Emotions.
You've got to love them. That's my stumbling block. I'm terribly logical and try to rationalize everything. Spontaneity is good, but I have to plan it. But of course faith doesn't work that way, nor women. God wants us to be at least a little spontaneous. He hates boredom. Mediocrity. Something I detest with passion. Man is a fascinating creature with endless possibilities to create and invent. I see most of my friend's lives and observe. After 25 years on Earth, mediocrity sets in. They become set in their ways; their hearts harden and loves becomes cold. They fear. Change bothers them, as they mosey through life in humdrum fashion. 'What might have been' could be the story of man. But this is wrong, unnatural, the result of the fall in the garden...I feel a rotisserie chicken fit coming on. Will someone help me?
16 August 2006
14 August 2006
12 August 2006
Accidents Happen
I...think...I...just...accidently...deleted...every...single...picture...I...took...this...afternoon...on...my...digital...cam-er-a...
!!!!!!!!!!!
repeat
!!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!
repeat
!!!!!!!!!!!
11 August 2006
Where I grew up
This is a satellite pic of where I grew up. . .courtesy of Bill Gates and the Microsoft gang.
It's the white square box about an inch above the 'e' in Katy Village and a little to the right.
It's the white square box about an inch above the 'e' in Katy Village and a little to the right.
10 August 2006
Dreamscape
Twas the night before Friday
And all thru the lab
Not a creature was stirring
Except Jason the lad
The rest of Virginia
Lie snug in their beds
While visions of tacos
Danced in his head...Yep, I'm hungry
I awoke Thursday morning in the usual state of mind which accompanies the return of consciousness. As I looked through the eastern window of my bedroom, a faint streak of orange-pink color, dividing a cloud that just rose above the low swell of the horizon, announced the approach of the sun. As my thoughts, which a deep and apparently lighthearted sleep had dissolved, began again to assume crystalline forms, the strange events of the foregoing night presented themselves anew to my inquiring mind. It came to me in that period of consciousness somewhere between sleeping and waking. (I remind you I'm almost perfectly normal, have never done drugs, and, with perhaps one small and highly debatable exception involving dry reeds, a stolen bicycle, and old pine, a small country Methodist church, and a very very small forest fire, have never smoked. Nor have I ever, again, with the exception of cough syrup and vanilla flavoring, consumed alcohol in any significant quantity, nor have the faintest idea what it tastes like. But we'll return to this subject later.) And I thought about Life.
This is a different sort of blog entry. There is no plot, no underlying thread of unity, just a long rambling semi-coherent stream of consciousness run-on sentence of things that are in my heart I felt strangely compelled to get out.
I want to write seven great American novels. I want to go on a 3 week safari in Africa and videotape lions lounging about the range rover in the hot Kenyan sun, swatting flies aimlessly with their golden tails and learn Swahili. I want to go trekking in the Alps. I want to raise sheep in New Zealand. I think I MAY want to raise chickens. I want to pan for gold in the Yukon. I'll get back to you on that one. Something compels me to move to a place where I see trees every morning, and there's a fence nearby, in the country and a long dusty road. I run on the long dusty road nearly everyday. I can also wash my car once a week here and not worry about snoopy neighbors. I have this image of myself reading bedtime stories to a little girl with long hair and twinkling eyes in a bedroom during winter. The scent of cinnamon is in the air. I am a much older man. I desire to have my own library with lots of hard-back books...thousands upon thousands...with time to read them all by a fireplace, a blanket, and a large, somewhat worn, leather chair. In a different section of the library is a well-lit area with stacks and stacks of hand-written notes and folders....and many pencils....mechanical ones. I need to get my hair cut today. I wish to spend time in the countries bordering the Mediterranean Sea. I LOVE the word 'Mediterranean.' It appeals to a deep part of my being.
