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2004.02.30 : 2004.03.06
Saturday, March 6, 2004
Blab. There is no theme today. We don't know why that
is. We think it's because certain readers feel the necessity of advertising
their internal mental states.
Plurp man, to be honest,
I'm disappointed in your lack of posting.
Or:
I can't keep up with this
new light-speed blogging. Please help me!
Yawn. Oh. Sorry. Are you still here?
Blab. Another reader takes a rather different approach.
Call of Cthulhu, the viddy-oh
game
Now this gets our attention! It looks like Call of Cthulhu: Dark
Corners of the Earth, which we had given up hope would ever ship, is
(maybe, maybe) a little closer to shipping.
Our reader's link, for instance, is what appears to be an actual game
site. The game was shown (to flattering
reviews) at E3 last year. Still, there's no ship date yet, and software
without a killer ship date never ships. (Hmm. One of the devs gives an
oblique
reference to it shipping this year. We'll see.)
Another dev
says:
 This
game is going to scare the pants off you! Make sure that you play this
game with the lights off for added effect. I'm also predicting there will
be a surge in giant squids washing up on shore when our game is released
(just like last year when Bethesda's announcement of Cthulhu coincided
with the giant squid washing up in Australia)…remember Cthulhu will rise
again!
Yeah, Dennis, but only if you ship it.
(Wait! Wait! Further digging unearths this::
Q. When will Call Of Cthulhu
be available?
A. Call Of Cthulhu is on schedule
for a Q4 2004 release.
Not that we believe it for a second, of course. But it would be cool.)
Blab. Mistaking us for Dear Abby, a reader writes:
Dear Steve, I got a cat.
Any advice? Paul F.
We saw that, and
we despaired for you.
Advice? Sure! Learn to obey your cat, immediately and without question,
as feline retribution is both swift and awful. As in any S&M relationship,
even immediate and unquestioning obedience cannot eliminate retribution.
Get a rubber sheet for your bed, just in case.
One last thing. In the near future, someone will come to your apartment
and say, What a cute kitty; can I take him home? The correct answer
is: Yes!
Blab. A reader writes to us in secret code.
Votre image pour le trentième
février n'existe pas? C'est parce que le trentième
février n'existe pas!
Babelfish assures us that this means:
Doesn't your image for February
thirtieth exist? It is because on February thirtieth does not exist!
So perhaps the reader missed the point.
Blab. One of the many spies who spend day and night creating
extensive, cladestine documentation of our life notes the following cryptic
message on a nearby movie marquee.
The Cooler
Cold Mountain
Are they warning us of an imminent groundhog attack? Today, that same marquee
says:
The Cooler
City of God
Ah. It's the Religious Right, finally gone trendy. And about time, too.
Blab. A reader questions our buying behavior.
"men's gloves look like clown
shoes" -- where have you been buying your gloves?!
Helen bought us a lovely pair of gloves at Coach a couple of years back.
Unfortunately, the makers of mens' gloves seem to assume that men have
big, beefy fingers. Big, fat, beefy, frankfurter fingers. Our fingers are
not like that.
The first gloves that fit us well we bought twenty years ago in a shop
in Paris that sold nothing but gloves. It was a small shop that
may well have been there forever. The proprietor took one look at my hands,
reached into one of countless drawers that lined the entire store, and
pulled out a pair of black leather gloves - women's gloves, as it turned
out - that fit us perfectly.
So there you are.
Blab. On the subject of decapitating Paris, a reader tries (desperately,
we think) to fill the vacuum that is our classical education.
Regarding the immortal head
chopping test for Paris Hilton - it's been thought of before:
"Yes, the heads of the maids or their
maidenheads, take it in what sense thou wilt."
Hmm. That
wasn't in the Classics Illustrated version. No wonder we missed
it.
Blab. Finally:
The word of the day is: enneatic.
Good to know.
Wednesday, March 3, 2004
Blab. Today's theme is: a normal life. While
that was the subject of our musing
the other day, you fixated on the Einstein part instead, and of course
we treasure you for that.
Hah! I'm smarter than Einstein.
I *know* if my socks are clean.
Everyone has their own super power. That must be yours.
Blab. A reader asks an imponderable question.
