No Touch Monkey!

From God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater (1965), in which Kurt Vonnegut writes about the Death of the American Dream.

Dear Cousin, or whoever you may be --

Congratulations on your great good fortune. Have fun. It may increase your perspective to know what sorts of manipulators and custodians your unbelievable wealth has had up to now.

Like so many great American fortunes, the Rosewater pile was accumulated in the beginning by a humorless, constipated Christian farm boy turned speculator and briber during and after the Civil War. The farm boy was Noah Rosewater, my great-grandfather, who was born in Rosewater County, Indiana.

Noah and his brother George inherited from their pioneer father six hundred acres of farmland, land as dark and rich as chocolate cake, and a small saw factory that was nearly bankrupt. War came.

George raised a rifle company, marched away at its head.

Noah hired a village idiot to fight in his place, converted the saw factory to the manufacture of swords and bayonets, converted the farm to the raising of hogs. Abraham Lincoln declared that no amount of money was too much to pay for the restoration of the Union, so Noah priced his merchandise in scale with the national tragedy. And he made this discovery: Government objections to the price or quality of his wares could be vaporized with bribes that were pitifully small.

He married Cleota Herrick, the ugliest woman in Indiana, because she had four hundred thousand dollars. With her money he expanded the factory and bought more farms, all in Rosewater County. He became the largest individual hog farmer in the North. And, in order not to be victimized by meat packers, he bought controlling interest in an Indianapolis slaughterhouse. In order not to be victimized by steel suppliers, he bought controlling interest in a steel company in Pittsburgh. In order not to be victimized by coal suppliers, he bought controlling interest in several mines. In order not to be victimized by money lenders, he founded a bank.

And his paranoid reluctance to be a victim caused him to deal more and more in valuable papers, in stocks and bonds, and less and less in swords and pork. Small experiments with worthless papers convinced him that such papers could be sold effortlessly. While he continued to bribe persons in government to hand over treasuries and national resources, his first enthusiasm became the peddling of watered stock.

When the United States of America, which was meant to be a Utopia for all, was less than a century old, Noah Rosewater and a few men like him demonstrated the folly of the Founding Fathers in one respect: those sadly recent ancestors had not made it the law of the Utopia that the wealth of each citizen should be limited. This oversight was engendered by a weak-kneed sympathy for those who loved expensive things, and by the feeling that the continent was so vast and valuable, and the population so thin and enterprising, that no thief, no matter how fast he stole, could more than mildly inconvenience anyone.

Noah and a few like him perceived that the continent was in fact finite, and that venal office-holders, legislators in particular, could be persuaded to toss up great hunks of it for grabs, and to toss them in such a way as to have them land where Noah and his kind were standing.

Thus did a handful of rapacious citizens come to control all that was worth controlling in America. Thus was the savage and stupid and entirely inappropriate and unnecessary and humorless American class system created. Honest, industrious, peaceful citizens were classed as bloodsuckers, if they asked to be paid a living wage. And they saw that praise was reserved henceforth for those who devised means of getting paid enormously for committing crimes against which no laws had been passed. Thus the American dream turned belly up, turned green, bobbed to the scummy surface of cupidity unlimited, filled with gas, went _bang_ in the noonday sun.

_E pluribus unum_ is surely an ironic motto to inscribe on the currency of this Utopia gone bust, for every grotesquely rich American represents property, privileges, and pleasures that have been denied the many. An even more instructive motto, in the light of history made by the Noah Rosewaters, might be: _Grab much too much, or you'll get nothing at all_.

And Noah begat Samuel, who married Geraldine Ames Rockefeller. Samuel became even more interested in politics than his father had been, served the Republican Party tirelessly as a king-maker, caused that party to nominate men who would whirl like dervishes, bawl fluent Babylonian, and order the militia to fire into crowds whenever a poor man seemed on the point of suggesting that he and a Rosewater were equal in the eyes of the law.

And Samuel bought newspapers, and preachers, too. He gave them this simple lesson to teach, and they taught it well: _Anybody who thought that the United States of America was supposed to be a Utopia was a piggy, lazy, God-damned fool_. Samuel thundered that no American factory hand was worth more than eighty cents a day. And yet he could be thankful for the opportunity to pay a hundred thousand dollars or more for a painting by an Italian three centuries dead. And he capped this insult by giving paintings to museums for the spiritual elevation of the poor. The museums were closed on Sundays.

