WeatherBug needs to die
I am attempting to exist outside of time. My haphazard sleep schedule over the past few days have left me an empty shell of a mind. I told a friend that I was like a gnat on speed that had been squashed. Sometimes I am beset upon by a frenzy of ideas, only to be struck by lethargy when I am about to act on them. At other times, especially when I toss and turn in a belated attempt to reach something that resembles sleep, I compose entire symphonies in my head based off of Queen's Under Pressure. It cannot be helped that my recent over-exposure to Vanilla Ice has set off a torrent of bad music in my head. They rampage about, destroying anything that resembles a brain cell. Occasionally, a note falls out my nose and flops wildly about the floor. I watch in amusement as it tries to resemble a melody but only turns out to be another one of those lost Jonisms that run naked through the street like a barely-clothed jungle fetish. At times, when I'm supposed to be existing outside of time, I find myself rummaging through the pantry. Last night, in one of my confused frenzies, I imbibed bakers semi-sweet chocolate and found it quite palatable. Today, its sister-twin was inedible and I ran to the kitchen and drowned its bitterness in milk. Such has been the last couple of days. I look forward to escaping everything and leaving for Phoenix. Perhaps the sun will do me well.
------
In the mean time, WeatherBug really needs to die. I've managed to turn off the sound, but the incredible aura of annoyance that emanates from it causes me to clench my sphincter wildly whenever it blinks and feels the need to tell me to click it in order to find what weather has changed. While I find it greatly convenient to note the temperature on my desktop with the greatest of ease, so that I might better pick my outfit for the day, I do not find it necessary to be alerted to minor temperature changes. A change of a few degrees is expected. A change brought by hell freezing or boiling over is not. That warrants a warning, not a breath near the thermometer.
Weather is a dynamic system that is affected by chaotic principles. If weather were to remain static for a long time, I would start to worry. But, it doesn't, and I don't need to be pleasantly reminded that the world works as normal, especially in Normal, which is so frighteningly normal that sometimes I stand outside and shriek just because it disrupts every day expectations.
WeatherBug also feels the need to alert me to minor changes in wind speed, direction, and temperance. I half expect it to note that a Butterfly has farted somewhere in Indochina and a Tsunami is now headed towards central Illinois. I will probably welcome the annoyance and the un-normal events in Normal.
For now, I have a baseball bat that I keep handy. I finger it gently whenever WeatherBug feels the need to warn me that the barometer has dropped a few tenths of a point. One of these days, WeatherBug!
-------
Yesterday was the peak of the Geminid Meteorite shower. I decided to wuss out and miss it. As much as I love astronomy, I despise 12 degree weather even more. And, as my WeatherBug was wont to shout, the temperature was flirting somewhere along the lines of hell froze over and consequentially, demons are now going from door-to-door, asking if they can warm themselves by the radiators.
My wussing out is fine by me. It can't match the memories of my last meteorite shower. A few bottles of Mad Dog 20/20 do much to brighten an evening.
R. and I were much looking forward to the meteorite shower. We had heard that it would be quite good, and the last one for quite some time. The plan was to wait for me to finish work and then somehow acquire the necessary means to flee the lights of Hicktown and then enjoy the shower in the resplendent quiet of a local cornfield. Well, plans didn't quite work out that way. We weren't able to get the car. So, in order to compensate, we decided to pick up some Black and Milds, and a few bottles of Mad Dog 20/20. The stars were going to find us kicking, ghetto-style.
Kicking, ghetto-style meant dragging a couch out of my fraternity house and attempting to start a fire in an available cistern. We had some previous experience in wood gathering and fire starting from a camping trip taken a few weeks earlier, which, for the sake of amusement, I'll have to describe another time. In this situation, chance to say, two city-boys scrounging for wood, at night, near a fraternity house made for some interesting glances. We didn't find much, but we had ample wet wood, lighter fluid, and paper stolen from the fraternity phone book.
A few swigs from one of the bottle, a few curses, and a whole lot of lighter fluid got us a nice little fire. It was a beautiful thing. We felt like primordial man. We dance around the fire a bit, quaffed out bottles, and shouted manly man-things at the night sky. For all our posturing, the fire died within a few moments. I seethed, drenched the fucker in lighter fluid, and toasted the night again. This time, we didn't celebrate. We simply drank, light our cigars, and watched the sky.
There wasn't much to see. Occasionally, a white streak would punctuate the silence, but for the most part, the stars remained resoundingly resolute. Had we been sober, we would've been quite upset. We, however, weren't. The Mad-Dog had done it's job, ghetto style. And, we were doing out jobs, R. and Jon style. We flung lies and stories at each other, at a rate per minute that would have been the equivalent of a meteorite shower.
