Clones (we’re all)

No, not an emaciated and substance-abusing Alice’s worst idea ever. It was 1980, there was no shortage of horrible video ideas to /point and /laugh at. “Cooper’s albums from the beginning of the 1980s have been referred to by Cooper as his “blackout albums” because he cannot remember recording them, due to the influence of substances including crack cocaine and alcohol.”

A lot of musicians go through crash-and-burn periods like this. Not many survive it.

What’s truly weird is that other bands have chosen to cover Clones… ?Why?

So anyway, yesterday’s topic (today because my work schedule is borked up this week) is Clones. What I’d make the poor sap do, so that I wouldn’t have to.

Seems like a cheerful topic, right? “List all the things you hate doing, and dump them on YouTwo.”

I don’t think I could be quite that mean to Dave. He could cover these crack-of-dawn shifts for me, that’s for sure…

Oh, and get us more sleep, ok dude? We really need a nice, long crash this week.

I’ll take care of this part here.

Now, fix us some breakfast. Chop chop.

If you could clone yourself, how would you split up your responsibilities?

We destroyed time

Great, now that hunk-of-junk from ’80 is going to be ear-worming me all day.

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Irrelevant non-conclusions

For the next few days, I need to get out of bed and head off to work during the StupidEarly™ hours of the chilly, sub-zero mornings.

Which means before the daily post people issue me a prompt. Couple of hours after I leave today.

So I’m on my own. Winging it. Sans idea, drowning in the well of my own despair. “Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.”

The despair this morning arises from a lot of lack of sleep (see above), and a very sore back (partially responsible for the lack of sleep).

I worry about how many productive working years I have left. The old bod is just breaking down too quickly.

“Lose weight”, says my wife. Easy-peasy, I’ll just hack off an arm. I got a spare!

“Get more excercise,” says my back. Everyone’s just full of helpful advice.

“Get out of the damn computer chair, its been killing you slowly for years,” says my brain.

“Go work out, pump you up. Pick things up and put them down,” says Brad. Er, really, no, no thanks.

Maybe I should get a laptop and do my writing in bed? Sure, that will help :eyeroll:

But I don’t have any alternative, at least not for writing. It’s just not a good cardio sport.

At war with myself. The things I love doing most are pretty sedentary activities. Sedentary is killing me. So is age.

Exercise consists of the things I do at work. Mostly lifting and carrying and walking walking walking walking walking walking. How’s that working out for us again, back muscles?

So…yeah. Rock and a hard place. A million and one excuses not to change anything.

Dr. Cobo? Wanna tell ’em what’ll happen then?  :: sigh ::

Getting old just sucks, I friggin hate it.

Whine whine bitch moan complain.

Backup singers, that’s your cue!

What’s displayed on my walls

Well there’s a few dragons, a phoenix, and a hydra. And a castle.

It’s not so much to create a  mood as it is reflective of a time period. The last of these pieces to go up on the wall is a huge cross stitch/embroidery piece that Annie did, when she was in that particular crafty phase.

That was finished just before Brad was born, if I’m not mistaken. Yes, horrors!! my wall art has been static since shortly after we were married. At least 25 years.

Much closer to this guy

Than to this one.

The others are huckster art from one SF/gaming convention or another, and from King Richard’s Faire (which is now Bristol’s), an annual summer Ren Fair just over the border in Wisconsin. We used to drive up for that every year, with our geeky gamer friends.

So what does that say about me? I guess it means we rarely pay any attention at all to interior decorating.

Or that we are weird fantasy-gamer geeks? That could be true.

Guess I peaked in the 90s. I should be in a Rob Lowe commercial.

Isn’t that depressing? Hey, thanks DP!

What do you display on the walls of your home — photos, posters, artwork, nothing? How do you choose what to display? What mood are you trying to create?

Did I mention the severed heads?

Hot fudge boogie

My last attempt at poetic form
Was greeted with resounding scorn
Verse purist gatekeeper
Did her undies creep ‘er?
And so from poetry I am forsworn.

(The audience surely won’t mourn.)