I get up in the morning &
wonder what the heck that dream was about. Do you think Einstein knew what
his dreams were about?
So, yeah, technically that isn't an imponderable question, in the sense
that the reader is clearly pondering it, and now some of you are as well,
we suspect. Maybe we meant to say that it is an unanswerable question.
No, that's not quite right either. We think that the question What
the heck was that dream about? is probably unanswerable, in the same
way that What the heck is that rock about? is unanswerable. Experiences
don't come with meaning attached, after all.
But that wasn't our reader's question. Our reader wants to know what
we think. This reader must not be one of the jackbooted thugs who have
implanted EEG surveillance sensors in our brain. So maybe we should answer
the question.
Blab. A reader who probably knew Einstein writes:
Actually, Einstein probably
got up and thought: "ah g mu nu... screw the socks, lambda...".
Could be. But we doubt it. We bet he wondered about the socks.
Blab. A reader asks:
What did he have?
Socks! Socks! Haven't you been paying attention?
Blab. Another normal life is hinted at by this reader.
"..We all killed him, and
he died for it." I know, I know! Crucifixion on the Orient
Express!!
We're probably missing both of the cultural references involved. We drift
through life in a cultural haze.
The dirty French-Canadians!
They killed Jesus!
So the clean ones are innocent? Got it.
Lunchtalk the other day drifted into the question of why anyone who
sees that Mel Gibson movie would come away thinking that the Jews killed
Jesus, and worrying that roiling hordes of anti-Semites would commit acts
of rudeness against Jews. After all, it was the Romans who killed Jesus.
 So
our prediction is that there will be roiling hordes of anti-Italianates
committing acts of rudeness against Italians. We expect the razing of pizza
parlors, the firebombing of fishmarkets, the disfigurement of clothing
stores.
That would make more sense, wouldn't it?
Blab. A reader does the hard work of translating Aramaic into
colloquial American English.
Right.
The Jewish kid of the carpenter was
a pissed if righteous fellow. That's part of the story. He
got the guys who had a lock on the business angry. He was a Jewish
reformer, a sort of Martin Luther with a yarmulke. When he dissed
the establishment in public they got real ornery. But whether they
brought pressure on the Roman administration to get him off the block is
not clear to me, but what is clear is that he was a lefty who needed to
be quieted. So they quieted him. Problem was that he had a
lot of friends who saw themselves as writers, so over a time they played
a quiet game of one-upmanship with their word processors and wrote interesting
versions of their view of the story. And so it goes. Another
interesting piece of history/mythology of which none of us will ever have
a clear cut. Particularly if it is just myth.
Word up.
Blab. A normal Scot writes:
It's possible, of course,
that Paris Hilton is, in fact, immortal. We'll have to chop
her head off, Highlander.
We always wondered about those orgasmic scenes after the beheadings. Didn't
you?
Plurp. Our readers are as normal as they always are.
-
clean socks
-
helen naked pitures
-
nun
-
plausible deniability
-
sarah kozer
-
beard
-
big box
-
box
-
chihuly
-
imani
Yow. The Passion of the Christ: Blooper
Reel.
Jesus hangs on the cross,
bloodied, in agony.
Take 3
Jesus: My God, my God, why
hast thou – [laughing]
Off Camera: [laughter] Forsaken!
Take 4
Jesus: Thanks! Okay. My God,
my God, why hast thou – [starts giggling]
Off Camera: [laughter]
Very funny, but then, consider the source.
Tuesday, March 2, 2004
Blab. And, despite the obvious anachronism, today's
theme is: Why we blew you off, and why we came back. Well, OK, that's
not really a theme, per se. But you'll have to live with it. You've
been bad.
It's been over a week! Post
goddamnit!
See what we mean? Now go stand in the corner.
Blab. Similarly:
Subj: Getting Stale
Actually, if you dampen it, wrap it
in a towel, and put it in a 350-degree oven for five minutes, remove the
towel and leave continue to heat for another five minutes, everything will
be just fine. And then you can go see the new link to Plurp.
And you will rejoice.
We followed these explicit instructions, wrapped it in a towel, put it
in a 350-degree oven for five minutes, and removed the towel and leave
continue to heat for another five minutes.
