Google Wave

Gonna play with Google Wave for awhile, I might attempt to integrate it with this site, but for what purpose?

It's like inventing a pivoting socket wrench before many people have bolts to deal with, it's a fantastic tool for solving an unimportant issue.

Anyway, how should I implement it?

1905 San Francisco

See ancient San Francisco, and marvel, all ye who look thereupon! The amount of awesome here is palpable.

Jordan Stuart, Spaceman.

One day, as Peter sighted down the barrel of his 30-30, searching for the most vulnerable part of the slowly advancing zombie, he paused to consider his various life choices that led to this horrible situation.

The monsters had attacked earlier, a sign of the impending apocalypse, but were largely ignored by the smart people, while the simple-minded loaded their rifles and let fly at anything that appeared suspect. Smart people are stupid like that.

Peter's life choices had been generally poor in the past, but deciding to always carry a rifle everywhere had been a spectacularly good one. Not only was it handy for shooting ATF agents and endangered species, it was also good for shooting zombies and monsters.

He spit a wad of chew into the bushes and squeezed off another shot, blasting a fountain of gore into the air.

"Eat that, ya dirty zombie" he quipped.

* * *

Above the burning apocalypse hovered a lonely spacecraft, a classic rocketship with big fins and lots of chrome, the kind that cool people fly. This little baby went completely unnoticed, as most of the people and institutions responsible for noticing these things were either zombified or on fire.

Inside was a really cool cat, the man who had stolen this sexy spacecraft from Ferris Aeronautics himself, Jordan Stuart. He chomped on a cigar, poured another shot of whiskey, and stared at the amber Earth below through his sunglasses.

"Dunno," he said to his amazingly beautiful girlfriend who sat next to him, "Think we should stick around?"

"Blow this joint." She responded. He flipped a switch, grasped the controls in his big manly hands, and stomped on something on the floor which sent them hurtling into the nether.

* * *

Below them, the Earth consumed itself. Ragtag teams of misfits and solitary heroes fought bravely, a few big budget explosions wiped out major cities, but the survivors didn't have a chance.

* * *

Aboard the Earth's only known rocketship, Jordan and his girlfriend Zoe poured over a bunch of charts and shopping catalogs. They sipped the drinks they poured, and relaxed in comfy chairs when they weren't in the control room pushing buttons and reading control screens. The life support systems would last indefinitely, and the chances of getting bit by a zombie were slim to none. Infomercials were a thing of the past.

Day after whatever you could call a day in space passed, as they rocketed through the empty night. Through the chaos, and past the edges of our known solar system, Earth's coolest couple flew. Where, they knew not. But they didn't care. Anywhere was better than the hell-hole they had left.

* * *

Ping.

Ping.

Ping.

* * *

While Jordan and Zoe slept, the ships computer recorded a signal emanating from a standard galactic navigational beacon. These were installed throughout the galaxy when super-high speed travel hit the mainstream, as normal dead reckoning methods were obsoleted, and new methods were required.

With no way to know this, our heroes continued to shoot through space, leaving the beacon far behind them.

Their passage was not completely without incident however, as the beacon relayed all relevant information regarding their passage to the Galaxy Travel Board (a now defunct agency), and a small device taped to the side of the beacon sent the same information to a dark and jagged ship orbiting a large asteroid nearby.

The jagged ship was crewed by a nasty band of outlaws, escaped convicts, tax collectors, the flotsam and jetsam of the criminal world, and general riff-raff of space. These turned to piracy as their main revenue source, and hid from the authorities in the far reaches of the galaxy, waiting on the signal from a hijacked beacon to launch them into action.

* * *

The Pirate Captain leered into his readout screen and tugged his beard thoughtfully.

"Unknown craft, probably a small private vessel." A nearby crewman read out, his tentacles waving around, pushing buttons and moving food in and out his various food orifices.

The Captain nodded, "We need the practice anyway."

He gave the order to attack.

Sir Lord John Fritzlebald's Adventure Journal

11/2/09 My last adventure was cut short as I had urgent business at home to which I was forced to attend, and after a great deal of thought and consideration, I have decided to embark once again on the Great Adventure. Having learned the harsh lessons the last failed adventure had to teach, I made absolutely certain that the booze would not run out.

