The Creepometer's Dust Has Been Swiffered.

For those people that know me, this ceramic piece may be familiar. Most of my friends now probably don't know much about me around the time that I made it. This was the first piece of many that I made in the time that I played with clay. I was 16 when I made this one. It was somewhat modeled after exagerations of what I saw in the mirror sometimes at that age. I finished it a couple of days before I got shipped to Montana for two months, and I finished glazing it when I got back. A few weeks ago, I took some analogs of it, and thought that it needed to be analyzed by the creepometer. When I find an appropriate picture from the time of creation, I may take the time to redo this superimposition, as it would probably work better. But for the meantime.........whatever. I never took the Jake factor to %100, as it just ruined the whole thing. So, what you have here is 0, 25, 50, and %75 Jakes. %25 percent is my personal favorite. I think that the %25 would take the creepometer to the red, but I would have to ask Tony, as he is the official creepometer official. Without further adookie:

WTF?

I recently had the pleasure/misfortune of playing Trivial Pursuit 90's Edition with 3 actors/writers in LA. I got owned. So, here: who am I? If you can't get this, let me know. I'll send you a stupidity condolence package.

Feast Thine Eyes

OMFG.

I wouldn't normally make a blog post on vacation, but I was treated this internet gem last night. I don't know if you have heard of World of Warcraft, but gamers can dork out on this motherfucker and talk to eachother while they play, as you will see in the video. Most of them take this game way too seriously. Leeroy's clown-hand is very strong. Get a towel.

For Those Who See No Real Meaning....

And on the eighth day, god created Pistachios, John Barleycorn, the current environment of Walmart-übercapitalism, supreme satiation of, and the concurrent suppression of all that makes a man a man; i.e. the domesticated. And by domesticated, I mean emasculated. Wouldn't it be ironic if it were God that gave us Marx's 'Social Darwinism?' A contrived environment in which the most servile, unrighteous, undeserving asshats obtain the power. Oh, wait....Schon passiert. But of course, that is in and of itself contradictory (this circle just became a whirlpool). Distortion of everthing pure and meaningful is now the piper's tune. Jesus becomes pro rich and pro war; to a people that he has no ethnic or cultural realtion. There are no more good wars to fight. Only murder. Us or them. No honor in war anymore. That died in 1945. I missed my chance. There's nothing worth fighting and dying for anymore, unless it's killing embedded FOX news reporters (joke, ok, sort-of joke). I can only hope that when WWIII breaks out, I am still concious of what I believe, able, of sound mind, and well armed.
I'd break something, but I'm too tired from the shop. My grandmother was always right when she said (like other grandmas,) 'idle hands are the Devil's playground.' Moral of the story boys: keep your hands busy, even if it makes you look like rain-man, or Pee-Wee Hermann at a movie theater.

Sehnsucht ist so grausam. RE-Post

I figured I'd put this Heine up in English. It's not Heine-pure, but Heine for-sure: The translation ist interesting, but successfully conveys the point. If you want more German lierature (i.e. stark realism), get you some of Georg Büchner's "Woyczeck," or Gerhardt Hauptmann's "Bahnwärter Thiel." This is German literaure at it's best. My favorite piece is stll Theodor Storm's "Der Schimmelreiter." Without further adue....

Heinrich Heine's "Das Weib"


They both embarked on a loving spree,
She was a crook and so was he.
After the smallest prank that he committed,
She threw herself on the bed and giggled.
The days went by with joy and lust,
At night she laid upon his chest.
The very day he was imprisoned,
She stood by the window and giggled.

Please come to me, he let her hear,
I long so much for you, my dear.
I call you , I am despaired -
She shook her head and giggled.

At the sixth hour of the morning, he hung in disgrace,
At the seventh hour, he was sent to his resting place;
As the strokes of eight could be heard,
She already drank red wine and giggled.