Real Men Use No Product

I am a man. Therefore I do not spend a whole lot of time thinking about frilly froo-froo things like what kind of moisturiser to wear, or where to buy the best skin conditioner, or how to tame my curly, flyaway hair. I have even treated some types of shampoo with suspicion if they come with 'added conditioner'. I have always been of the opinion that such things are unnecessary, and that all a head of hair needs is some shampoo and some water every so often.

But no, now in my bathroom, by means of my mother having sighted my hair, considered the issue, and formulated a solution to the problem, I have a bottle of fancy frilly froo-froo hair treatment. I have not yet tried it, because it is supposed to be applied to wet hair, and my hair has not been wet recently. It is called something like "Aussie Hair Insurance" or a similar improbable name. It is to be applied to wet hair, and it makes things better. That's about as much as I know or understand about how it works.

The name "Aussie" of course, is supposed to conjure up reassuring images of the outback, a haven of nature, kangaroos, and really great hair. It is a name which modern 'brand consultants' would class as one which scores high on the index of being 'authentic', such that the consumer presumes that this elixir has been individually obtained by flaxen-haired rugged Australian womens, directly from kookabara trees, eucalyptus plants, and freshly-pressed kangaroo juice... that sort of thing.

Reading the back of the bottle I could not adequately assess the 'authenticity' of any of the ingredients. A big part of the "Hair Insurance" elixir is something called 'Aqua'. As it happens I am a scientist and I know what that means - water. All of the rest seem to be names of complex and industrial sounding chemicals with names suffixed by '-enzene' and '-flourozene' and such. Even in its unopened state, the bottle smells of permanent markers.

I am sure it is very good. I will have to give it a try the next time my hair is wet. The delivery arrived just too late for my quarterly hairwash yesterday, so today my hair is big and frizzy, but this will pass. If the forces of Aussie are aligned, I may never have another big hair day again. Until I am 80 and they stop making 'Hair Insurance' because it's something that only really really really old men use, like Brylcreem. Then again, if I have any hair left when I am 80, I think I will be entirely delighted by any bigness that it may display.

Ghosts

It has been suggested, by those who might be placed to know, that one of the valuable qualities of human beings is their ability to forget things. That in these modern times, when everything can be stored and recalled almost literally forever, that nothing will ever be forgotten, and that this, in fact, may not be a good thing.

I'm not sure how I feel about that. On the face of it i have always been against losing things of any sort, and precious memories and knowledge must surely be things to preserve. The value and historical context of something, and the nostalgia which it would bring in the future, cannot possibly be known in the present, and so it logically follows that everything should be preserved, so that nothing is lost to future historians.

Then again, while searching for easily-recyclable words of wisdom of the past which I can use to fill my blogging backlog, most of what I've found so far leaves me very slightly detached from myself. Did I really write these things? I have almost no memory of them.

I note that I stored various bits and pieces, which others had written and that I had read online, along with the things I wrote myself at about the same time. It is not always obvious which ones are which. One or two things have surprised me as I have almost no modern-day recollection of writing them, or why, or what on earth I was thinking, yet it seems highly likely that I did.

As a child I was used to always knowing where things were, and remembering things that had happened. My recall was so clear, so true, that there was never any question that I was absolutely always right. Part of that still remains, but the memories do seem to have faded. There genuinely does seem to be much that I've forgotten, and yet surely it cannot have been that long, surely my life is still young and my memory should be strong for decades to come yet.

Alas, I fear that it was never the case. I know I forget things, and yet even with the comforting thought that perhaps I only forget what is not important, I know too that it does not seem to turn out that way. That already thoughts and ideas, communications and conversations that I have had with others may already have left me.

Since I don't record all my phone calls or carry a tape recorder around with me all the time (perhaps I should) it does not seem that there will be many chances to remember what I have lost. Unlike these random bits of text on my computer, the most recent troublesome writings which I have been examining dating from around 1992 or so.