A quote from Chaucer here, not the real Chaucer, but the Knight’s Tale version. His best line: “I will eviscerate you in fiction.” I don’t like Gatekeepers.

But why so serious?

What I do like is Ice Cream. My honey-bunny has agreed that this Valentine’s eve shall be spent on the high-caloric consumption of delicious, cream-gooey banana split goodness.

They’re a wonderful invention of the confectioner’s art. Vanilla, Chocolate, Strawberry (three of my favorites). Bananas, nuts, fudge, whipped cream…what’s not to like?

Oh noes, the calories.

Worth an occasional indulgence. Grant me an indulgence, your Holiness? Ah, thank you, here’s your silver florins.

Yes please, ice cream parlor soda jerk—what are you guys called in the 21st century, anyway?—I will have another.

Write an ode to someone or something you love. Bonus points for poetry!

The Pontiff just loves Ice Cream, I’m certain.

The best thing since sliced bread

… High speed internet.

Oh, my mom manages to live without. Don’t ask me how. But anyone who lived through the AOL years knows, for certain, what a blessing from above high-speed internet was over the earlier tech. No more ten minute wait to connect, no more minute-per-image downloads…resulting in a much more visual internet, as a whole.

I guess its more a question of the internet becoming another entertainment source, rather than a novelty. That required the birth of broadband.

We can stream video, we can download entire movies. We can surf the length and depth of the internet with near-instant image delivery.

Even I don’t use it fully, not to its full potential. But Brad does. He’s had it his entire life.

And it’s being supplanted by smartphones, anyway, of course.Brad’s generation is much more dependent. I shudder to think how much relative paycheck he’s devoting solely to entertainment.

The words you’re reading would not be here at AOL throughput.

Periodicity

Something is not right today.
Each day, I expect my life to resume its regular pattern.
I will go to work and do my job with smooth efficiency.
Then I will return home and I will do it again tomorrow.
As I always do. Accurate, reliable, dependable.
These principles define me.
But today I feel lethargic, weak. Drowsy. Run down.
I look out the window at the people running their routines.
Today, I just can’t seem to… Oh.
I climb back into bed. I close my eyes and the gears engage.
To add a few more windings on my mainspring.

Inspired by this week’s Picture It & Write prompt:

Man in the suit by apaxngh on deviantart

And by the Daily Prompt:

Remember when you wrote down the first thought you had this morning? Great. Now write a post about it.

As usual, my first thought this morning was something along the lines of “Blergh, need more sleep.” Same as most mornings, really.

And by a recent episode of Face Off (featuring a clockwork girl make-up).

Yep, I can of integrate all kinds of unrelated stuff into a single story.

Cotton Candy

It’s just one of those things. Cotton Candy evokes fairs and circuses and those terrible cheap sideshow carnivals. Awful but memorable, all the same.

Pure sugar rush, of course. And oh my goodness yes terrible for anyone to eat. But one of those tastes that just instantly triggers a memory (or bunches of them).

Scents are supposed to be the strongest memory triggers of all, so I presume that the smell produced by a cotton candy machine, caramelized sugar that carries on the breeze, would be the strongest. Popcorn machines too, all carnivals have popcorn, right?

Carnivals and circuses and zoos are just wonderlands of these kinds of sensations.

The trick is giving your little beggars enough of the Terribad foods to form lifetime memories, but not enough to have them ralphing in your car all the way home, right?

Tell us about a sensation — a taste, a smell, a piece of music — that transports you back to childhood.

Two with everything, Sam

They all adore him. They think he’s a righteous dude.

Les jeux sont faits. The game is up. The die is cast. The chips are down.

A lot of cliches apply. But I don’t care about cliches, I just love Ferris. Beginning to end, it’s just a not-subtle and downright brilliant film.

Ferris Bueller’s Day Off and Airplane! are probably the movies sitting on my shelf with the most quotable “lines”, that pretty much anyone (at least in my generation) will instantly recognize. Maybe Stripes.

Oh sure, there are your Monty Pythons and your Princess Brides. But they don’t boast the sheer depth of one-liner quotables.