We spent the next seven hours in the emergency room. Thanks a lot. We're
told it will be six weeks before bandages come off.
Blab. A grubby reader writes:
Today must be Sunmontueswednsday!
I need a new calendar to accommodate this fashion of date keeping. I just
hope there is no need of contracting the years into one expression (ie...
2004005006007).
FWI, I categorically deny killing
Jesus. So if I didn?t, then who did? Was it Ciluthu? Back then,
I was preincarnated as a barnyard grub. Yep, they had barnyards back
then (and grubs). To the best of my knowledge, we barnyard grubs were not
into martyring people, especially if they were arguably fictitious people.
But I digress, as usual.
About the fish pictures: Some people's
children are so overwhelmingly bored, they pretend to be fish. I think
this is bad focus. They would likely be much more powerful if they pretended
to be "fishers of men."
We think the fish are bored. Maybe its because everyone is fishing for
men. (Note to self: investigate the term hooker.)
Blab. An allegedly web-savvy reader ignores our absence and writes:
Where's your RSS feed?
Daniel
Google
is your friend, Daniel.
Blab. A reader leaps from one topic to another. We hope it doesn't
injure an important body part.
Re: Since you're gone again...
.. I'll have to go find something
of interest by myself. So: did you know Darth Vader's head is on the Washington
National Cathedral? I didn't.
Very baffled S.
You see? We weren't gone. At least, not in the sense that we were somewhere
other than where we were. We were here. Bored. Busy. Sleepless. But here.
We were not in Washington. And we didn't have a Darth Vader head.
We were buying shoes.
Blab. A reader worries about us, after a fashion. We find this
endearing. And, given the usual derision we endure here, pleasantly refreshing.
Just checking in; hope all
is well. Tell Helen I said Hi. Smooches!
All is well. Well, except for the continuation of Word Madness, sleepless
nights and green dragons. Other than that, fine, just fine.
Blab. Another nice reader writes:
Glad to see you back, Dr.
Plurp.
Wow. That's two nice readers. Or one nice reader who wrote twice.
Or zero nice readers, one or more of which is mocking us.
It's so hard to tell.
Blab. Is it OK that we've been gone?
OK :-S
Sssupplication. We approve.
Plurp. Finally, the Best Spam Subject Line O' The Day:
Subj: why are you asnewirng
my pohne clals?
We were wondering that same thing.
Monday, March 1, 2004
Plurp. Our two-week absence taught us two-things. (1)
You come here anyway, and in equal number as when we spend countless hours
sweating over content. (2) You send us stuff anyway, and in equal number
as when we spend countless hours sweating over content. (3) We don't remember
the third thing.
Anyhow, today's theme is: Shoes.
Blab. On our recent purchase of women's shoes for ourself, a
nattering nabob asks:
Are they pink?
Why, yes, they are! Do you like them?
Blab. A demanding reader writes:
May I see a piture of your
new shoes?
No.
Blab. A thoughtful reader writes:
I think it is those new ladies'
shoes.
You think what is those new ladies' shoes?
Blab. A fortune cookie writes:
Never judge a person until
you've walked a mile in her shoes ;-)
We are now in a position to judge several women.
(Oh - we said that, didn't we?)
Blab. We make our readers wonder. And just in time.
Or...I wonder if I might
look good in ladies' shoes?
Frankly, we are deeply impressed with (certain) women's shoes. The first
day we wore ours, we spent the whole day in shameless appreciation - Wow.
These shoes are great! - and then spent the next several days worrying
about ourself.
Blab. A reader performs corrective maintenance. We wonder if
it's not too late.
Humm -- women's shoes, and
now envy of Paris Hilton... Check setting of mind control lasers.
It's worse than you think. Much worse.
We have, for years, worn women's leather gloves; men's gloves look like
clown shoes on our hands. We wear yukata around the apartment. We have
a pony tail. We buy design magazines. We hang out with women at parties,
unable to comprehend the sportstalk of men.
Now, the shoes.
We wonder what's next.
Blab. A reader expresses a particularly bombastic theory.
your website is bogus
i don't think it is factual
signed,
unimpressed
The nerve of some people! In fact, we did buy a pair of women's
shoes. Honest.
Sunday, February 30, 2004
Plurp.
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