And Samuel begat Lister Ames Rosewater, who married Eunice Eliot Morgan. There was something to be said for Lister and Eunice: unlike Noah and Cleota and Samuel and Geraldine, they could laugh as though they meant it. As a curious footnote to history, Eunice became Woman's Chess Champion of the United States in 1927, and again in 1933.
Eunice also wrote an historical novel about a female gladiator, _Ramba of Macedon_, which was a best-seller in 1936. Eunice died in 1937, in a sailing accident in Cotuit, Massachusetts. She was a wise and amusing person, with very sincere anxieties about the condition of the poor. She was my mother.

Her husband, Lister, never was in business. From the moment of his birth to the time I am writing this, he has left the manipulation of his assets to lawyers and banks. He has spent nearly the whole of his adult life in the Congress of the United States, teaching morals, first as a Representative from the district whose heart is Rosewater County, and then as Senator from Indiana. That he is or ever was an Indiana person is a tenuous political fiction. And Lister begat Eliot.

Lister has thought about the effects and implications of his inherited wealth about as much as most men think about their left big toes. The fortune has never amused, worried, or tempted him. Giving ninety-five per cent of it to the Foundation you now control didn't cause him a twinge.

And Eliot married Sylvia DuVrais Zetterling, a Parisienne beauty who came to hate him. Her mother was a patroness of painters. Her father was the greatest living cellist. Her maternal grandparents were a Rothschild and a DuPont.

And Eliot became a drunkard, a Utopian dreamer, a tinhorn saint, an aimless fool.

Begat he not a soul.

_Bon voyage_, dear Cousin or whoever you are. Be generous. Be kind. You can safely ignore the arts and sciences. They never helped anybody. Be a sincere, attentive friend of the poor.


The letter was signed,
The late Eliot Rosewater.

So far, you’ve created an IPod class and created an instance of it, but we’ve already discovered that it’s
completely useless as it is. It’s like an annoying socialite factory capable of churning out an endless parade of celebrity wannabes who are famous just for being famous, despite being completely devoid of both substance and talent. I’m sure you can think of a few media personalities who fit this bill, and we refuse to let your IPod class become one of them.

From "Mother Night"

"I doubt if there has ever been a society that has been without strong and young people eager to experiment with
homicide, provided no very awful penalties are attached to it."

I think this works for both the Iranian Basiji and The United States Marine Corps.

From Spaceman's Blues: A Love Story by Brian Francis Slattery


The Pan-Galactic Groove Squad crashes through the window at eleven-thirty to claps and cheers and stomping feet; there are twenty-seven of them in this band, they have guitars and basses, keyboards, accordions, horns, banjos, and drums, so many drums, and they set up in no time and begin to play, a beat that starts down low and simple, just the kick and some hi-hat with one bass snaking around it. The rest of the band waits, they're letting the groove get in the pocket, hit bottom. It does; and now two drummers join in, they weave a polyrhythm that brings in one guitar and some pops from a banjo, oh this groove is young but it's growing, and people are starting to move. Now a singer steps up to the mike, puts out some blues that two more singers turn to gospel, harmonies deep and wide that make you want to believe. Five more drummers slip their way into the spaces, two guitars, another bass, a single trumpet line, simple and urgent, and those singers are swelling up, they're filling the groove to bursting, and just when nobody can take another second, they break it open in an explosion of horns and keyboards and shouting strings. The people open up their throats and sing, and everybody screams and throws their hands in the air, they're falling in and stomping it down, sweating and throwing back their heads until they are bound together, band and dancers, into a single thing, and this is a party not even the Hand of the Righteous could stop, it is loud and large and full of joy; and then Wendell steps into the room.

While dozing on a plane in a Hypnogogic state when I had a revelation:



How to become a successful Internet Celebrity, Author and Motivational Speaker all in one shot! And I'm giving it to you because I'm too lazy to do it myself.

1. Find "your thing". In this case it is becoming "Captain Cake Man" The foundation is this: It's obvious that death and tragedy can come at any time in any place without warning...but so can cake. Of the two, I'd take cake.

2. Do your thing: "Captain Cake Man" can start small. Go to the bakery at a grocery store, and just buy a regular low priced cake. It doesn't matter what kind, just make it big enough to feed at least 10 people or so.