And all thru the lab
Not a creature was stirring
Except Jason the lad
The rest of Virginia
Lie snug in their beds
While visions of tacos
Danced in his head...Yep, I'm hungry
I awoke Thursday morning in the usual state of mind which accompanies the return of consciousness. As I looked through the eastern window of my bedroom, a faint streak of orange-pink color, dividing a cloud that just rose above the low swell of the horizon, announced the approach of the sun. As my thoughts, which a deep and apparently lighthearted sleep had dissolved, began again to assume crystalline forms, the strange events of the foregoing night presented themselves anew to my inquiring mind. It came to me in that period of consciousness somewhere between sleeping and waking. (I remind you I'm almost perfectly normal, have never done drugs, and, with perhaps one small and highly debatable exception involving dry reeds, a stolen bicycle, and old pine, a small country Methodist church, and a very very small forest fire, have never smoked. Nor have I ever, again, with the exception of cough syrup and vanilla flavoring, consumed alcohol in any significant quantity, nor have the faintest idea what it tastes like. But we'll return to this subject later.) And I thought about Life.
This is a different sort of blog entry. There is no plot, no underlying thread of unity, just a long rambling semi-coherent stream of consciousness run-on sentence of things that are in my heart I felt strangely compelled to get out.
I want to write seven great American novels. I want to go on a 3 week safari in Africa and videotape lions lounging about the range rover in the hot Kenyan sun, swatting flies aimlessly with their golden tails and learn Swahili. I want to go trekking in the Alps. I want to raise sheep in New Zealand. I think I MAY want to raise chickens. I want to pan for gold in the Yukon. I'll get back to you on that one. Something compels me to move to a place where I see trees every morning, and there's a fence nearby, in the country and a long dusty road. I run on the long dusty road nearly everyday. I can also wash my car once a week here and not worry about snoopy neighbors. I have this image of myself reading bedtime stories to a little girl with long hair and twinkling eyes in a bedroom during winter. The scent of cinnamon is in the air. I am a much older man. I desire to have my own library with lots of hard-back books...thousands upon thousands...with time to read them all by a fireplace, a blanket, and a large, somewhat worn, leather chair. In a different section of the library is a well-lit area with stacks and stacks of hand-written notes and folders....and many pencils....mechanical ones. I need to get my hair cut today. I wish to spend time in the countries bordering the Mediterranean Sea. I LOVE the word 'Mediterranean.' It appeals to a deep part of my being.
07 August 2006
One reason why little boys are dangerous and should be monitored
Under my chin there is a half eraser sized area that will not grow facial hair, hardly recognizable.
If you rub your finger over it, you can feel a smoother area of skin. When I was eight years old, my parents visited some friends. My sister and I were bored, so they sent us outside to play. In the backyard, we discovered a family of rabbits. Naturally, we tried to catch one to play with. Didn’t work. So, refusing to give up on my quest to catch a pet rabbit, I got the bright idea of building a catapult to launch rocks . . . the theory being that the unsuspecting rabbits would be knocked out with a falling missile from the sky. After many trials and tribulations, the weapon of war was built. Smooth stones, silently dubbed with names like ‘Peter’ and ‘Fuzzy’ were loaded. The eight-year-old wonder boy, in direct defiance of his mother’s wishes to leave the furry creatures alone, leaped onto the catapult . . . Miss. More stones . . . Miss again. That’s OK. Edison didn’t invent the electric lightbulb on his first try. He burnt down a railway carriage first. The catapult was tweaked to perfection. Another stone named ‘Cottontail’ loaded. I leaped . . . HIT! It hit! It hit me in the chin and broke blood. My sister ran inside to get my parents, who were, by the way, not amused, and fixed me up. Along with a stern warning to never do something that stupid again. “After all,” she said. “What if that had been your eye?”
And that is why I have under my chin a half eraser sized area that will not grow facial hair.
If you rub your finger over it, you can feel a smoother area of skin. When I was eight years old, my parents visited some friends. My sister and I were bored, so they sent us outside to play. In the backyard, we discovered a family of rabbits. Naturally, we tried to catch one to play with. Didn’t work. So, refusing to give up on my quest to catch a pet rabbit, I got the bright idea of building a catapult to launch rocks . . . the theory being that the unsuspecting rabbits would be knocked out with a falling missile from the sky. After many trials and tribulations, the weapon of war was built. Smooth stones, silently dubbed with names like ‘Peter’ and ‘Fuzzy’ were loaded. The eight-year-old wonder boy, in direct defiance of his mother’s wishes to leave the furry creatures alone, leaped onto the catapult . . . Miss. More stones . . . Miss again. That’s OK. Edison didn’t invent the electric lightbulb on his first try. He burnt down a railway carriage first. The catapult was tweaked to perfection. Another stone named ‘Cottontail’ loaded. I leaped . . . HIT! It hit! It hit me in the chin and broke blood. My sister ran inside to get my parents, who were, by the way, not amused, and fixed me up. Along with a stern warning to never do something that stupid again. “After all,” she said. “What if that had been your eye?”
