Saturday, December 20, 2008
a site about stuff that I love!
(How's that for a departure from the last couple posts?) There is a web site that I have been watching for a couple months now and I'd like to recommend it to my (five?) loyal readers. Its called, "Instructables".
Specifically: http://www.instructables.com/ (I don't know how to make this link blue and "clickable" but that's okay, I don't want you to leave just yet. I have more to say.)
This is a site where people give you instructions on how to make stuff. Not just leaves pressed between two pieces of wax paper (although that may be in there) but cool, green, stuff. It shows you how to make everything from the perfect chocolate chip cookies to a solar powered arc welding golf cart.
There is a section on solar power and a section for people who live on islands. Go there and look around. Maybe even build something. It looks like it's going to be a long cold winter so go ahead and start building that kayak in the living room. Why not?
I'll join you as soon as I have a place to build stuff!
Specifically: http://www.instructables.com/ (I don't know how to make this link blue and "clickable" but that's okay, I don't want you to leave just yet. I have more to say.)
This is a site where people give you instructions on how to make stuff. Not just leaves pressed between two pieces of wax paper (although that may be in there) but cool, green, stuff. It shows you how to make everything from the perfect chocolate chip cookies to a solar powered arc welding golf cart.
There is a section on solar power and a section for people who live on islands. Go there and look around. Maybe even build something. It looks like it's going to be a long cold winter so go ahead and start building that kayak in the living room. Why not?I'll join you as soon as I have a place to build stuff!
Sunday, December 07, 2008
Three God damn years!!
It's been almost three years now since I started this blog and in all that time I've only received one complaint.
Early on, I issued a warning about this blog and today I’m going to reissue it.
Here's the deal: I work in a business where my thoughts are heavily censored, I have a responsibility to the general viewing public not to be careless with what I put in my cartoons. Do you think we don’t use words like, “fuck”? Do you think we don’t draw big dicks on our characters or draw then fucking each other? We do! We just usually erase those things before they go on the air.
HEY, REMEMBER ME!
Do we do it to subvert children? No. Turns out most of were children at one point, and some of us still are.
After a long day of trying to be funny and erasing dicks, I usually come home to a house of chaos. The kids kick into crazy mode and the parrot usually thinks it’s a good time to do her smoke alarm impression.
It’s a good life. And I am a good man. NO ONE can tell me otherwise.
Do I get mad? Sure. That’s why I have a blog. (I’ll bet you were wondering where this was going) My blog is just me, drawing big dicks on stuff and not erasing it before it goes on the air. As John Wayne said, I’m just spitting out words to see where they land.
Is it funny? I think so.
Are you offended by it? If so, I offer this, once again to all of my readers. This is from December of 2005:
“If you’re the kind of person who is offended by this kind of stuff you might want to skip over this blog and go to directly to: gostickyerheadinaduck.com It’s nice there. You’ll like it.”
Did you get that complainer?
Okay, enough about that. Here's the weird thing.
Now I'm pretty sure I'm down to two people who read this blog on a regular basis. One of them is me and I'm married to the other one. So why do my thoughts have to go all the way to that series of tubes known as the internets (where ever it physically is?) and back into my house just so my wife will read them?
So my wife will read them. Isn't that right baby?
It's just us now!
Early on, I issued a warning about this blog and today I’m going to reissue it.
Here's the deal: I work in a business where my thoughts are heavily censored, I have a responsibility to the general viewing public not to be careless with what I put in my cartoons. Do you think we don’t use words like, “fuck”? Do you think we don’t draw big dicks on our characters or draw then fucking each other? We do! We just usually erase those things before they go on the air.
HEY, REMEMBER ME!
Do we do it to subvert children? No. Turns out most of were children at one point, and some of us still are.
After a long day of trying to be funny and erasing dicks, I usually come home to a house of chaos. The kids kick into crazy mode and the parrot usually thinks it’s a good time to do her smoke alarm impression.
It’s a good life. And I am a good man. NO ONE can tell me otherwise.
Do I get mad? Sure. That’s why I have a blog. (I’ll bet you were wondering where this was going) My blog is just me, drawing big dicks on stuff and not erasing it before it goes on the air. As John Wayne said, I’m just spitting out words to see where they land.
Is it funny? I think so.
Are you offended by it? If so, I offer this, once again to all of my readers. This is from December of 2005:
“If you’re the kind of person who is offended by this kind of stuff you might want to skip over this blog and go to directly to: gostickyerheadinaduck.com It’s nice there. You’ll like it.”
Did you get that complainer?
Okay, enough about that. Here's the weird thing.
Now I'm pretty sure I'm down to two people who read this blog on a regular basis. One of them is me and I'm married to the other one. So why do my thoughts have to go all the way to that series of tubes known as the internets (where ever it physically is?) and back into my house just so my wife will read them?
So my wife will read them. Isn't that right baby?
It's just us now!
Monday, December 01, 2008
A story my Uncle Phil might have liked.
