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I have emerged, caked in dust and triumph, from my mad cleaning jag; nay, cleaning pogrom. Innocent furnitures were moved. Many were slain. Let the wailing of orphaned dustbunnies be the music of the wretched, and their bitter tears their wine. Deus Vult.

Pleasantly full and tingly, with warming Sichuan peppercorns and red chili oil in by belly, I feel a bit like a kerosene lantern, but in a good way.

The tea-smoked duck, which was what I went in craving, didn't disappoint. The crispy three-chili chicken surpassed expectations, and was easily the standout of the meal. The lamb, while possessed of pleasing flavors, was a bit salty for my taste, but the spicy pig intestines were tender and succulent. The dragon wonton, in addition to being quite tasty, served double duty in that their sauce, over rice, made a good palate cleanser (helpful to prevent your mouth from going completely numb).

What To Look For
-The necessity of convincing the server that yes, you realize that you're ordering a big bowl of spicy hog guts, and yes, your delicate gwailo constitution can handle it.
-The increasing difficulty of finding a clean place on your napkin, so as to not smear burning red oily doom into your eyes or nose.
-The panic of the guy who isn't familiar with ma la seasoning, and isn't expecting things like "numbness" or "tingling" to play a part in his dinner.

As someone for whom "refreshing tingle" tends to mean "ohgoditburns" in regards to substances applied to the skin, I've historically avoided Burt's Bees for the most part (and of course "warming lubes", though that's another story). However, the Honey variety is quite lovely, and its therapeutic qualities and silky texture are contributing in large part to reducing the secondary but lingering effects of my cold. Namely, the unfortunate condition in which it seems like one's nose and lips have been rubbed raw by a scouring pad wrapped in a splendid array of preserved cat tongues.

So, yeah, pretty good stuff.

These digital pictures aren't as good as the analog photos that were taken, but I don't really feel like screwing around with my scanner. These were taken by my step-mother, hence her son mugging in some of these.

( Blow me down. )

We have power back now; we lost it about 12:30 last night. We got hit pretty much dead center; both eyewalls creamed us pretty solidly. The rain hitting the windows sounded exactly like a pressure washer, and never mind about this effete sideways-rain shit: here, it rained up.

At some indeterminate point about 4 in the morning, the eye passed overhead, and we were able to ascertain damage. My truck boldly saved the others in our driveway from being hit by limbs, taking the blows upon herself in a valiant gesture of self-sacrifice. Thankfully, the damage was limited to a bent antenna and some light scratching; given the vehicle in question, no one will ever notice. Given that we'd been without power for some four hours at that point, it was nice to get out of the sweltering house and into the cool, breezy calm to joke with the neighbors about property damage. As we'd see the next day, the neighborhood would really pull together to help each other out; the gallows camaraderie in the face of the second, more powerful, eyewall was just an initial taste.

Round 2 made the first stretch seem like a rank amateur; neither wind nor houses should make those noises. Our fence was completely flattened, surprising no one, but the main attraction was the ash tree in our front yard. Struck with some kind of unspeakable torsion, the tree twisted until it snapped down the middle, from crown to roots. It looked a bit like a lightning strike, without the burns. The larger portion fell into the street, thankfully not onto our house, and blocked it off completely. The next day was filled with people driving and walking by to gawk at it and take pictures (if you find any, I want to see them), until the stout lads from the City came with their trucks and backhoe and descended upon the mass of fallen greenery like army ants with chainsaws.

To make a long story, well, shorter, at least, we got incredibly lucky on numerous counts. Shout outs to Lord Ganesha, Remover of Obstacles, our neighbors who let us run an extension cord to their generator to run our refrigerator, and those beautiful bastards at Centerpoint Energy, without whom I would be languishing in a stifling hell instead of posting this.

Plenty of pictures were taken for insurance purposes, hope to post some soon.

No one said anything about posting questions, just answers. So while I may be forced to play Captain Exposition for your sick amusement, hamburger, I'll be damned if you or anyone else will get my precious, precious context.