And that is why I have under my chin a half eraser sized area that will not grow facial hair.
04 August 2006
Reds Traveler
States and Countries I've been to. . .this site is cooler than the other side of the pillow.
create your own visited states map
or check out these Google Hacks.
create your own visited countries map
or vertaling Duits Nederlands
3% of the world-I should get out more.
create your own visited states map
or check out these Google Hacks.
create your own visited countries map
or vertaling Duits Nederlands
3% of the world-I should get out more.
03 August 2006
Hooded Bandits
Doctors scare me.
Why?
I’ll tell you.
How would you feel if your one and only mother lay sick and injured with a HOLE in her body that should not be there. A HOLE mind you. A HOLE inflicted by strangers. Men in masks...masks to conceal their identity for their deeds are evil. Men who shun the light and hate the truth.
Hooded Bandits.
Armed with sharp knives. . .and. . .and daggers that pierce, and slice, and slash.
Blades.
And what do these bloodthirsty savages do to this lonely forlorn creature? They entice her with sly words, lure her with golden tongues. Take her to a dark room. Give her drugs...narcotics...mind-altering hallucinogenic chemicals to numb her mind and induce forgetfulness.
And then...(I can hardly bring myself to say it)...they...these beasts...(sniff, sniff)...← tears of pain.
These cold-hearted SAVAGES slice into the very flesh of her body! They rippppp her skin, flay her with knives, drawing blood, scarring her for life. They have no mercy...they hack, and hew, and rip, and bite, and tear, and remove a hunk...of...her...flesh. Then...(more weeping)...after carving her like a Thanksgiving turkey?...they TOSS the very body part into a trash can to hide the evidence! That’s what they do.
Of course, they merely call it an appendectomy.
Now. My mother. This poor, sweet, innocent, little lady with twinkling eyes, with a gash, a wound. . .a festering wound, a hole in her body...an unnatural orifice that beckons germs, bacteria, fire ants, (who KNOWS what else???)...lay curled up in the fetal position alone.
Why?
I’ll tell you.
How would you feel if your one and only mother lay sick and injured with a HOLE in her body that should not be there. A HOLE mind you. A HOLE inflicted by strangers. Men in masks...masks to conceal their identity for their deeds are evil. Men who shun the light and hate the truth.
Hooded Bandits.
Armed with sharp knives. . .and. . .and daggers that pierce, and slice, and slash.
Blades.
And what do these bloodthirsty savages do to this lonely forlorn creature? They entice her with sly words, lure her with golden tongues. Take her to a dark room. Give her drugs...narcotics...mind-altering hallucinogenic chemicals to numb her mind and induce forgetfulness.
And then...(I can hardly bring myself to say it)...they...these beasts...(sniff, sniff)...← tears of pain.
These cold-hearted SAVAGES slice into the very flesh of her body! They rippppp her skin, flay her with knives, drawing blood, scarring her for life. They have no mercy...they hack, and hew, and rip, and bite, and tear, and remove a hunk...of...her...flesh. Then...(more weeping)...after carving her like a Thanksgiving turkey?...they TOSS the very body part into a trash can to hide the evidence! That’s what they do.
Of course, they merely call it an appendectomy.
Now. My mother. This poor, sweet, innocent, little lady with twinkling eyes, with a gash, a wound. . .a festering wound, a hole in her body...an unnatural orifice that beckons germs, bacteria, fire ants, (who KNOWS what else???)...lay curled up in the fetal position alone.
Hotness
The great thing about the current temperature of 103 degrees Fahrenheit is that the body's metabolism is running at optimal efficiency.