3. Brand your thing: Design a logo, get a website and a special email address. Print it up on some stickers and stick them on your cake box.

4. Hitting the bricks: Every couple of days, buy a cake, slap a sticker on it, pick an office building at random and give them a cake. Don't tell them about the death thing, because will weird them out, but instead tell them that "Cake Happens, or I'm Captain Cake Man, that's what I do."

5. Document your thing: Take pictures and movies of you delivering the cake. Post them on your website. If you get a chance, start meeting people and talking to them. Ask them if there's anything they've done to make people happy. Keep their emails. Collect stories. This will become a full time vocation, so don't half-ass it. Nobody likes a half-ass Personality. Do not besmirch the Captain Cake Man image. Remember, it takes a while to become an overnight success, but it is possible if you keep it up.

6. Eventually someone will notice you and you will start getting a lot of attention. Keep it up. Keep collecting stories and photos. And when you get enough you be able to publish a book like the Post Secret Guy. Perhaps you can quit your job and make your own cakes with your own logo decoration. Soon you will have enough stories and photos to go on a speaking tour about commiting Random Acts of Cakeness.

7. Profit? I sure hope so because it's an awesome idea that is bound to be successful. Go forth, Good Luck and Happy Caking.

I walked out of the house tonight with a bag of books to give away, a Jerry Garcia Figure to loan out. I came home with a 10 lb bag of rice, transporting some DVDs between one guy and my neighbors, which I swapped out for a book loan.

This weekend I will be taking photos of this guy's paintings and helping him post them on Flickr because he lets me sit in on his painting sessions and gives me drive by art lessons.



Tomorrow I'm going to try to hook up a coworker with some freelance work, and another artist with a bar caricature gig.

Liz Lemmon is only 5 or 6 weeks old. She's new out of the box. Here is the picture for reference.

A little something for you Irish Folk

Because kicking a small child in the bum is funny. We haven't watched the movie yet, but apparently he had it coming.

I'm coining a new word: Smunk n. sm(elly) (f)unk The disgusting odor of combined cooked foods in a communal lunchroom or cafeteria. Adj "this room smells smunky."

There's a reason why I only want to eat uncooked food at my desk. It's because my unventilated lunchroom smells smunky. When we first moved buildings (in which the entire first floor smelled smunky all the time), our lunchroom didn't reek, but then we began hiring new people for another department pushing us past the Smunkschild Radius which has created a permanent fog of foul miasma in that tiny room.

For those who don't have Twitter or facebook, here is a drawing I did of Alessandra during her modeling session this weekend. It was the first time I used color, and tried to draw larger.

Henryk the painter who was paying for Ale's time, is also coaching me to draw as large as possible.

So over all, while i don't think what I drew was "Good", I am happy with it for my skill level (which I would put at High School Sophomore)

Onwards and upwards

Last week or so Alessandra and I went to a book swap at her knitting pal Michelle's house. I offloaded a ton of books and only came home with two magazines and a bottle of blue hair dye for my beard.

So the following week, we were back at Michelle's for knitting (I of course was drawing) and it's fun for me because the girls are Geek Girls and we can talk about Lost, BSG & SciFi stuff. Michelle had a few boxes of left over books she was going to donate, so I went over to look at the boxes.

"Hey Mark, that box over there is just boring text books. All the fiction are in the boxes in front of you."

"Oh that's ok, I'll take a look at the text books." Shuffle, shuffle. "Heyyyyyy!" I hold up a copy of "The Long Road" (my self published novel) ->

Stammered apologies ensue, but I'm not insulted at all. Despite my friends, and wife's assurance that it's a good book, I think it's probably no better than a Fan Fiction.

"Of all the boxes I didn't want you going into, you had to go and look there."

I'm really not offended at all, but I am amused.

Spotted on North Carolina Craigslist:

Looking For Something to Look At: "Looking for a female to hang out in an apartment whilst wearing nothing but stockings and glasses like Charlie Sheen's in 'Major League'.

Must be comfortable with hanging out with a small group of guys while naked. Looking for a girl who can spend a few quality hours watching Lord of the Rings - Fellowship of the Ring, with us.

There is no compensation for this, as spending time in my presence is surely enough to cover your time spent.

Reply with pic/reason why I should pick you."

