A Phoenixess Seemingly Lurking

My power went out late last night. I woke up immediately, and felt a contact lens folding in my eye; I had forgotten to take them out.

Fumbling in the dark, I removed my contact lenses and waited for the power to come back on. The power knocked out my fan, and I rely on the white noise to drown out the silence in my room. As I waited, in the dark, with my eyes closed, I began to dream about a someone who's been on my mind recently. Like a song that gets stuck in your head, this girl has been stuck in mine:

I was walking down a busy street, a lot like Yonge street. It was probably Autumn and the sun was only just starting to go down. I was by myself and I can't really remember where I was going. Almost suddenly it was night-time, and I ran into some of Her friends smoking in front of a bar. In front of some stairs actually, which lead to an underground entrance. I was shocked because Her friends were surprisingly friendly to me, and invited me to join them downstairs.

I politely declined. I said that I had another place to be right across the street, but I am not sure if this was true. As I began to leave, I heard Her voice from the bottom of the stairs, presumably coming from behind the door, which was closed. Still her voice was loud and clear. She said,

"Have the Phoenixess come down -- if he can manage the stairs in his heels."

I don't remember what I said in response, but certainly it was an expression of confusion.

"See you later." She said in response.

The girls, Her friends, finished their cigarettes and started to head down the stairs. I walked away to some place across the street. I found a bookstore and went in, but I couldn't read any of the pages. To me they looked blank, but the other people in the store seemed to manage fine.

I walked back to the top of the stairs of the underground bar somewhat reluctantly. Though I felt it was a bad idea to be there, I stayed there as if waiting for something. I looked down the stairs for what seemed like a long time.

Then I heard Her voice, again, through the door. She asked some questions I can't remember, directed to no one in particular. Then She said plainly, "Are you awake?"

Feeling that She must be speaking to me, I answered, but She seemed surprised to hear my voice.

"What are you doing here, Phoenixess? What are you waiting for?" I was embarrassed that I had revealed my location at the top of the stairs, seemingly lurking. But what was She doing behind the door? How could She both see me, and not know that I was here? What was SHE waiting for? It seemed that She was lurking too.

In my dream, I was getting frustrated.

But I said nothing. I stood there, at the top of the stairs, determined to leave but completely unable to do so. And I as I felt my mind, moving my foot a step down the stairs--

I heard the smoke alarm chirp, my fan begin to hum, and in the distance, outside my window, the wail of a burglar alarm. I stirred briefly and then resumed a dreamless sleep.

Another strange interaction between Harvey and the portly store owner

Harvey: Have any lottery tickets?
Miranda: I do. But they're all losers.
Harvey: All of them?
Miranda: Yep.
Harvey: But--
Miranda: Every last one.
Harvey: What about the orange juice?
Miranda: Same story. I'd avoid the milk too.
Harvey:
Miranda:
Harvey: (Pointing) What ab--
Miranda: Yes, even the scratch n' wins.
Harvey: I'll come back tomorrow.

Overt personal ads

Hopeless romantic seeks filthy whore - m4w
Hapless nice guy with heart of gold seeks cock-hungry female for cuddling, shared sundaes, and lecherous depravity. My idea of a perfect date is cooking you dinner, watching Roman Holiday together under the covers and then afterwards, letting you shit on my chest.

BBW seeks perfect man with no standards - w4m
I am a corpulent woman with CURVES. I am seeking a wealthy, fit, well-endowed, intelligent, and perfect-in-every-way man that will accept me for what I am. I must be fucking kidding myself. Oh, well. Please be at least six feet tall.

Straight guy seeking another dude for totally not gay sexual experience - m4m
STR8 dude here, looking for a guy who might want to suck my dick. No faggots, please. I'm just looking for some hot and discreet mouth-love from a sexy and definitely NOT GAY male. Bonus points if you like baseball.

Non-racist seeks WHITES ONLY - w4m
I'm a cute, awesome, petite brunette looking for a smart and funny guy with a good head on his shoulders for a LTR. Also, you must be white. I'm not racist, it's just my PREFERENCE that you not be black, oriental, Jewish, Hispanic, South-East Asian, Middle-Eastern, PUERTO RICAN, an aboriginal of any kind, Micronesian, Polynesian, Melanesian, or even more than just a little tanned. I enjoy snowboarding and eating KD. Bonus points if know what Herrenrasse is.