The heat has got me thinking about dinosaurs. With a year-round average temperature of 90, does it make any difference if they were warm-blooded or cold-blooded?
3 weeks until my sister moves in with me. I foresee this blog becoming more interesting as she is an artist who attracts other artists who will probably come over to visit and ask me. . .the cave dweller and introverted recluse. . .many thought-provoking questions. Or maybe they'll just stare at me.
The heat has got me thinking about dinosaurs. With a year-round average temperature of 90, does it make any difference if they were warm-blooded or cold-blooded?
3 weeks until my sister moves in with me. I foresee this blog becoming more interesting as she is an artist who attracts other artists who will probably come over to visit and ask me. . .the cave dweller and introverted recluse. . .many thought-provoking questions. Or maybe they'll just stare at me.
02 August 2006
Anon
"Give a man a fish and he will eat for a day. Teach a man to fish, and he will eat for a lifetime."
--Anonymous dead Chinese guy
"Give a wiggle a fish and he will eat it for breakfast. Teach a wiggle to fish, and soon he'll be planning his Bar Mitzah."
--Puddle E. Glum
"Ach-oo!"
--a nose
--Anonymous dead Chinese guy
"Give a wiggle a fish and he will eat it for breakfast. Teach a wiggle to fish, and soon he'll be planning his Bar Mitzah."
--Puddle E. Glum
"Ach-oo!"
--a nose
01 August 2006
31 July 2006
29 July 2006
Some Pictures
Top: Me at last job wondering why I studied biology.
Middle: Me doing biology stuff that made me have thoughts in top pic.
Bottom: Family at Grandfather's house at Christmas time with Hound of the Baskervilles.
27 July 2006
Aliens and Fur
The bulk of this entry was created on exactly one hour and fifteen minutes of sleep and, if it's not coherent totally not, you why know.
Close encounters of the 4th kind: This is where you think you're the alien. Has anybody else experienced this? This 4th kind? They say it happens alot with geniuses and madmen. So. . .if you're smart, witty, linguistically-gifted, and speak in complete paragraphs that can stand unedited in the New Yorker,you might know.
Some people's affection for large dogs has me thinking. Suppose that all animals (at least mammals) were rational sentient creatures as ourselves. Would we have any need for pets? I would think not. After spending 3 hours with Harry and the Hendersons, our need for cute, fuzzy, cuddly creatures with slobbery dispositions would ebb. What do you think?
I think Malacandra is a good name for a castle.
Will blog more later. The mother ship calls.
Close encounters of the 4th kind: This is where you think you're the alien. Has anybody else experienced this? This 4th kind? They say it happens alot with geniuses and madmen. So. . .if you're smart, witty, linguistically-gifted, and speak in complete paragraphs that can stand unedited in the New Yorker,you might know.
Some people's affection for large dogs has me thinking. Suppose that all animals (at least mammals) were rational sentient creatures as ourselves. Would we have any need for pets? I would think not. After spending 3 hours with Harry and the Hendersons, our need for cute, fuzzy, cuddly creatures with slobbery dispositions would ebb. What do you think?
I think Malacandra is a good name for a castle.
Will blog more later. The mother ship calls.
26 July 2006
Le post du jour
Je m'ennuie officiellement avec l'anglais. C'est probablement juste une crise du milieu la semaine et je reviendrai à ma langue natale dans l'avenir.
Sincerely,
Puddle E. Glum
Sincerely,
Puddle E. Glum
Return of the Shadow
In a few minutes, I will, for the 10th time, at least, re-read the Lord of the Rings. I've been reading alot of books edited by his oldest son on how Tolkien wrote LOTR.
What I find interesting is how Tolkien thought Gandalf was originally a lower order angel that, when he went to Middle-Earth, shed his extra-dimensional capabilities and had to re-learn everything once getting there.
There is a family of raccoons that visits the lab parking lot pretty much on a regular basis. A big one and 5-6 little ones. I think it's part of their territory. They make it a point to inspect all the dumpsters and should any doors be left open, well, naturally they inspect those as well.
In exactly one month, my sister will be moving in with me. Is it temporary? We shall see. I've not had a room-mate in 5 years. This should be interesting.