I really have almost no memory of this. Why on earth did I write these things down? Did I ever consider these phrases and ridiculous attitude to be noteworthy? What on earth could have been wrong with my mind at this time? How could I have ever chosen to express myself in such a thoroughly artless manner? Fundamentally, who wrote this? 19 years ago is not that long - it could seem that way, but I've been in my current employment for 16, and that does give the timeline some context. But this is a complete other person, a side of me I'd forgotten I had and still don't quite recognise.

In a sense, whoever it was, it wasn't the person I became. Then again, with another 20 years, maybe even the person I am now is not the person I will become. Even this period of my life, well covered by blogs and email archives, will offer a less thorough recall of my life than my future self would seek, I am sure.

Perhaps another good reason to blog every day, even if what I have to say does not seem interesting now, maybe these memories will apall, or hopefully amuse, me in a future life. So it can't be all bad, eh.

Stuff What I Made: 1992

When faced with a lack of inspiration in the present day, austere times call for austere measures. So here's a wordsearch which I made - for actual money - in 1992. Unfortunately I didn't get paid. Puh.


E L G N I S I A R F L E S P N

R O L L I N G P I N A L E R U

S L P A S T R Y C R E E V O B

T T L A S M A I I E M W O V E

R L O A F T I N N X E O L E R

A D A E N K N C G I L T G E B

T B S P O O N E R M O A N K I

M S E P I Z Z A I O H E E I F

A E E K R U O L F D W T V T Y

J L L V A I L C A K E A O C R

N D A E R B D N I R H R V H A

I O V E N A B O W L U G G E T

A H E A L T H Y E A S T U N E

L Y R E K A B L A E M T A O I

P A S T R Y C U T T E R E N D

And here are the missing words. When you have found all the missing words, the remaining letters spell out a very popular phrase or saying. Enjoy.

Flour	Kitchen	Bun	Ingredients
Mill	Grain	Oven Gloves	Oatmeal
Bread	Dough	Pastry	Granary
Bake	Pizza	Pastry Cutter	Bakery
Knead	Egg	Jam Tarts	Healthy
Prove	Self Raising	Mixing Bowl	Cooking
Gingerbread	Rolling Pin	Dietary Fibre	Natural
Wholemeal	Plain	Yeast	Wheat
Loaf Tin	Oven	Tea Towel	Microwave
Cake	Icing	Table Spoon	Harvest
Family

Local Business

As a responsible member of the community, I'm all about supporting local business whenever and wherever I can.

OK, this is not true. Local business is usually less convenient and more expensive than proper national retailers and harsh conglomerates who would mortgage their grandmothers if they thought it'd earn them a quarter of a penny more than the alternative.

But nonetheless, there are some local businesses of which I approve, and am filled with a feeling that it is nice to have them around. A good fish-and-chip shop, for example, is always important in any civilised society. Luckily there is one at the bottom of my street, although this week it is closed, not to reopen until the end of the month. No matter, it is not good to eat chips too often anyway. Nutritious, life-giving fish in batter, perhaps, is more allowable.

Post Offices are good things to have in your locality. My Post Office is filled with staff who are generally surly and unhelpful. Generally I avoid using it, except when I have to. But when I do have to, it's nice that it's there, and not further away.

Corner shops are wonderful things, and of those I have none, but I do have three Co-operatives of various sizes. Co-ops are often more expensive than Tesco Home Delivery, but they are at least closer and more convenient. On the whole, this is to be welcomed.

There was a nice local barber's just up the road from me, which I have of course never used, being a hairy thing, but I was thinking that one day I might wish to take advantage of their services. Unfortunately it seems that they have just decided to close down.

The loss of a local service is a sad thing, which has brought my thoughts to other local shops whose absence would make me unhappy. Certainly high on that list would be the little local cake shop, at the bottom of my road and on the left a bit. It is a very nice shop, making all kinds of cakes of any size and type that you may ask.