Obvious stereotype seeks same - w4w
Female lumberjack looking for partner in crime. Must be angry. No fatties.

Religion reform #5

Maybe Islam could phase out the suicide bombings? Just a thought.

From soup to nuts

Perhaps some of you are wondering how these entries are created. In today's post I will take you behind the scenes of web-logging on the Internet.

Each post of course starts with an idea. Typically, this involves a three-hour "brainstorming" session with cigarillos, black coffee, and a thick pad of graph paper. Many times, I find it inspirational to head out-of-doors, into the realm of the of the great unwashed, as people-watching (and people-confronting) can be an incredible stimulus for a writer. And because of my grotesque appearance, I am able to work quietly almost anywhere without being disturbed. I find coffee shops, churches, the bus, the subway, phone booths, cell phone kiosks, record shops, ATMs, window ledges, courtyards, dentist offices and go-kart tracks excellent places to get started.

Did I mention I always have a hip-flask of Black Label at the ready at these brainstorming sessions? Well, I do.

Next, using my Smith Corona portable typewriter, I start writing copy. This is an arduous task. Depending on the length of the piece, this process can take weeks, or even months to complete. Unlike some other sites, my posts take about five months from inception before they are published. Case in point: is late July as I write this, but you probably won't see it until early next year. It is for this reason that these posts typically avoid mention of current events or the prices of commodities.

Next, the typed up first draft is given to my assistant Marianne for editing and proof-reading. To date, she has not found a single spelling or grammar mistake. (Though, she has been instructed that she will lose her job should she point one out to me.)

When a piece is completed and ready for publishing, Marianne hands the finished copy to the technical director, Charles, who places it on the Internet web-page of this site. It's a technical process I'm not entirely familiar with, but Charles has taken the time to explain it to me.

As you may know, anything you would like to placed on the Internet has to be sent to Internet Headquarters in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. There it is reviewed by a team of twenty experts from around the world who decide whether the work is worthy of publishing.

If the post is approved (and I'm happy to say that all I mine have been), the Internet begins the painstaking process of transferring each letter of text on to a punch card. It takes hundreds of workers to feed these cards, one-by-one, into a mega computer the length of three school buses. Charles says that once all the text is entered, it takes only forty-eight hours for the mega computer to publish the text to my web-site. That's a fast computer!

But of course, it doesn't end there. Once the post has made it on to the Internet, it is reviewed by myself and a selected panel of trusted confidants and sycophants for final approval. Believe it or not, most of my written material makes it through this highly rigorous and critical process. The posts are graded on clarity, creativity, tone, timbre, lustre and a general category we call "shine". It's the certain je ne sais quoi possessed by a good piece of writing. The panel finds that it is absent from approximately 90% of my writing. Fortunately, final say in the panel comes from myself, as I have been alloted triple voting power.

And there you have it. That is the process of how this web-log is made. Though the process is expensive, and lengthy, and largely injurious to my liver, it is a labour of love.

Please send money. Or booze.

Beat poetry in the dot com era

I see you white-grey box
Upon slender desk
I hear your rattle-clink-ching
And your desperate hum
I feel your overheat

You have corrupted
Sectors, clusters
Your hard drive
Is failing
My heart is breaking

Breathe once more
Box
I have to check my e-mail
Need to check my e-mail
Cold box, persist

Death
And rebirth external
I'm lost, so lost, so lost
Without my e-mail
Won't you let me check my e-mail

A story that will warm your heart, globe

It was a warm winter night when Harriet was chopping onions in the kitchen for dinner. Just as she raised a hand to her tingling nose, her husband Marcus walked in.

"Wow, is it gorgeous out there!" he announced. "And it's the middle of December!"

But Harriet was less than pleased.

"Thanks to you and your SUV-driving buddies. This warm weather is a bad thing, Marcus. Have you heard of Global Warming? If it keeps up there will be no more polar ice caps. Not to mention coastal cities."

But Marcus could not be budged from cloud nine.