What I find interesting is how Tolkien thought Gandalf was originally a lower order angel that, when he went to Middle-Earth, shed his extra-dimensional capabilities and had to re-learn everything once getting there.
There is a family of raccoons that visits the lab parking lot pretty much on a regular basis. A big one and 5-6 little ones. I think it's part of their territory. They make it a point to inspect all the dumpsters and should any doors be left open, well, naturally they inspect those as well.
In exactly one month, my sister will be moving in with me. Is it temporary? We shall see. I've not had a room-mate in 5 years. This should be interesting.
24 July 2006
Get along l'il dogie, before I brand yore hide. . .
Tattoos.
Branding Humans.
A relative of mine is obsessed with tattoos, body piercings, and the people who make it all possible. I don't share her devotion to stained epidermis. Something about the process just irks me. . .sort of like Big Macs and dead worms on the sidewalk after a rainstorm irritates me.
I'm not saying its wrong-just a trivial foolish,child-like, and somewhat de-humanizing. I picture in my mind's eye a plot hatched by higher order beings to mock and dehumanize humans by branding them with ink. . .like a herd of cows. It's as if these higher order entities have some sort of vendetta against us because we remind them of somebody who they will never be like. Like apes defacing a statue of Michaelangelo's David.
I've noticed alot of people trying to fit in with the dominant culture by tattooing barbed-wire and other ring-like designs around their upper arms. Like it's a necessity to be accepted into a universal society of clowns. Are clones really happy? Are clowns really happy? Once upon a time I was cussed out by a clown-so apparently not.)
Many tattooed guys like to shave off all their body hair, get tanned, and mutilate themselves. What blows me away is that some women find this attractive. What they look like is a lizard. A gecko. They've fallen in love with a G-E-C-K-O.
"But he's sooo maaannllyyyy. . .He looks like He-man."
"No, he's not. He's a Gila monster. He's got no hair, dark skin, and blue splotches all over his body. He sits in the sun all day sweating and drinking beer. Yep. Lizard comes to mind."
Branding Humans.
A relative of mine is obsessed with tattoos, body piercings, and the people who make it all possible. I don't share her devotion to stained epidermis. Something about the process just irks me. . .sort of like Big Macs and dead worms on the sidewalk after a rainstorm irritates me.
I'm not saying its wrong-just a trivial foolish,child-like, and somewhat de-humanizing. I picture in my mind's eye a plot hatched by higher order beings to mock and dehumanize humans by branding them with ink. . .like a herd of cows. It's as if these higher order entities have some sort of vendetta against us because we remind them of somebody who they will never be like. Like apes defacing a statue of Michaelangelo's David.
I've noticed alot of people trying to fit in with the dominant culture by tattooing barbed-wire and other ring-like designs around their upper arms. Like it's a necessity to be accepted into a universal society of clowns. Are clones really happy? Are clowns really happy? Once upon a time I was cussed out by a clown-so apparently not.)
Many tattooed guys like to shave off all their body hair, get tanned, and mutilate themselves. What blows me away is that some women find this attractive. What they look like is a lizard. A gecko. They've fallen in love with a G-E-C-K-O.
"But he's sooo maaannllyyyy. . .He looks like He-man."
"No, he's not. He's a Gila monster. He's got no hair, dark skin, and blue splotches all over his body. He sits in the sun all day sweating and drinking beer. Yep. Lizard comes to mind."
22 July 2006
Floyd
Floyd.
Floyd won.
Floyd won the Tour de France.
Unless he falls off the bike in Paris, Floyd just won the Tour.
You know that an American winning in France for the 8th year in a row does not make France happy. I like what Jay Leno said about the French soccer player in the World Cup. The one who head-butted the guy in the final. It was the closest a man in a French uniform has come to armed combat in nearly 60 years.
Floyd won.
Floyd won the Tour de France.
Unless he falls off the bike in Paris, Floyd just won the Tour.
You know that an American winning in France for the 8th year in a row does not make France happy. I like what Jay Leno said about the French soccer player in the World Cup. The one who head-butted the guy in the final. It was the closest a man in a French uniform has come to armed combat in nearly 60 years.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)