11/4/09 I picked up some more Ovaltine, just in case, and stowed it among the boxes of fedoras and crates of alcohol already aboard the steamer Poseidon's Nipple, and set about a devious scheme to cheat the sailors at cards.

11/19/09 Sick, extremely sick. Most of the booze was lost in a card game which I pretty much won, but some sailors convinced me that sharing the booze was more advisable than getting stabbed for cheating at cards. I've been drinking water for 2 days and mal de mer is unbearable.

11/22/09 We stopped in some port or another, and stocked up on the local beer and wine, which is pretty vile, but it beats the bilge water I've been forced to consume. Also, the captain owns part of my estate back home, on account of a straight flush.

11/23/09 First mate Something Smith is now captain of this d____ boat, as the original captain left for home, probably to take command of my house and servants, which I hope murder him in his sleep, the cheating b_____.

11/25/09 Stock of beer is gone, we are reduced to drinking the local wines like savages. Several of the men have lit a fire on the deck and are roasting an animal or something over it, but as the leader of this expedition, I must attend to the important things, like building a still in the hold so we don't die.

11/27/09 Most of the ship was destroyed in a fire, but we've fortunately found a hotel here in Portsmouth and I've sent back home for more supplies. While the ship burned, the still failed catastrophically and I was unable to salvage it. Also, many of the men are dangerously angry for some reason. I hope their stupid hut they constructed out of charred boat pieces falls on their ugly heads.

11/28/09 Hotel is quite nice, I think I'll recuperate here before launching into another harrowing adventure, my supplies have arrived, and I'm quite content with the lodgings. I shall remain here until these supplies run dry and then will set out on the hazardous journey home where I shall confront said captain. This adventure is over for now.

Due to popular demand, I will appease my teeming masses of fans with yet another, shockingly terse and devastatingly hilarious postarooni.

I may have set the bar a little high there, so forget I wrote that last bit, and pretend that you aren't sure whether this will be a depressing look into refrigerator maintenance and repair , or possibly an erotic Mario Bros. fan fic.

You are know in the proper mood to enjoy the rest of this literary delight which I hereby present to you, the gullible little mook who has been tricked into visiting this page.

Ahem. Drum roll please!

And begin.

Whoops, had to close another window I was looking at which was Twilight related, and did not want polluting my above average mind which is rapidly filling with nonsense faster than I can spew it out of my fingers.

So now my mind is clear.

Begin.

Aeons ago, in a foggy grey land,

Sat a small village with a lonely kirk,

And a tavern, some sheep and a mule.

But deep in the woods, the foggy grey woods,

Lay two robots, silent and rusty.

Their eyes were stuck shut,

So they could not see the foggy grey land,

Nor the small village with the lonely kirk,

Nor tavern, the sheep or the mule, not each other.

Yet a high frequency blip echoed through the wood.

Oh, the Automaton sighed (for the blip was a voice),

Where am I? And where is my darling?

Where is my Android I've lost in the wood?

She shed a tear and and she sighed.

This is conducive to oxidation.

Another voice wanders through the fog,

In answer and sorrow.

It is quiet, and lost in the wood,

Without anyone to hear it or notice.

The mourning cry of the Android.

Though when the wind changes,

And the North Wind blows,

The Android's cry rides on the wind,

Carried across the water,

He cries for his Automaton.

Rusty and still, the Android sits,

His eyes swollen shut, his head in his lap,

And his heart in a thousand pieces.

His Automaton sits not a foot from his grasp,

But neither one knows this.

If ever you are in the foggy grey woods,

Past the old kirk and tavern,

Listen with care and with kindness

To find the two robots who are lost in the wood,

And oil their joints so I can sleep.

Polaroid Psycho Psanalysis

Polaroid photos make you look like a murderer. This is a fact. If you manage to scrounge up the now-discontinued-once-ubiquitous camera from the photographic netherworld, snap a picture of your sweetest little kitten or even a prairie dog, and prepare to cringe in an instinctual defense posture as the terrifying face of a psychotic killer stares back at you with cold, beady little eyes.

If you still have a box of old photos lying around somewhere, collecting dust, or have managed to slap those suckers into a photo album (like some sort of crazy person would put polaroids into a nice photo album,) you can dig those up and take a quick peek at your sad embarrassing past.