My response: Your presence is not enough. You need to play the lady. Which could, at 12 bucks an hour, get you a pretty hot figure drawing model if you played your cards right.

Stupid NBC needs to post this on Hulu.com. John Belushi's March comes in like a bit, on Weekend Update from SNL in 1977. So by way of a clearly inferior method of comedic media delivery: here is the transcript. If you've ever seen it, just try and picture/hear it. To those who aren't...sorry.

Chevy Chase:
Last week we made the comment that March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. Now here to reply is our chief meteorologist, John Belushi, with a seasonal report.

John Belushi:
Thank you Chevy. Well, another winter is almost over and March true to form has come in like a lion, and hopefully will go out like a lamb. At least that's how March works here in the United States.

But did you know that March behaves differently in other countries? In Norway, for example, March comes in like a polar bear and goes out like a walrus. Or, take the case of Honduras where March comes in like a lamb and goes out like a salt marsh harvest mouse.

Let's compare this to the Maldive Islands where March comes in like a wildebeest and goes out like an ant. A tiny, little ant about this big.

[holds thumb and index fingers a small distance apart]

Unlike the Malay Peninsula where March comes in like a worm-eating fernbird and goes out like a worm-eating fernbird. In fact, their whole year is like a worm-eating fernbird.

Or consider the Republic of South Africa where March comes in like a lion and goes out like a different lion. Like one has a mane, and one doesn't have a mane. Or in certain parts of South America where March swims in like a sea otter, and then it slithers out like a giant anaconda.

There you can buy land real cheap, you know. And there's a country where March hops in like a kangaroo, and stays a kangaroo for a while, and then it becomes a slightly smaller kangaroo. Then, then, then for a couple of days it's sort of a cross between a, a frilled lizard and a common house cat.

[Chevy Chase tries to interrupt him]

Wait wait wait wait. Then it changes back into a smaller kangaroo, and then it goes out like a, like a wild dingo. Now, now, and it's not Australia! Now, now, you'd think it would be Australia, but it's not!

[Chevy Chase tries to interrupt him]

Now look, pal! I know a country where March comes in like an emu and goes out like a tapir. And they don't even know what it means! All right? Now listen, there are nine different countries, where March comes in like a frog, and goes out like a golden retriever. But that- that's not the weird part! No, no, the weird part is, is the frog. The frog- The weird part is-

[has seizure and falls off chair]

I'm pretty hot & cold about Facebook. Like what appears to be most of America, I have a profile there, but I don't Poke or join groups, causes, send plants to save the rain forest, or any of that shit. I pretty much just comment on my friend's status and lose at Scrabble.

So why am I there? Really I have no clue. I already have my own "corner of the web" here at NTM, and I already post my microposts at Twitter. Then a weird thing happened, after being friended by friends, acquaintances and former coworkers, I started getting friended by people with whom I went to grade school and high school. You don't have to reciprocate, but I figure if you're taking the time to push the button and say Hi, I'm willing to let you into as much of my life as I mostly post online (which is actually quite alot). If I say something that offends you, well, then, you'd don't have to follow me.

Here's a story:
Growing up I was a very lonely kid and was filled with a constant longing for friends and good times like those found in McDonald's Commercials. "Good Friends, Good Times" kind of crap going all the way to early grade school. Only twice in my life up until college did I discover that girls liked me: once in junior high, once in senior high, and because they were not "the popular girls" that I crushed on and was rejected by again and again, I shit on them.
What actually happened was this: when I found out that a girl liked me, I was overcome by anxiety and fear, THEN I shit on them, and said mean things to them to make them go away. No wonder my mom thought I was gay.

I blocked a lot of high school out of my memory. Again, most of it was filled with unfulfilled longings, constant rejections and occasional beatings (not like those of today, but more of a jostling, occasionally put in wrestling move kind of thing). But one thing I do remember was being very mean to Laura M, who I heard liked me at some point.

Laura M was a girl who rode my bus, who was pretty but not in a popular clique. She was very quiet and of Native American decent. So when I found out that she liked me, I slagged on her very hard using such terms as "Redskin" and "Squaw." I think I made her cry.

Much to my surprise, 24+ years later, she friended me on Facebook, and I sat there for a minute or thinking to myself, "Really? Now what?"