On a cold winters evening as the frozen rain clung to the branches of the trees that lined the main street of the small town. A slumped and gray figure walked into an unassuming brick building. Inside, a fire burned in the fireplace and the warm light of it could be seen from without. The gray figure entered, greeted his friends, sat by the fire and told this story:
Years ago, before the Second World War, there was a man who lived in a small town outside Stickingham. He was a tall man with a sharp wit who was married to a hansom woman of German background. Her mother was a cook in the old country and used to brag that she made many a fine meal for the men who used to work in the copper mine near-by. The mine was owned and operated by Mr. Flemington who used to sing a song about a Dutch barber named Derek. Derek, the song went, had a collection of rare books. Which had stories about the knights of old who went on crusades into the Holy Land to free it from the Moor’s who had over run the country. This was a subject that never failed to rouse the interest of a young boy who lived next to Charlie’s aunt… “Now let me get this straight.” Said Jameson as he shifted in his armchair by the fire. “ Was Charlie the nephew of Derek the Dutch barber who had the collection of rare books?”
“I think you’ll find” Spoke up Barkley from his position opposite Jameson. “That Charlie was no relation to that gentleman. He was merely related to the woman who lived next to the boy who had such a keen interest in books about the holy wars as depicted in the song sung by Mr. Flemington the copper mine owner."
“Oh, Yes.” Said Jameson. “Quite right. The books owned by Derrick.”
“Derek, I think you’ll find.” Piped up Witherspoon, who sat near by.
“Wasn’t Charlie's Aunt some sort of play?” Asked Farley from his stool by the milk chute.
“May I continue?” Asked the Slumped, Gray figure.
The wind whipped up outside and he continued:
"While it was true that “Charlie’s aunt” was a play that involved transvestism and Brazil nuts, these were two subjects of no real interest to our Charlie’s aunt who lived next to the boy who had a keen interest in the holy wars as written in the books owned by Derek the Dutch barber depicted in the songs sung by Mr. Flemington the copper mine owner. Charlie’s aunt was actually a very intelligent young woman who had a nurse’s diploma from the same school that Mary Lyons received her diploma. The name of that school escaped the Slumped gray figure but the carried on. Charlie’s aunt was working at Morris general hospital at the time of the great depression. When she met a man who claimed to know Bill Studebaker, a man who was one of the key figures in an ongoing police investigation. The chief of police claimed that Studebaker had organized a group of men to infiltrate the government offices where there were kept books about the illegal doings of a corrupt government official named Barclay."
“I say,” piped up Witherspoon. “Any relation Barkley, dear boy?”
“Ironically, yes.” Said Barkley. “He was related to my grandfathers second wife. I believe he was some sort of an adopted son. He joined the family after my cousin, the man who invented child-proof safety the cap, found him huddled under a crudely fashioned canvas lean-to in the park out side...”
“Brown.” Said Farley from his seat by the milk chute. “Mary Lyons attended Brown, I believe.”
"balderdash!" Exclaimed Witherspoon.
“What the devil is a milk chute anyway?” Asked Barkley. “I have heard of a milk door and we used to have a chute that we’d put our soiled clothes in, we all called it the ‘clothes chute’ but…”
“May I finish my story?” Asked the slumped gray figure.
He explained that Barclay, the corrupt government official, was going to be indicted on fraud charges when he, like so many people at that time, jumped from the window of the bank building in down town Saint Paul. But the only person who saw it was in such a state of inebriation that she couldn’t explain it to the guy from the newspaper that was sued after printing the article about the woman who tried to rob the train by hitting the conductor with a dachshund.
The slumped gray figure stopped and looked at the fire. “See if you can guess…” He said. “…who that woman was.”
“Not the German woman who cooked for the copper miners, whose son-in-law lived outside Stickingham before the war?” Said Flemington.
“No”, said the slumped gray figure. “It was my mom.”
A nervous hush fell over the room as each man looked at his feet. Nothing could be heard except the wind as it played musically over the frozen branches outside.
“So,” said Flemington “let me see if I got this straight. After your mother tried to rob the train with the dachshund it was reported by the same newspaper that covered the story about Barclay the corrupt government official who jumped out the window of the bank building in downtown Saint Paul because he was being investigated by the police chief who said that Bill Studebaker was a key figure in the investigation. And that he was known by a man who Charlie’s Aunt knew from Morris general hospital where she worked after getting her nurses diploma from brown where Mary Lyons may (or may not) have gone. The same Charlie’s aunt who lived next to the boy who had a keen interest in the holy wars as written in the books owned by Derek the Dutch barber depicted in the songs sung by Mr. Flemington the copper mine owner. Who’s employees would eat food prepared by the Man with the sharp wit from Stickingham’s’ Mother-in-law?”
“Yes!” Said the slumped gray man. “But you left out one small detail.” He jumped to his feet and grabbed Flemington by the hair on his head.
“You’re not really Flemington.” He yanked hard trying to pull the mask off but nothing happened. Flemington cried out in pain.