"I wasn't even planning on visiting the ice caps." he rebutted, clearly missing the point. "Oh, man. It's like autumn out there. You gotta come see." He motioned for the door.

"No thank you," was the curt reply.

"What's the matter?" Marcus asked. Harriet wiped a tear from her eye with the front of her wrist. She sliced through another onion, and then turned around to face Marcus.

"Nothing, except that everyone is enjoying this so-called wonderful weather when they really should be thinking about the environment, because the Earth is dying Marcus, can't you see?"

With tears dripping down her face, Harriet continued.

"And no one cares, because they all love their beautiful warm weather -- well it's not right," and her face contorted slightly from emotion, "and you shouldn't be so happy about it," and now full sobs stifled her rant, "the Earth is dying Marcus, because of pollution, and SUVs and aerosol cans! Why doesn't anyone care?"

Harriet was bawling now, her hands, covered in onion fluids, hanging awkwardly at her sides. Marcus wanted to console her, but he hesitated when he looked at the knife dangling from her left hand. Instead, he edged over to her side and placed his hand gingerly on her shoulder; with the care one would reserve for a box of glass vials filled with nitroglycerin.

"There, there," he said. "Why don't we go for a walk? Maybe this lovely weather will cheer you up."

Harriet's fists clenched and the knife was erect. Marcus recoiled, flying from Harriet's shoulder. She looked at him with wide eyes. She was not just angry, but bewildered.

"Have you been listening to a word I've been saying? No one listens," and the broken sobs spilled out once more, "why doesn't anyone care what I have to say? The Earth is dying, and dinner is ruined, and no one listens and now I'm crying!" And she released a long caterwaul of despair; Marcus just scratched the back of his head and watched this early-evening meltdown.

"Come on," he said gently. "It's the onions. They make everybody cry."

But the flood continued. By now Harriet had put down the knife and started wiping her eyes with the insides of her wrists and forearms. Marcus was quiet but desperate to put an end to this emotional deluge.

"Hey, Harr-iet," he said in a sing-song way. But she didn't respond.

"Hey, maybe tomorrow it will be colder. Would that make you feel better?" He tried.

Harriet looked up.

"Maybe. As long as the temperature is consistent with historical averages," she sniffed. Looking the ground she repeated quietly, "the Earth is dying."

But Marcus had no idea what she just said. "Well, I heard it might snow tomorrow," he lied. Harriet stopped crying.

"Really? Oh, I hope so Marky, I really do. I don't want the Earth to die... I love you."

Then she exhaled with a sigh, "onions always me cry, don't they?"

He nodded. And as Harriet turned to resume the chopping of onions for dinner, Marcus walked over to the cabinet under the kitchen sink and grabbed various aerosol cans. Picking them up with both hands, he marched toward the side door. "I'll be right back, sweetheart," he said.

Harriet looked over at Marcus with the aerosol cans and then up at him -- with surprise and then joy: she had thought Marcus didn't understand.

But Marcus understood fully. Walking around the house, he arranged the aerosol cans on the picnic table in the backyard and, one-by-one, dispensed their contents into the unseasonably mild night air.

Real letters from real geeks

Dear XYZ Mobile,

I cannot remember not hating anything about your vile corporation. I have never been a voluntary customer of yours, expect where your abominable monopoly makes this impossible, and in those cases I do so only begrudgingly with a deep-rooted sense of enmity, hatred and rage.

I would be content to eschew any contact with your crummy outfit for the rest of my days, but now I am forced to write to you. You see, at work I must call XYZ subscribers fairly regularly, and thus must endure on an almost daily basis your company's staggering shittiness.

As you may know, when one calls a mobile subscriber who is not able to answer his or her phone, one is redirected to voicemail, and usually confronted with a message like this,

"Hi, you've reached the voicemail of Harvey Kornbluth, please leave me a message and I'll call you right back."

and this is typically followed by a short tone.

Not so for your subscribers.

XYZ has deemed it necessary to append another message before the tone, as if you do not trust your own subscribers to instruct callers appropriately. This message states:

Please leave a message after the tone. When you are finished recording you may hang up or press pound for more options. If you would like to leave a call back number where you can be reached, press star.

Un-fucking-necessary.