I believe that we carry every hurt and misdeed with us our entire lives. I'd say the same for kindness, but at the time of this writing, I don't feel it, though I'm open to being wrong. Much like Marley, in "A Christmas Carol" we wear the chains we forged in this life, and the fact that I remember being so mean, I think, says something. And after 24 years, I made a sincere apology for being a dick back then.

I don't know if I scratched at an old forgotten wound on her, and restabbed her, but since I choose to believe it's still with her (as it was with me), I hope that it brings a tiny sense of relief. And as much as I think Facebook is an awful shopping mall of a social network, I think it has the potential to brink that sort of relief to many more people, and I makes me wonder what kind of world would it be if we can all finally get rid of the the emotional ghosts of our pasts.

The Web Cam is open. Tits, drums, music & floats from Carnaval in Rio http://is.gd/ktUy InfoDump: http://is.gd/ktUZ We'll try to keep in on all night.

Wow, what a past week of smut and norm transgressions.

Tuesday: Who is Annie Sprinkle?

It only seemed fitting that the talk was held in a dimly-lit basement multipurpose room called The Gargoyle (formerly The Rathskeller)

Annie Sprinkle Ph.D., former porn star, Feminist Pornographer, Artist and Sex Goddess was giving a talk as part of Washington University's Sex Week.

It was basically her boilerplate talk of "The Life of Annie Sprinkle": How a regular girl happened to work at a concession stand of a movie theater showing "Deep Throat", discovered she liked sex and made a career out of it: porn films, plays in which she opens up her vagina to audience inspection of her cervix, Sacred Goddess Exploration Porn...the works.

It made for an interesting talk. I consider Annie a Counter Cultural Hero of mine who share the list with Timothy Leary, Terrence McKenna, Robert Anton Wilson, and I love the fact that she isn't just coasting on her past productions, and old stories as part of her talk. She continues to make art the coolest of which was a photo exhibit of her getting a cancerous tumor removed from her breast, then a montage of she and her lover shaving each other's heads as she went on Chemo.

Q&A was brief but interesting, thought it was an evening well spent.

Interview with Annie in Mavericks of The Mind

Saturday Night: Naughti Gras

Alessandra and I put on some costumes and went to go look at some erotic art with some 2000 people.



Sunday: Alessandra accompanies me to Dr Sketchy's Anti Art School

So I can try to draw Pole Dancing Duo Gravity Plays Favorites


Click link for more photos.

You know, when all was said and done, I didn't anything we did was smutty or transgressive, but other people will...and there you go.

This mean Valentine was included in a big stack that a friend bought on e-bay for part of a big craft project. She holds these parties where you come and make valentines for your loved ones, but none ever uses this one as it's base.

Hi...How are you? ☺? Good, Good. Here comes lots of Stairway to Heaven. OK? OK. ♫ http://blip.fm/~246tz I listened to them all...so should you.

Spanish Guitar Stairway To Heaven ♫ http://blip.fm/~246w1

Added by request: Dread Zeppelin's version of ♫ Stairway To Heaven.

Tiny Tim & Brave Combo sing Stairway to Heaven ♫ http://blip.fm/~246xj

What happens when you combine the B52s & Led Zeppelin? Rock Lobsters doing Stairway to Heaven. Not to be missed, ♫ http://blip.fm/~246z0

A down & dirty Stairway to Heaven ♫ http://blip.fm/~24720

Oh Dolly, I so love your boobs...I mean your version of Stairway to Heaven. ♫ http://blip.fm/~2473m

I don't know what style this is, but this Stairway to Heaven has an accordion and bubble pop sound. ♫ http://blip.fm/~2475p

Who is Millish? I don't know, but they have a incredibly strong Stairway to Heaven. ♫ http://blip.fm/~2479r

Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale a tale of fateful trip on the Stairway to Heaven! ♫ http://blip.fm/~247b5

Pardon Me Boys swings the Big Band fuck out of Stairway to Heaven. Where's me Zoot Suit? ♫ http://blip.fm/~247fs

The 1963 Beatles successfully travel in time to 1971 and back again to "write" Stairway to Heaven before Zeppelin. ♫ http://blip.fm/~247l4

What do a Tuba, Banjo & Trumpet have in common? They rock the shit out out of Stairway To Heaven in ways you never imagined ♫ http://blip.fm/~247te

This is something that came to mind last night as I was drifting off to sleep. I don't ever think about numbers so I thought this would make a fun post to how I relate to and see certain numbers.

