And so the vice gets tighter every day. No matter what you do it's never enough. Work all day painting dogs to look like ponies and the next day they want you to paint 'em to look like slightly meaner ponies. Why? Ponies is mean enough - everybody knows that! They'll bite right through your hand just to boost their terrible little egos. And why do I get paid more for painting dogs to look like anything than I do for my given trade and talent of counting cars that go through the carwash from a vantage point that's technically public property yet still requires the use of binoculars and speed dial to ring up said car wash only to hang up without saying a word three or four times a day? They don't care about a man's passion of counting things that ain't his. They just want these dogs painted...
We find ourselves in an intense period of transition. The old ways of eating sand and blacking out in front of a Magnum PI marathon are crumbling away. Instead our free hours are spent staring at sections of dirt, a foot square, hoping desperately for meaning and guidance to burrow up and sprout wings and fly into our ears and maybe nose. While we study these patches of dirt, we are fed lemon syrup and marzipan fruits (and sometimes babies, see figure 2 below). Our teeth rot but our guts grow strong from the chaffing. Our intestines respond to such abuse is instructive. We must be flexible. We must adapt to these new ways without fear or unneeded anxiety. In the end your face will melt off and it won't matter what you did with your precious free time. You will be judged a hero for your...
Piano stacking is a lost art. Formerly, entire families would devote their Sunday Afternoons, working together in the yard, stacking piano after piano. One atop the other, the stack would rise. They’d do it as a team, helping one another without the aid of any crane or hydraulic equipment. Some piano stacks were blunt, just one heaved up on the next, the best that family could do using whatever spare pianos they could gather from drainage ditches and alley ways. Other families were better organized. They coordinated the piano colors or stuck to just baby grands or uprights often stacked impressively vertically on their ends. Injuries were few in those days, gravity seemed to be on our side for a change. What injuries did occur were usually laughed off with a handshake and extra...
Sometime during the night a baby deer crawled up into bed with me. It's still sleeping against my legs. I don't see any broken glass so it must've found the emergency key I keep hidden in the yard and let itself in.
If I can move quick enough, I'll trap it here and dress it up like a human (I keep a spare set of deer-sized clothes in the nightstand). Then I'll raise it as my new son, Adolpho.
He'll be my only heir and will inherit everything. So don't treat him like a freak.
I never believed them when they said you can't get anywhere in the world of Pinball Machine design, construction and service without a degree.
I don't need a piece of paper that says to the world, "hey, this guy's good at fishing dead mice outta pinball machines and will do so for little pieces of BBQ-flavored cardboard instead of money."
My work and extremely bizarre diet speak for themselves.
All my best ideas are wrapped in Tin Foil and sold to fishermen who fear loneliness on their voyages.
All my worst ideas are saved for desktop One-a-Day Calendars and feature illustrations of and done by cats.