It truly shocks me that anyone at your corporation could have decided that this was appropriate, and it angers me that there are not enough other people at your corporation to seek out and impale the masterminds behind this bullshit.

Look: enough time has passed since the invention of the answering machine that most people know what the purpose of that characteristic beep at the end of the-recorded-message-that-follows-a-lot-of-unanswered-rings is. And to remind me that I may hang up after I have finished recording is, simply put, fucking retarded.

For the handful of people that aren't up-to-date on answering machine technology, they are likely to drop dead of arrhythmia any day now. Can we lose this message? I have other calls to make.

Please stop wasting my time accommodating these ancients from another age. It's the twenty-first fucking century already.

Keep up the otherwise shitty work,

Harvey

Fond memories of horrific events

It was the autumn carnival. I still remember the warm aroma of funnel cakes beckoning us to the tiny stand in the midway, manned by an equally tiny Italian dressed all in white and capped with a proper chef's hat. Engulfed in sugary redolence and warmth, the tiny man poured batter gently on to the oil's surface in the deep fryer. Beneath the awning of his hut the other kids and I watched with rapt anticipation as the nascent funnel cakes took form.

When it was my turn, I pressed my finger to the batter stained glass. I had been eyeing a particular funnel cake since it had first touched the hot oil. With an almost fatalistic sense of purpose, I made my selection. As a topping I requested powdered sugar and whipped cream. The tiny man looked at me with gentle eyes as he handed me the confection.

"That'll be $5.50, please."

I was dumbstruck. My parents had only given me a five dollar bill. I held the five dollar bill aloft, as if to indicate that that was all I had. I recall looking directly at the man with the gentle eyes. Time seemed to stop. He understood.

Without hesitation he lifted the warm funnel cake from my hands and tossed it like a Frisbee into a garbage pail behind me. It sailed over my head, and I turned around in time to watch the delicious pastry, whose history I followed from inception, meet its demise in the fly-ridden steel garbage can.

"Next!" The tiny man said.

I remember walking away despondently with my hands deep in my pockets. Then I noticed that there were a couple of quarters in there. But it was too late. I never ate funnel cake again.

Memorandum

It has come to the attention of management that the quality and frequency of recent posts--specifically the last fifty or so--have left readers "unsatisfied" and "disenchanted."  Some of the responses I have been shown:

"His writing is stilted and ultimately unamusing."

"Boring. Stupid. Ugly. Miserable. These are the words I would to describe you."

"Harvey, I am going to hunt you down and slice your chest open with a straight razor. I want you to watch me squeeze your still-beating heart in my bare hands."

And so on and so on. Apparently, I have been spared some of the harsher criticisms as they could "hurt my feelings." I shudder to think.

My natural response is a yawn and a lackadaisical "fuck off"--though not necessarily in that order. Management, however, is wholly unsatisfied with my lack of a sense of urgency, and insists on "punchier" output.

What this means exactly, I don't know. Perhaps a subplot featuring twins? Retrograde amnesia? Let's hope we never find out.

At any rate, I want to take this moment to emphasize that your input is not appreciated, and you can go to Hell and die. Should your death be a miserable and painful one, that will not bother me in the slightest.

Take care,

Harvey

Words I hate

"Hamfisted" is terrible imagery, would you not agree?

Real letters from real geeks

Dear Research in Motion,

Just yesterday I was installing your Blackberry desktop software (BDS) on my home computer. I would like to take advantage of your media manager to transfer (not download, as some like to call it) some of my music (specifically Rupert Holmes and The Clash) to my Blackberry to listen to while jogging, or while waiting for public transportation, etc. I find listening to music while waiting helps the time go by faster. Of course, I realise time isn't actually going by faster, but only my subjective perception of it. I do understand the difference between changes in spacetime and my experience of the passage of time, thank you very much.

Anyway, when installing the BDS, I noticed that a new encryption key had to be generated as the software did not recognize my device. This was both understandable and commendable, and your dedication to security does not go unnoticed by this user. The next step however, nearly made me spit out a piece of éclair I happened to be eating at the time.