What does my movie selection say about me?

I suppose it pins me down to the Age of VHS, Until you could start acquiring video tape (and DVDs), you just couldn’t watch the films again and again and again until you could quote the dialog.

But can you finish singing this line?

“When Cameron was in Egypt’s land…” ¹

I suppose that’s an 80s Test, right?

Or maybe is says something about me, that weird comedies remain (and always will) my favorite films.

Maybe it says something about my weirdo college buddies.

Maybe it says something about the endurance of the iconic characters. I could dream of ever writing comedy that well.

Anyway, that’s my babble for this morning. Watch them again, the next time they show up on your TV listings.

Sorry, you kids who were Born Too Late. They just don’t make em like this no more.

¹ (“Let my Cameron go.”)

 Take a quote from your favorite movie — there’s the title of your post. Now, write!

No problem whatsoever

Straight

I’ve decided to play this one straight, despite the un-inspirational nature of the topic.

In all honesty, I can’t remember ever being told “I’m proud of you”. Oh, it probably happened, at some major life event or other, likely Graduation. But unless you’re seeking external affirmation, that’s not a Memorable Event. So the answer is…??? Durp? I dunno.

Proud…hmm, there is a possible approach to the question, though.

1. “feeling deep pleasure or satisfaction as a result of one’s own achievements, qualities, or possessions or those of someone with whom one is closely associated.”

2. “having or showing a high or excessively high opinion of oneself or one’s importance.”

So this is the impossibly thin line we’re walking. The razor’s edge between pride and hubris, right?

Every teen girl gets to walk a similar line…is she dressed attractively, or like a tramp? It’s all in the eye of the beholder, right? What does Mrs. Grundy think? Should we even care what Mrs. Grundy thinks?

There’s millions of Mrs. Grundys out there, and they’d all love to direct the traffic of your esteem, either up or down. And is esteem even valuable? Modern education seems to think so.

I’ve pretty much released Mrs. Grundy from any power over my life. I don’t need her approval, or her affirmation. I kinda wish she’d go away.

So we muddle on the next day, same as we always have.

But just in case: Hey Brad! We’re proud of you! You turned out ok, despite (at least one) horrible parent.

Anyway, that’s all the incoherence I have for you this morning.

When was the last time someone told you they were proud of you?

Told ya the daily prompt was a Dud.

Re-animation for Dummies

“Wheel it in, Igor. Carefully please, don’t bump the skull.”

Igor, as usual, did not have much to say. He pushed the gurney into the lab and stood back, crossing his arms and waiting expectantly. He knew what to expect; perverse glee and pontification. His foot began a slow tap as I examined our new guest this evening.

“Goodness Igor. She’s lovely. You have a thing for brunettes, don’t you? Lovely hands, this one hasn’t done much floor-scrubbing. Nice muscle tone. I suspect we have a jogger, maybe tennis? Yes, at the very least we’ll have a fine supply of parts from this one. Almost a shame to eviscerate her, eh Igor?”

I began making the first incision, starting atop the sternum and down the length of her central torso, a median sternotomy incision.

“You know, when I was about young lady’s age I was attending the finest medical schools in Europe. I studied under all of the greats, you know. Oxford, Heidelberg, Karolinska. I was such a busy boy, study and practice and study some more.”

Thoracotomy, opening up the side of her chest.

“You could attend medical school, Igor. I’m sure I could swing you an invitation to study a Harvard, at the very least. And your knowledge of anatomy grows almost daily. This specimen, for example. We’re so lucky you stumbled on such a young and healthy beaut—

“What’s this?”

I stooped and examined the scar, good surgical work, very fine and hard to detect but it was there.

“Oh, Igor. Breast implants?”

Igor began cowering back, raising his hands to protect his head from the beating. “Sorry, master!”

“I have told you to again and again to stay away from those gentlemen’s clubs.”

Take a complicated subject you know more about than most people, and explain it to a friend who knows nothing about it at all.

Igor’s eyes, bigger than his brain