublimely nice guy in college, and his good nature was an effective counterpoint for my budding sociopathy. He was also a smart fella. After my mother gave me a small used bookcase for academic purposes, it was Dave who suggested that we turn it sideways against the wall to turn it into a bar. Jedi, indeed.
Two, I am also not quite as into Star Wars as many of my friends are. When I roomed with Dave at the age of 19 at Mary Washington College, I was neck deep in an obsession with “2001: A Space Odyssey” — both Arthur C. Clarke’s novel and Stanley Kubrick’s film adaptation. Of course I annoyed my moral better by endlessly quoting the movie at him. (His name, after all, is DAVE.)
“Just what do you think you’re doing, Dave? Dave, stop. Stop, Dave, won’t you? WHY DON’T YOU TAKE A STRESS PILL AND RELAX.”
The harassment finally ended when Dave stopped one day, and gave me a long, hard look, suggesting the ass-kicking I never got but probably deserved since a week after classes started. He told me, “You are TOO into that movie.”
Oh, well. Happy Star Wars Day, everyone. And Dave? You are NOT too into that movie. You rock.
Eric Robert Nolan, Author 