1. Bread. The process fulfills me on multiple levels.

2. I would be interested to see what urban niches the Troodon would fill, given the opportunity. Tempting as it is to toss in some rampaging behemoth, Troodon's got a better chance of having an ultimately larger effect and becoming a functional member of the ecosystem, assuming a favorable climate and that they survive the first winter. Packs of small, intelligent omnivores roaming the alleys and storm drains, feeding on roaches, squirrels, pigeons, and housecats. Levying their binocular vision to avoid being hit by cars. Becoming beloved household pets (until they savagely eviscerate the neighbor's toddler).

3. My all-time favorites are ones I really don't have anymore. When I was younger, and trapped in some long, uneventful pattern (i.e., school lecture, car trip), and when it was unfeasible to, say, doodle the shit out of a worksheet, I would instead transform the environment into a virtual entertainment for myself. Typically, this involved envisioning some manner of creature interacting with said environment in a manner suitable to its nature. On a car trip, this would generally be some manner of kaiju rampaging down the highway, sealing the fate of each passing vehicle or building. In the classroom, a more video game-like experience, wherein anything on the walls was far game for the platforming antics of the imagined being.

4. That is an unexpectedly difficult question. No, I won't say Heavy Metal, because that way lies only anatomical implausibility and grisly death. Ditto something like Dinosaucers, or Ghostbusters, or any program in which a very limited membership is privy to the Cool Stuff and thereby immune to the nameless civilian curse of Being Eaten By Fucking Monsters. One is tempted to suggest TMNT, as the existence of mutants, ninja, robots, and combinations thereof in large, publicly-accessible quantities is Relevant to My Interests. Gummi Bears (STOP LAUGHING) wouldn't be half-bad either; fantasy setting, ogres, magical elixir that gives you superhuman agility and resilience.

However, I just know that after I post this, I'm going to think of a series I forgot. Probably in the shower. Then I shall be distraught. And may or may not get soap in my eyes as a result.

5. Actual clone or implausible fictional clone? Because I don't want a kid, and that's about all an actual clone is. So let's go the implausible fictional route, shall we? Does Rule 63 apply? If so, my path is clear. Don't make me draw you a diagram. If not, then more thought is in order. Can I utilize my double for evil mischief and personal enrichment without the predictable screw-job that always comes with fictional situations like this? Will we both angle to use the other for spare parts? It is a mystery.

---

P.S. Spell Check does not recognize screwjob, but screw-job is deemed acceptable. My hyphenated duty is clear.

So the priest, pig, or other ceremonial stand-in of your choice has been dragged into the woods and viciously stabulated, heralding the return of the Unconquered Sun, so we've got that out of the way at least.

So here's the point where my intrinsic disdain for crowds does battle with my desire not to be lame, filling the air with dislodged mouthguards and sprays of sweat and blood, no less gross for also being imaginary. Normally, this ends in a Judge's Decision of "Wander around from place to place until you settle on somewhere to hang out for the duration", but this time, I'm hearing a ten-count (admittedly, it's probably for this poor, agonized metaphor).

This year, I'm not really feeling up to wandering around a'wassailing like a common gypsy/dickensian urchin/holy mother of god, so I'm at a bit of a loss.

So, it turns out there is a reason they call it mouthwash and not eyewash. Apparently, it's not a commercial ploy, and it's not The Man keeping you down.

There is not, to my knowledge, an emoticon for "My eyeball is free from The Gum Disease Known as Gingivitis", but you're all welcome to try.

Whenever I hear the Beatles song, Dear Prudence, instead of the titular call, I instead hear "dead rodents". It requires actual effort for me to hear anything else.

A somewhat unconventional (at least for someone who's not me) conversation eventually led to the inspiration for the following challenge. I can say with all certainty that you probably don't want to know about the rest of the conversation; while it involved rum-runners, there was also a sexually explicit grammar discussion involving professional farm animal manipulators. But I've said too much.