I enjoy their service and so they do benefit from my business at any opportunity. If I scout around my close family for birthdays, and include myself, this presents three opportunities for delicious cake each year. Including Christmas, and it would be rude not to, makes this up to four months of the year where I have a good reason to order bespoke cake.

Thing is, I could just go for a slice of cake right now, and yet I have none in the house. Normally a good thing, as that situation, when it occurs, does not persist, much to the detriment of my waistline. But even with my incredible willpower and overall rock-hard sturdiness, I figure that maybe it would be OK to have cake once a month. This seems only fair, after all.

But with only four months of the year accounted for by 'good reasons' for cake, this leaves eight months where there is no cake at all: January, March, April, June, July, August, October and November.

And it does strike me that, not for personal gain you understand, It is incumbent on me... nay, it is an obligation for me to support my local business, and that therefore I should think of good excuses to frequent the cake shop more often. Thing is, since these cakes are custom made, the usual request is what message I would like to have iced on the top. Months with birthdays are easy, and a December order can always be justified with "Merry Christmas". But what of the other months of the year?

Should I made up birthdays for relatives I do not have? It would be convenient to have a stray Aunt Gladys whose occasion could be celebrated with a nice iced sponge. Perhaps I can look for other celebratory occasions by which I may perpetrate the subterfuge. I figure that I could get away with a couple of unspecified "Happy Aniversary" cakes in a year. What of the other months? "Happy Pirate Day" would be quite allowable in September, but in the year this still leaves several un-iced cakes without a cause.

I shall have to give this more thought. I wonder if there's still time to sneak in a January order too...

House Fancy

"People stop and stare. They don't bother me.
For there's no where else on earth that I would rather be.
Let the time go by, I won't care if I
Can be here on the street where you live."

- "On The Street Where You Live",
music and lyrics by Frederick Loewe and Alan Jay.


Aside from my stunning progress in struggling to keep up with my new year's resolution of blogging every day, it seemed today that another promise to myself was in danger of being broken.

For some time, and for no particular reason, I have found a most pleasant way to while away my spare hours, by sitting down with my iPad (yes, thankyou, I rock) and idly browsing through details of properties for sale in my local area. It really is quite entrancing.

I'm not quite sure what the attraction is, although it certainly seems an innocent enough way to pass the time, looking at nice photographs of other people's houses. Especially the big one with the staircase and the open-air kitchen and indoor swimming pool. That might be nice.

I do also notice how many homes which are up for sale seem to have very old-style television sets in them. I wonder if there's a reason for that.

Anyway, although I don't really have the money to buy a house, I probably could buy something on the cheap side if I really really had to. From quite a young age I knew that mortgages were not for me, and I told myself that I would buy my first house with cash money. It would be mine from day one.

It's certainly nice to have a dream - even if an unattainable one. I suspect that my grand notions of cash purchase may have actually been more of a kind of 'psychological insurance', insulating myself from the harsher realities that (1) if I had a mortgage, I would have to work for a living even on occasions when I did not necessarily want to or even feel like it, and by (2) making the prospect desirable but unachievable, therefore placing it just far enough out of reach not to be dangerous.

And that said, while I have nosed around to see what mortgages are all about (I have decided that I like offset mortgages very much, and ones which incorporate ISAs even more so, although these are harder to find) this is to satisfy my curiosity only. If I were to buy a house at the moment, it seems that even with my preferred mortgage I would need a deposit of at least 25%. This doesn't seem unreasonable but does place all but the smallest and noisiest properties entirely out of bounds.

And that may be no bad thing. No harm in inertia, after all.

But all of that said.... for the right property, maybe I would make an exception. One of my more fanciful notions that I have is that, if they should ever become available, I would buy one or both of the houses that I grew up in. Now this revelation will probably have all the psychologists in the public gallery jumping up and running towards the payphones in the lobby because it probably says a lot about me - doubtless some latent desire to revert to childhood or something - or, then again, perhaps it doesn't. Who knows? But I do kind of take the view that the houses I lived in as a child were actually mine, and that buying them back after all these years is nothing more than reclaiming what was taken from me.