0 Something representing nothing or a power of 10. How versatile is that?

1 Is both the loneliest number and the most crowded when we are unified. Uni = 1

2 Two can be as bad as one, it's the loneliest number since the number one.

3 Is a Magic Number. I don't know why one would say "I'm the third wheel" when accompanying a couple out for the evening. A 3rd wheel forms a tricycle and stabilizes the bike. Triva Fact: That idiom is not used in Brazil. According to Alessandra that person is said to be "holding the candle", which is a lot more sensual and to the point.

4 Used to be my favorite number, but now I find it rather boring with pointy corners because all I see is a square or trapezoid.

5 Mach Fuckin' 5! Chok, chok, chok... I still haven't seen the Speed Racer Movie.

6 One 1/2 of "Box Cars", the number of Brady kids (minus cousin Oliver) and to me generally a boring number. Just kind of there.

7 Supposed to be a lucky number. Hmmm. What does Cat Yronwode have to say?

8 Octopus, so wondrous and alien. I love them even at they give me the Willies Brings to mind hex #2f2f7d.

9 "If you talk about destructionnnn, don't you know that you can count me out (in)" Nine is a delightfully wonky number. It just seems "off" to me, but in a friendly way. Comes across in warm colors, and seems round.

10 "9, 10 a big fat hen". I think of 10 as an egg. Maybe it's because of the zero at the end. But is 10 a small hen's egg or full like an ostrich? I don't know. Right now I see an egg floating in space but pregnant with potential. I know that should be zero, but as of this writing, that's how 10 feels to me.

13 Highly over rated. I feel that #13 is that Goth kid with the Hot Topics clothing, starved for attention. Not like I've never been there myself, but still, I think 13 is a showboater. A generally nice number who occasionally needs a smack in the back of the head to keep it grounded.

First technically not a number, but a position. But how many firsts do you remember. First Kiss, First Fuck, First Car, First Concert...what about the little firsts? Last week for the first time I bought a fat red pepper at the store during lunch, cleaned it at office and ate it. First time ever...weird. It was a great pepper btw.

42 What you get when you multiply 6 x 9?

23 Oh you wacky Discordians how I ScrunkTheFlattoons you.

What number am I thinking of?

69 DUDE!

x because it's the "unknown"

I fell into a trash compactor while it was compacting. I was 16, working at Benihana's as a dishwasher on an early evening trash run. I was stomping down some boxes on a platform loading compactor when I fell in, with the top half sticking out of the hole, the piston slowly closing.

At the Time I thought it was just a sliding door that closed on the platform while the ram smashed boxes. I didn't know the door was the piston.

Luckily for me, my coworker Mark had come with me that day to grab a smoke before the rush, and hit the emergency stop. I would have either been crushed or cut in half.

This was a story that came to me while thinking of my 25 Random Things about me I'd been tagged with at Facebook.

Yes, I'm using Facebook, but to be honest I think it's totally lame. Everyday I'm hit with little green sprouts or beads. Really, I think the whole thing is bullshit. It's a shitty design with a shitty non-intuitive interface...it's a mall that sports a Kmart as an anchor store.

Maybe I'm not using it correctly, but using it feels empty...I don't like but I'm there anyway. Go figure.

I hate January and February, they are like Death Months for me, at the bitter cold end of the earth. So I haven't felt like writing anything here, especially since I started using Twitter, which I must admit rocks! And to my knowledge, I know at there are at least 37 people who are following me, so they are forced to read my thoughts, as well as my friends on facebook because my Tweets are linked to my profile.

That said, what now? What's been going on? What have I been up to? Etc.

I began taking Bikram Yoga classes at the behest of a Sports Medicine Doctor in order to strengthen up and evenly work my muscles which I unbalanced in Boot Camp.

Bikram Yoga...fucking A, is probably the most brutal thing I've ever done to my body. I took my first class and thought, "Man, this is hellishly hot." But then I decided to take their suggestion and try at least 10 times in a month.