If you choose to respond to this post, imagine, if you will, that our world is a Wagnerian one (or at least a little bit Prokofievy). That being so, imagine that I've just entered the scene. What leitmotif would you assign to me? Mood, instrumentation, that sort of thing. And afterwards, if you're feeling sufficiently operatic, do the same in your journal, and see what kind of nerds your friends are.

I am engaged in the slow process of creating a wiki for my homebrew DnD setting. Clearly, there is no longer any hope for me.

Two little Eastern Screech Owls, sitting on my back fence. Aw.

I had to re-flip my mattress to the side that was only mostly saggy and caved-in. Otherwise, the springs that were popping out of the other side would stab me in the butt.

That might have something to do with why my back hurts. Stupid mattress springs for jerks.

As you all know ₁, I take an odd joy in collecting the bizarrely cool-sounding names that are occasionally spewed forth from the Murderous Jovian Spambots. But now, it seems, these vile, cybernetic panderers have gone beyond simply proposing amusing monikers; indeed, they now possess the audacity to provide me with...story prompts. Behold:

They knew, they understood, and for some reason, Merilille and that lot slathered their tongues with meekness for them, now.

What does it mean? I've no fucking clue in Estonia. But it intrigues me, oh how it intrigues me.





1: Lemur, Quasi, ed. Hey, Wolf's Rain! Get Bigger Breasts in 2 Days! Houston: Livejournal, 2004.

Though I can deal quite well once actually engaged in interpersonal behavior, it's very difficult for me to initiate social contact. I don't just mean meeting new people, though that's a part of it; I mean I even have difficulty calling my friends on the phone. I second-guess myself before sending instant messages half the time. If I just called you, you can bet it took me five minutes or more to psych myself up to it, and that's if you're a friend I see regularly.

So if you're thinking I never call or never even say hello on the Tubestream, then it's not because of any disdain I harbor for you, but rather because of overwhelming anxiety. Maybe I'm calling at a bad time and bothering you. Maybe I'll get someone else and have to ask for you. Maybe I'll hit your voicemail and have to compose a suitable message. And because of any of those (or perhaps none of them), I am filled with a nameless dread. It doesn't really make any sense, but there you go.

Merry Zombie Messiah Day! May all your rabbits hatch from eggs, and may your ritual cannibalism be fulfilling.

While the octopus has keen tactile senses, it has poor proprioception, and is thus generally unaware of the position of its body. It essentially double clicks on images, telling its arms to perform a task. Once that's done, it only knows what its arms are doing by looking at them. This is understandable, since the octopus has several highly complex and flexible limbs, and to constantly keep track of them would require more processing capacity than is available to it.
But if an octopus did have a human-comparable kinesthetic awareness, its alien brainpower would be mighty indeed. The complexity required would send it leaping ahead in development, and the enslavement of humanity by the cephalopods would be an inescapable reality.

Also, they could totally play the drums.

Plush, by Stone Temple Pilots just came on the radio, and it reminded me of something that's always amused me. Specifically, the line that says: "And when the dogs do find her / got time, time to wait for tomorrow to find it".

Because I never heard it like that. To this day, I can't hear the song without hearing "And when the dogs defile her...", which is, one must admit, a sight more "interesting". It also scans much, much better. I mean really, "when the dogs do find her?" What kind of a lyric is that?

The lesson you should take from this, of course:
Bestiality > Clumsy Scansion

Point of parliamentary procedure: The honorable C.W. Bell, Esquire, does on this date, seven January, annum two thousand and seven, hereby affirm that the Chocolate-Covered Altoid, hereafter referred to as "The Creature" is to be regarded as pure, unadulterated crack.

Addendum: I'm feeling mighty fond of you all. I think it's because all the mint has given me irreparable brain damage.

Addendum secundum: You. You're not authorized in this area.

When the package (any package, pick one) says "pleasant tingle", what it means is "horrible burning sensation". You'd think I'd have figured that one out by now, so why do I keep doing it?