Some parts of the night are blank, and I suppose it's best left that way. At a certain time, we decided to call it quits. The smoke from our coated paper had created a cloudy cover that palled over most of the northern sky. Consequentially, we were unable to see meteorites. Besides, it was time for us to go inside and continue drinking. The fire was still going and it needed to be put out.
I decided to piss the fire out. The plan worked for a short time, but the alcoholic content of my urine actually caused the fire to come back stronger than it had been when it died. The flames were such that I leapt out of the way and found it in myself to kick the fucking thing over. Heated embers created new meteorite streaks, and one found itself on the couch. It decided to start smoking. We didn't notice it for a bit because we were busy being amused at my explosive piss, but the smoke coming from the couch was a siren's call we couldn't ignore.
I flung myself at the couch and quickly stomped about in a furtive attempt to quench our created fallen stars. R. busied himself stomping out various embers glowing in the grass. Our plan worked, until the fire caught on an unlit paper and burned bright on the ground. This required drastic action. I whipped it out again and urinated on the fire, again. This time, the fire stayed dead. The frat-yard, however, was a mess of ash, dead embers, empty Mad Dog bottles, and stubbed-out cigars. The carnage required big men who weren't afraid to clean. R. and I fled the scene and flopped on a hill about a block from my home.
I don't remember what we talked about, but I did see a few more meteorites fling themselves into the atmosphere. Really, every outing should be a drunken affair.
Post-Script
R. has since informed me that we didn't burn paper from the fraternity phone book. We actually bured a huge pile of plastic-sheened valu-pak advertisement papers that, according to him, gave off weird blue and green smoke. Apparently we managed to kill what few brain-cells we had left with this smoke and ran around babbling nonsense and threatening to wash the naked bottoms of cocky-roaches.
If that is the case, I'm stockpiling Valu-pak and opening my very own witch-doctor shop, a-la the Oracle of Delphi. I'm sure people would pay to see me spasm on the ground while sprouting valuable bits of Jon-wisdom.
(The Oracle of Delphi sat over a hole from which smoke emerged. The smoke caused the Oracle to enter a trance. The gods spoke through her only when she was in this trance-state.)
---------
I have the weirdest tendencies to alliterate. Let me illustrate:
Concrete Hipster: Willy Wonka Wacks Wieners Well Worth Wailing Words Why We Want Willy Wonka's Wonderful Whacking
R: What? :-D
K: why were words written watchfully? whimsy?
Concrete Hipster: Wearily we wove weirdness while westerners watched, wearing wracked wonder.
K: you guys are such nerds
R: Alliteration Hell
Concrete Hipster: My quota of Ws for the day has been spent
Concrete Hipster: I had to borrow deeply to finish some words. But, the W deficit is really good for the economy and we can just borrow more Ws to make up for the Ws we owe
R: You're an apt presidential candidate, friend
Concrete Hipster: I learned from the W
------
In the mean time, WeatherBug really needs to die. I've managed to turn off the sound, but the incredible aura of annoyance that emanates from it causes me to clench my sphincter wildly whenever it blinks and feels the need to tell me to click it in order to find what weather has changed. While I find it greatly convenient to note the temperature on my desktop with the greatest of ease, so that I might better pick my outfit for the day, I do not find it necessary to be alerted to minor temperature changes. A change of a few degrees is expected. A change brought by hell freezing or boiling over is not. That warrants a warning, not a breath near the thermometer.
Weather is a dynamic system that is affected by chaotic principles. If weather were to remain static for a long time, I would start to worry. But, it doesn't, and I don't need to be pleasantly reminded that the world works as normal, especially in Normal, which is so frighteningly normal that sometimes I stand outside and shriek just because it disrupts every day expectations.
WeatherBug also feels the need to alert me to minor changes in wind speed, direction, and temperance. I half expect it to note that a Butterfly has farted somewhere in Indochina and a Tsunami is now headed towards central Illinois. I will probably welcome the annoyance and the un-normal events in Normal.
For now, I have a baseball bat that I keep handy. I finger it gently whenever WeatherBug feels the need to warn me that the barometer has dropped a few tenths of a point. One of these days, WeatherBug!
-------
Yesterday was the peak of the Geminid Meteorite shower. I decided to wuss out and miss it. As much as I love astronomy, I despise 12 degree weather even more. And, as my WeatherBug was wont to shout, the temperature was flirting somewhere along the lines of hell froze over and consequentially, demons are now going from door-to-door, asking if they can warm themselves by the radiators.
My wussing out is fine by me. It can't match the memories of my last meteorite shower. A few bottles of Mad Dog 20/20 do much to brighten an evening.