Yesterday afternoon I finished my 8th class and decided, "Fuck this. I am NOT going to buy another class." of the last 5 classes, I was only able to complete 1 entire class without being overwhelmed by the heat, and that was because it was the second class of the day and the room wasn't up to full temperature. Even with proper hydration, and and empty belly, I was ready to barf up some liquid acid, so I just lay there on my mat waiting for the cool air to hit me when I walked out the door.

I don't know if most participants know the biology and psychology of working in such a hot room. Not only does the heat detoxify your system, but it's also the same sort of extreme mental conditioning that allows you enter altered psychological states for the purposes of vision questing and spiritual seeking. Think about it, it has the potential to totally break down the ego. Extreme heat + stress positions = torture.

As I was laying there yesterday with my blood boiling, and my heart racing, I thought. "Dude, I would admit to anything if I were kept in this temperature for any length of time." and I had water!

While I enjoy the heated yoga, I'm going to go down the street to another place where the temperature is only 85 Degrees instead of 105-ish, and see how that goes.

Meanwhile, still drawing, but last weekend Alessandra posed for an artist friend for 3 hours and here are some pictures of the unfinished work. Click photo to see more

via Neat-O-Rama

Labels: Echo Chamber

I received a subscription to NetFlix for Xmas, and while Ale and I were looking though titles she said,"There are a lot of legs on these movie posters." She has quite the laser eye, nothing gets past her. And looking it up, sure enough it's a tradition that's gone back over 60 years.

PRINT Magazine - One Leg Leads to Another

like the phenomenon of the retweet, I discovered this is a pick up from Boing Boing last May

Forget "Santa Baby", "I Wanna Be Evil" is where it's at.

Obituary at Cnn

My Nephew Ben says he wants "An official Red Ryder carbine action two-hundred shot range model air rifle with a compass in the stock and this thing that tells time"

From
Alessandra, Cap'n Marrrrk, Xuxa, Tala, Lola, HypnoFrog & Kiff Kroaker.

Which is a reminder of a couple of brain farts:

1. I don't like romantic comedies, and I don't like Christmas Movies (Christmas Story excepted), but I think Love Actually is a great movie, that was well done and leaves me uncustomarily warm and fuzzy.

2. Saying "clang, clang, clang" will transport my memory back to an 8th Grade Pageant where I had my only stage singing performance in a celebration of the 1904 Worlds Fair.

Clang, clang, clang went the trolley,
Ding, Ding, Ding went the bell.
Zing, Zing, Zing went my heart strings.
Me: From the moment I saw her I fell.

That was it.

see more pwn and owned pictures

Alessandra found this ad in a magazine and she pointed out to me that these items are the very same items found in her nightstand; given to her by Dr. Lily Munster P.h. D, from Good Vibrations Adult Movies and Products.

*Footnote: Ramona - Offical YogaToes foot model.

As you know, here at NTM! I'm not very pro-advertising. But earlier this week Alessandra found an ad for
Kraft - The Tale of the Magical Crackers in some Food magazine we get. The artwork was incredible, and it's the same style at the website which contains a very spiffy looking 3d animation.

I hate to say it, but I'd really like to work on a project that was visually NEATO though you can bet (like all advertising and marketing) it would be a HUUUUUGE pain in the ass. At least though, you'd have a cool one for your book.

NC-17 This comic contains nudity, cartoon sex, and historical factoids which might be considered blasphemous to certain religions. If such things disturb you, you probably shouldn't watch this.



I've posted this link every year since I started NTM, but much to my disappointment the e-sheep domain is no longer active.

Luckily for us though The Interweb Remembers Everything, so sit down boys and girls and learn the real meaning of Christmas.

Labels: Comics, Story Telling, Taboo, Worth your time

Here in the year 2008 you can exercise with your distant sister via Magic Talking Thinkbox while a cat watches you



How Old?





Real Baby or Fake?
The answer will surprise you.

















Real

Another week has flown past and I am condensing my thoughts of the week into a flowing stream of a post as my brain sputters and farts a staccato beat.

Welcome Howard and Jeff from the past. 18 years has it been? Nearly so. Welcome to NTM.

I've set wheels in motion. Perhaps the seeds will bear a pomegranate fruit
(mixed metaphor)

It comes as no surprise that I love Poi Dog Pondering. In fact, Alessandra has standing orders to play them for me should I go into a coma, or something like that.

Now I actually had fantasies years ago that she would actually get them to play in the hospital to wake me up, but now I'm just being ridiculous.