Done? Ok, are you surprised none of the subjects have murdered and raped their way into a mental institution? If not, you might have had a regular camera, better look a little longer. Polaroids have big white borders, an extra layer, and the image of the very devil captured in every one.

I have a few theories. One is that the polarizing effect only filters out whatever good is present in the world, and only captures the malignant and horrible.

The other theory is that the quality is shit and the lighting is pathetic, and the photographer has the skills of a manatee.

Neither theory is completely supported by the evidence, nor is completely thought out by anyone qualified to make that judgement.

Another theory is that the world is truly evil, and that the camera merely captures the truth of the matter; some have even posited that the mechanism of the camera works on an occult principle, using some sort of demonic imp inside the physical camera itself, sketching the world as seen through it's twisted little eye, but those people are nuts, one should treat their theories with caution.

Once upon a time, in some place or another, a tiny village sat.  Partly because of the steep and dangerous mountains that surrounded it, and partly because of the fierce dragon that guards it, this village escaped both the detrimental and beneficial effects of time that changed the world around it.

Inside this village, life is simple, vowels are frequent, fairies are benign, and the greatest mind the world has never known works diligently away in a dark and musty study.

Ancient tomes, bubbling concoctions, and whirling contraptions littered the already cramped study, reducing it from cramped to claustrophobic nightmare dimensions with just enough room for one man to navigate the gargantuan piles of books and oddities from cluttered desk to cluttered desk.

The wiry man behind the madness appears to work very hard translating an ancient document of some sort, surrounded by the appropriate paraphernalia related to such a pursuit, but instead he is about half way through a crossword puzzle that sits on his lap.  He taps a pencil idly on his chair, and in a moment, reaches behind him to place a phonograph needle back on track before leaning back and taking a sip from a glass sitting on the desk beside him.

This is the lair of one of the great heroes belonging to this village, the Mechanic.  The other two are the Captain and the Governor.  The Captain spends his days drilling and marching out of doors with his handful of deputies, and the Governor hosts parties every night.  Everyone else has a normal job, farming, shepherding, blacksmithing, keeping an eye on the dragon, or mining the mountains for sugar and precious metals.

Everyone in the village knows the Captain and the Governor very well, their hero status is unassailable, but the Mechanic is rarely seen.  A few people believe he is a normal villager, perhaps somewhat invalid, or a nut perpetuating a few myths, but he is, indeed, a hero.

All of the Captain's war machines (both of them) were designed by the Mechanic, the Governor's parties are powered by rumbling machines designed by the Mechanic, and oddly enough, the pretty pictures on the wall, and the dazzling coloured light displays are also designed by the Mechanic.  

Sir Lord John Fritzlebald's Adventure Journal

2/1/08 I joined the Intrepid Explorers League, and my first assignment was to explore Lost South American Dinosaur Mesas.  I packed up my belongings, and sold them at a slight loss, and then swapped assignments with the tall gentleman from Nice, and then stole the assignment back when he wasn't looking, because looking for Dinosaurs is much safer than exploring Detroit's sewers.

2/2/08 I headed out to Abercrombie & Fitch, American Outfitters, and Hot Topic to load up on supplies, and grabbed a pile of gummy bears and some pretzels for substinence.  My canteen was full of Ovaltine, and my heart was full of courage.

2/3/08 The aeroplane I chartered was a rickety old contraption built before the great war, and the pilot seemed about the same age.  I had my equipment and unconcious companions were stowed in the back, along with a years supply of booze and sunblock.  I entered a drunken stupor at 900 hours, and the flight left at 901 hours.

3/1/08 My drunken stupor has worn off, and I'm surprised to find South America is full of desert, and my mouth is full of blood.   I have no idea where the pilot went with the aeroplane, and I believe he absconded with all of my supplies and companions.   I have no hope of survival, no booze or women, I may as well sit here and die.

3/2/08 Praise the Heavens!  I have constructed a still and am distilling my own liquor from local cacti and crushed insects.  Now to do some exploring!

3/3/o8 Crickey, I'm plum done in, right knackered I am, best to sit here and drink a little moonshine.

3/10/08 I've run out of moonshine, and have decided to explore a bit further, perhaps I'll make it to that large house on the hilltop that has been haunting my dreams and hosting loud parties which give me wildly painful headaches.