R. and I were much looking forward to the meteorite shower. We had heard that it would be quite good, and the last one for quite some time. The plan was to wait for me to finish work and then somehow acquire the necessary means to flee the lights of Hicktown and then enjoy the shower in the resplendent quiet of a local cornfield. Well, plans didn't quite work out that way. We weren't able to get the car. So, in order to compensate, we decided to pick up some Black and Milds, and a few bottles of Mad Dog 20/20. The stars were going to find us kicking, ghetto-style.
Kicking, ghetto-style meant dragging a couch out of my fraternity house and attempting to start a fire in an available cistern. We had some previous experience in wood gathering and fire starting from a camping trip taken a few weeks earlier, which, for the sake of amusement, I'll have to describe another time. In this situation, chance to say, two city-boys scrounging for wood, at night, near a fraternity house made for some interesting glances. We didn't find much, but we had ample wet wood, lighter fluid, and paper stolen from the fraternity phone book.
A few swigs from one of the bottle, a few curses, and a whole lot of lighter fluid got us a nice little fire. It was a beautiful thing. We felt like primordial man. We dance around the fire a bit, quaffed out bottles, and shouted manly man-things at the night sky. For all our posturing, the fire died within a few moments. I seethed, drenched the fucker in lighter fluid, and toasted the night again. This time, we didn't celebrate. We simply drank, light our cigars, and watched the sky.
There wasn't much to see. Occasionally, a white streak would punctuate the silence, but for the most part, the stars remained resoundingly resolute. Had we been sober, we would've been quite upset. We, however, weren't. The Mad-Dog had done it's job, ghetto style. And, we were doing out jobs, R. and Jon style. We flung lies and stories at each other, at a rate per minute that would have been the equivalent of a meteorite shower.
Some parts of the night are blank, and I suppose it's best left that way. At a certain time, we decided to call it quits. The smoke from our coated paper had created a cloudy cover that palled over most of the northern sky. Consequentially, we were unable to see meteorites. Besides, it was time for us to go inside and continue drinking. The fire was still going and it needed to be put out.
I decided to piss the fire out. The plan worked for a short time, but the alcoholic content of my urine actually caused the fire to come back stronger than it had been when it died. The flames were such that I leapt out of the way and found it in myself to kick the fucking thing over. Heated embers created new meteorite streaks, and one found itself on the couch. It decided to start smoking. We didn't notice it for a bit because we were busy being amused at my explosive piss, but the smoke coming from the couch was a siren's call we couldn't ignore.
I flung myself at the couch and quickly stomped about in a furtive attempt to quench our created fallen stars. R. busied himself stomping out various embers glowing in the grass. Our plan worked, until the fire caught on an unlit paper and burned bright on the ground. This required drastic action. I whipped it out again and urinated on the fire, again. This time, the fire stayed dead. The frat-yard, however, was a mess of ash, dead embers, empty Mad Dog bottles, and stubbed-out cigars. The carnage required big men who weren't afraid to clean. R. and I fled the scene and flopped on a hill about a block from my home.
I don't remember what we talked about, but I did see a few more meteorites fling themselves into the atmosphere. Really, every outing should be a drunken affair.
Post-Script
R. has since informed me that we didn't burn paper from the fraternity phone book. We actually bured a huge pile of plastic-sheened valu-pak advertisement papers that, according to him, gave off weird blue and green smoke. Apparently we managed to kill what few brain-cells we had left with this smoke and ran around babbling nonsense and threatening to wash the naked bottoms of cocky-roaches.
If that is the case, I'm stockpiling Valu-pak and opening my very own witch-doctor shop, a-la the Oracle of Delphi. I'm sure people would pay to see me spasm on the ground while sprouting valuable bits of Jon-wisdom.
(The Oracle of Delphi sat over a hole from which smoke emerged. The smoke caused the Oracle to enter a trance. The gods spoke through her only when she was in this trance-state.)
---------
I have the weirdest tendencies to alliterate. Let me illustrate:
Concrete Hipster: Willy Wonka Wacks Wieners Well Worth Wailing Words Why We Want Willy Wonka's Wonderful Whacking
R: What? :-D
K: why were words written watchfully? whimsy?
Concrete Hipster: Wearily we wove weirdness while westerners watched, wearing wracked wonder.
K: you guys are such nerds
R: Alliteration Hell
Concrete Hipster: My quota of Ws for the day has been spent
Concrete Hipster: I had to borrow deeply to finish some words. But, the W deficit is really good for the economy and we can just borrow more Ws to make up for the Ws we owe
R: You're an apt presidential candidate, friend
Concrete Hipster: I learned from the W
posted by Jon at 1:31 PM
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