It turns out that an old friend (who found me FaceBook), actually did go into a coma and was unconscious: "Chas kept me in the world by playing Poi in my ear day & night in an ICU ward for 5 weeks."

So there you go.

That said, it came as a shock the other day when I discovered that for a mere 2k that you can get Frank, the lead singer, and 3 other members to come and play in your living room. Of course, for less you can get two members, but trust me, it's an exponentially diminished experience.

Or instead, for a much less expensive evening, Frank will come downand cook dinner for you and your friends.

Now, I don't know about you, but I don't have 2k to blow on a private concert. And I'm sure the local fans I know wouldn't want to spend the dough. However I know a family in Cleveland consisting of 3 generations of Poi Dog fans (thanks to me), who MAY be willing to combine and pool resources (along with a chip-in from me) to pull this off. Mary-Helen is working hard to spread the word and reel-in the fish. More as this develops (or not)

Crazy-Ass/Beautiful, Brilliant Weird Mindfuck of a Movie
Synecdoche, New York

A theater director wins a grant and decides to put on a play about "Real Life" as his body is breaking down. Written and directed by Charlie Kaufman of Being John Malkovich. This one is far weirder. I highly recommend it.

Say what?

Being on the computer 85% of my waking day has trashed my already shaky communication skills, so whilst stumbling around I found a personal communication course, which I am now taking. First rules: Fucking Pay Attention to the World Around You. That's pretty simple, ne? Nope, it's a learned behavior that has to be worked with. But because I'm working hard to become a visual artist, it is a skill that will work for me.

Are you going to work in those clothes
I have 2 pairs of Gap quilt-lined cargo pants that I wear nearly every day of Winter, and have for the past 5 years or so. They are so played it's not even funny. This Summer I told Alessandra I would only wear them around the house. I love them, and they are the most comfortable clothing I own. They are the only things that stop me from going on a Winter Kill Spree, but they are so hole-y that they are almost unwearable. And certainly not to the office. BUT because it is cold outside right now, and all I do is sit on my ass all day (where the hole that's not on the seams is) I'm afraid the answer will have to be...YES.

A picture of a cat that isn't mine



Today is Friday and I'm still employed
I wonder how long this recession will go on and how will it effect me and Alessandra.

Gonna Go Now
I started this post this morning and it's now 2pm. Time to go. Tonight we are having holding a Boba Happy Hour where the drink of choice for everyone but me and kids will be White Russians (boba style). It is another attempt at me dragging my birthday out for another day. Wheeeee!

Psst! Hey buddy, do you have any nude pictures of your wife?

No. I mean I do but I'm not gonna tell you that.

Wanna buy one?

Alvin, who is in my drawing group, held a gallery exhibit Tuesday Night and we went to support him and see what he's been up to when he isn't drawing here. One of the paintings was of Alessandra, who was our model last session. Wait, what? Yeah, Alessandra was posing nude in our living room to a group of men who were drawing her.

It was a nice framed oil pastel so we bought it.



Look at us...big shot art owners. Ooooo-weeeee-oooooooooo!

So think about giving a gift of health this year. And if by chance you have already bought and wrapped that beautiful pearl necklace or designer watch- there's always New Year's Eve to think about...

Gift certificates can be purchased in denominations of $10, $25 and $50 at any Planned Parenthood of Illinois Health Center beginning Monday December 8th, 2008.

Planned Parenthood Gift Certificates

As you can imagine, some people are rather alarmed by this:

Baptist Press - Planned Parenthood offers gift certificates - News with a Christian Perspective: "The certificates also can be redeemed to help pay for abortions, the Associated Press reported, though a Planned Parenthood spokeswoman doubted certificates would be given for such a reason. 'I certainly don't think anyone would consider giving it for that purpose,' Kate Shepherd said, according to AP.

That assertion from Planned Parenthood was neither reassuring nor comforting for pro-life advocates.

The new gift certificates 'represent a brazen and ill-disguised effort to package abortion as a gift,' wrote Southern Baptist Theological Seminary President R. Albert Mohler Jr. on his weblog Dec. 3.

They 'have been called 'tasteless,' but a better description of these gift certificates is deadly,' Mohler said. 'There is every reason to believe that some babies will have their lives ended by means of these gift certificates.

'The Culture of Death creeps forward all around us.'