3/11/08 Just my luck, the the gentleman that owns this house on the hill is an avid hunter, he desires to hunt the 'most dangerous game' in the world, and but I've seen that film before, so I've just bludgeoned him with a crudgel, and stuffed him in a wardrobe while I assault his wine cellar.

3/20/08 Wine cellar depleted, back to the adventure.  I crammed my pockets full of port and brandy, and my pack is full of various cheeses and a couple of tongues.  My canteen of Ovaltine is still untouched.  I swiped a map of the area from a filling station, but I can't read this silly colonial dialect. 

3/21/08 Deadly ill, must have eaten something bad, perhaps accidentally drank water?

4/4/08 Pretty tired of all this damned adventuring, I never expected life to be this hard, a couple bottles of the port are corked, and I have to carry all this crap myself.  I've been dragging all of my supplies behind me, and I'm exhausted. 

4/5/08 Hallejulah, I've been picked up by a kindly gentleman on his way to make a profitable business deal somewhere to the south, I'm well on my way now!

I didn't really have anything to write today, so I'm posting a few bits of my dreams I had written down not too long ago.  This one I had a tough time remembering, but it started with a journey through a enigmatic and eccentric building filled with odd bits buried in the cornerse of my mind somewhere.

The comforting reward room is packed with jokes and neat gimmicks, but somehow, it collapses into a disaster area, a pop-culture poster comes alive and suggests you take a random length of duct to a fabrication machine for some reason, but you can't find it, you notice things along the way that weren't there before, or are now ominous, in the way, or malfunctioning.

Screwing lightbulbs into a skull, in order to make the whole room descend like an elevator, can only tell that might happen from outside the room. The increasingly evil looking skull begins to snap at your fingers, and a bulb breaks.

The sky, seen from the backdoor is at the end of a beautiful sunset. Stars are visible, but there is a storm on the way.

One of the rooms you come across is now inhabited by odd fantasy-type characters, like toys come to life, they ignore you, and just do their own thing.

This one started differently, but I barely remember it, so it basically starts here, inside my bedroom.

Outside the window, something mysterious inexplicably grabs your attention. Your find yourself outside, where the horizon fills your view with the dark shapes of trees and nearby buildings, dimly lit by the night, until you look up at the sky, where a silently growing symphony accompanies your every glance, where all that are nearby are drawn, where the moon sits serenely, the quiet source of the curious music.

Lunar eclipse sends the world into chaos, surrounding clouds explode into reddish colored plumes overhead, framing the eclipse in wild shapes, growing shapes inside of which entire worlds of contrasting hues and shades seem to exist, until you are watching universes burst into being and then crash wildly into each other, sending galaxies of color swirling away together. Galaxies are filled with people and planets interacting, fantastic beasts and familiar memories of your past whirl together in the clouds, seeming to originate from the glowing lunar eclipse.

Is reaching this lunar spectacle possible? You feel as if it is close, as if you could climb a small stair and step inside this chaotic realm, where matters of divine importance call for your attention.

Dr. Pierce McWiggle scratched a writhing tenticle across his brow and tasted some of the charred honeydew melon.

"Interesting." 

Honeydew melon does not grow on this planet, though several varieties of vegetable and one animal are somewhat similar.  None of them travel at very high velocities, and few get charred on their own.

"Fruit may be extraterrestrial in orgin."  He jotted down with a serpentine finger a few more notes, and then got to work.

Dr. McWiggle consumed the entire Corpus Delicti with gusto and vinegar, and carefully filed away the report.

  

 

Little spherical bits of frozen vomit drifted aimlessly through space, clinked off a passing asteroid, and smashed into the atmosphere of a large pink planet.  The portions of scotch burst into flame, but the honeydew melon survived the journey, making landfall in several charred chunks.

The medical examiner dusted off his tenticles, and scribbled on a chart.

"Cause of death appears to be high-velocity impact of charred fruit of some sort, smashing the skull into itty bitty pieces."

Not wanting to fill his airsick bag yet again, Race Lardjaugh unrolled the window to his Xtireme fighter ship and vomited explosively out into the vaccum of space, the moist chunks of freezedried honeydew melon embraced in little orbs of bile and scotch got caught in the ships gravity well and began a revolting orbit around it.

Race rolled his window back up, and wiped his mouth.  

"Burp"