The software insisted I "move my mouse" in order to generate random data for an encryption key. Seriously? Move my mouse? Though I complied (as randomly as possible mind you) I was bewildered and bemused the entire time. I mean, are you sure the typical user's wrist movements are random enough? I began by moving my mouse in small back and forth waves before realizing that many other users would opt for this lazy (albeit easy) motion. Immediately, I began small, counterclockwise circles and some various other unpredictable designs I won't mention here for safety's sake.

I must ask, are you not leaving a bit too much to the user in this situation? When security is concerned, I think one can never be too careful. Perhaps you should encourage the home user to procure a fair die, or define an algorithm based on the name of one's pet. Better safe than sorry, I always say.

Otherwise, please keep up the excellent work.

Respectfully yours,

Harvey

Religion reform #4

The minced oaths used by a religion's members should be updated yearly and voted upon by an appointed council. This council would decide, for the various religions, which new pseudo-blasphemous terms are to be used, which are to be discontinued, and for what period of time. The composition of the council should be:

a. One high-ranking church official from each of the various religions
b. A foul-mouthed stand-up comedian
c. A effete Jewish writer from New York
d. A child, woman, or cripple
e. Someone's grandfather

This council I have decided, will be called The Institute for the Development and Dissemination of Minced Oaths (IDDMO), and will have a monthly news-letter called the Jeepers H. Cracker.

Anyone can submit their suggestions for "swears" to the council who will create a shortlist of finalists (in November) for final selection in January.

I've already got my suggestions ready. Have you?

Talent show

All eyes were trained on young Helen, her weak and stumbling frame desperately flailing to keep upright in front of the entire auditorium. Of course, juggling flaming candy apples on a unicycle is never easy, and even less so when you're missing your shins. Still, she persevered.

The single black tire crept dangerously close to the stage edge. Rivulets of sweat soaked Helen's entire body and she was as tense as a drumhead. With the utmost focus, she kept the unicycle motionless, balanced between the pressure of her shinless legs.

Helen gasped. A piece of flame spiralled away from her orbiting candy apples and landed on her wrist. She winced, soundlessly, and rolled off the stage onto a euphonium player. He was unhurt; Helen was unconscious, and bleeding, and partially ablaze.

Helen cried when the doctors told her she would never juggle again; she had lost her forearms. Mother held her close on the hospital bed and felt her eyes water too. Helen's father just stared at the unicycle leaning against the wall in the corner.

"Whose is that?" he asked. But nobody answered.

Viva la resolution!

So I finally got around to making a list of new year's resolutions. (I know it's late, but seriously, step off, I've been busy.) Having endured almost a quarter century of trite, unbelievably-predictable, and totally-unfair bull-shit, I've come up with a few whammies to really make 2007 shine. (Like a 2007 quarter, for example.) Here are the maxims by which I will live this year:

1. Scotch is not for breakfast.
2. Women do not want to be my "partner in crime". So stop asking.
3. Reading Utne impresses no one.
4. Homeless people ARE people, in spite of their smell, demeanour, shoutings, etc.
5. Nothing tastes as good as thin FEELS.
6. Apathy is not my way of "keeping it real".
7. I will not deny the holocaust on my birthday.
8. Ain't no party like a west coast party.
9. I'll stop stalking (all of) you on Facebook.
10. Enough with the lists already, God-damnit.

I'm also going to cut down on the cigarillos and visit the gym more often. Having just made these I haven't broken any so far. So I've got a leg up on most of you assholes.

Twenty-oh-sev's lookin' alllll right.

Double dactylos R' us

Blimmy-blam blimmy-blam
Emmy Jane Escobar
Wrote me a letter for
Three-hundred years

Started to think she was
Un-reprehensible
Dumped! In the corridor
Three hundred tears

--

Poosha-pop poosha-pop
Pen pal of earlier
Was just a figment 'til
Late in the fall

Kicky and Sassy and
Circumlocutory
When's my next letter dear?
Don't drop the ball

--

Tick-toppa tick-toppa
Mr. Psychiatrist:
"Dactyls are hardly the
Best way to cope"

Actually everything's
Splendiperiferous
Passive-aggression is
My only hope

--

Gibby-gab pish-posh
Harvey the worrier
Bitches and babbles but
He's just a suck

Simply and old case of
Damned insecurity
Would have done the same thing
Still, what the fuck!