“Yow!” He said. “What is wrong with you?” But, by then it was too late. Flemington had already sold the city snowplow to the Armenian karate champion.
Years ago, before the Second World War, there was a man who lived in a small town outside Stickingham. He was a tall man with a sharp wit who was married to a hansom woman of German background. Her mother was a cook in the old country and used to brag that she made many a fine meal for the men who used to work in the copper mine near-by. The mine was owned and operated by Mr. Flemington who used to sing a song about a Dutch barber named Derek. Derek, the song went, had a collection of rare books. Which had stories about the knights of old who went on crusades into the Holy Land to free it from the Moor’s who had over run the country. This was a subject that never failed to rouse the interest of a young boy who lived next to Charlie’s aunt… “Now let me get this straight.” Said Jameson as he shifted in his armchair by the fire. “ Was Charlie the nephew of Derek the Dutch barber who had the collection of rare books?”
“I think you’ll find” Spoke up Barkley from his position opposite Jameson. “That Charlie was no relation to that gentleman. He was merely related to the woman who lived next to the boy who had such a keen interest in books about the holy wars as depicted in the song sung by Mr. Flemington the copper mine owner."
“Oh, Yes.” Said Jameson. “Quite right. The books owned by Derrick.”
“Derek, I think you’ll find.” Piped up Witherspoon, who sat near by.
“Wasn’t Charlie's Aunt some sort of play?” Asked Farley from his stool by the milk chute.
“May I continue?” Asked the Slumped, Gray figure.
The wind whipped up outside and he continued:
"While it was true that “Charlie’s aunt” was a play that involved transvestism and Brazil nuts, these were two subjects of no real interest to our Charlie’s aunt who lived next to the boy who had a keen interest in the holy wars as written in the books owned by Derek the Dutch barber depicted in the songs sung by Mr. Flemington the copper mine owner. Charlie’s aunt was actually a very intelligent young woman who had a nurse’s diploma from the same school that Mary Lyons received her diploma. The name of that school escaped the Slumped gray figure but the carried on. Charlie’s aunt was working at Morris general hospital at the time of the great depression. When she met a man who claimed to know Bill Studebaker, a man who was one of the key figures in an ongoing police investigation. The chief of police claimed that Studebaker had organized a group of men to infiltrate the government offices where there were kept books about the illegal doings of a corrupt government official named Barclay."
“I say,” piped up Witherspoon. “Any relation Barkley, dear boy?”
“Ironically, yes.” Said Barkley. “He was related to my grandfathers second wife. I believe he was some sort of an adopted son. He joined the family after my cousin, the man who invented child-proof safety the cap, found him huddled under a crudely fashioned canvas lean-to in the park out side...”
“Brown.” Said Farley from his seat by the milk chute. “Mary Lyons attended Brown, I believe.”
"balderdash!" Exclaimed Witherspoon.
“What the devil is a milk chute anyway?” Asked Barkley. “I have heard of a milk door and we used to have a chute that we’d put our soiled clothes in, we all called it the ‘clothes chute’ but…”
“May I finish my story?” Asked the slumped gray figure.
He explained that Barclay, the corrupt government official, was going to be indicted on fraud charges when he, like so many people at that time, jumped from the window of the bank building in down town Saint Paul. But the only person who saw it was in such a state of inebriation that she couldn’t explain it to the guy from the newspaper that was sued after printing the article about the woman who tried to rob the train by hitting the conductor with a dachshund.
The slumped gray figure stopped and looked at the fire. “See if you can guess…” He said. “…who that woman was.”
“Not the German woman who cooked for the copper miners, whose son-in-law lived outside Stickingham before the war?” Said Flemington.
“No”, said the slumped gray figure. “It was my mom.”
A nervous hush fell over the room as each man looked at his feet. Nothing could be heard except the wind as it played musically over the frozen branches outside.
“So,” said Flemington “let me see if I got this straight. After your mother tried to rob the train with the dachshund it was reported by the same newspaper that covered the story about Barclay the corrupt government official who jumped out the window of the bank building in downtown Saint Paul because he was being investigated by the police chief who said that Bill Studebaker was a key figure in the investigation. And that he was known by a man who Charlie’s Aunt knew from Morris general hospital where she worked after getting her nurses diploma from brown where Mary Lyons may (or may not) have gone. The same Charlie’s aunt who lived next to the boy who had a keen interest in the holy wars as written in the books owned by Derek the Dutch barber depicted in the songs sung by Mr. Flemington the copper mine owner. Who’s employees would eat food prepared by the Man with the sharp wit from Stickingham’s’ Mother-in-law?”
“Yes!” Said the slumped gray man. “But you left out one small detail.” He jumped to his feet and grabbed Flemington by the hair on his head.
“You’re not really Flemington.” He yanked hard trying to pull the mask off but nothing happened. Flemington cried out in pain.
“Yow!” He said. “What is wrong with you?” But, by then it was too late. Flemington had already sold the city snowplow to the Armenian karate champion.
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