Guess what popped up on my computer screen at the weekend?

It's pretty rare to see any houses for sale in the street where I lived, so seeing the street name listed came as a bit of a surprise. I took a look and saw a house. A good start. That street does have a few blocks of flats at the bottom of the road, but, no, this was a house. It didn't say which number it was, but that didn't matter, because the asking price was a pretty chunky £450,000.

That's a lot of money for an old house. But there are photos too. It seems that the current owner has engaged in a 'money-no-object' restoration. Certainly it does look very nice from the supplied pictures.

I wonder if this was my house?

Not having seen it for over 30 years, my memories were slightly hazy, but I suppose that could be the cupboard under the stairs, and that bedroom on the floorplan could be the old upstairs kitchen. More pictures. Is this my bedroom? Is this the back garden where I planted my tomato tree and fed the fish?

It doesn't say. You'd think there'd at least be some kind of blue plaque on the wall indicating my previous presence at this location. Not so. How on earth can I find out which house this is?

I suppose that if all else fails, I could actually leave the house and go for a walk up the road in question. It's not actually that far away from where I live now. But happily, modern technology makes such travel unncessary. Step forward Google Street View. Unfortunately even this is not as helpful as I'd hoped, since it seems to think that every house in the road is number thirty-one. I'm thinking that's unlikely. And for whatever reason, many of the houses in the road seem strangely coy about displaying their house numbers in a manner prominent enough to come out on my fuzzy computer screen.

But eventually, after much attention to detail, and cross-referencing several other photographs, it becomes clear. It's not my house up for sale. It's next door. You can tell because the tree with the yellow and red leaves is on the right hand side of the photo, so that means this must be next door.

I find myself somewhat relieved. Although there is indeed absolutely no possibility of me dropping a cool half-mill on a house, it would have been quite a terrible thing for the purchase opportunity to have arisen before I had the necessary funds available.

A little further research shows that the house-next-door was sold at the end of 2008 for about £240,000, so the "current owner" with their "money-no-object" restoration would seem to be engaged in what I am informed is called "flipping". Good luck to them. I'm sure I'll make the new buyers' acquaintance one day.

Confirmation Bias

I mentioned some time ago, having been spooked by the co-inky-dink of getting a till receipt for £6.66, and then having an identical credit card balance two months in a row, that I suspected that Satan was interfering in my financial affairs.

Today I have cause to revisit that hypothesis. For various boring reasons I sometimes buy my shopping on one credit card, sometimes on another. My life is a constant series of such decisions. And I noticed this afternoon that the balances on both of these two cards were similar. £333.78 on one and £333.98 on the other. Significant in itself - what are the odds of the balances being so similar, and the difference being so neat, just 20p difference between them. And there's nobody who doesn't like a nice shiny 20 pee piece, after all.

Then I turned my attention to the other numbers. 333. Wait! 333! Three hundred and thirty three! The internationally recognised number of half-a-beast! Which means that the combined total balances on these two credit cards is £667.76. Six.. six.. irrelevant.. irrelevant.. six! The number of the entire beast. Or, £666, the sterling currency of the beast, plus £1.76, no doubt the pocket change of the beast. And that part I had not even noticed until I started writing this.

It is probably fortunate for me that I conducted my month's spending in this fashion, across two cards, for who knows what might have happened if one single card would have hit a £666 balance. Clearly that would have been the point where dark forces would have taken me, and it is only my habit of using different cards to get the most cashback that has saved me from my doom. My financial prudence has neutralised the beast once more. But it has reminded me that it is there, and that I must remain vigilant at all times in future.

Pray for me, won't you? :)

Vic Reeves Is A Brand I Trust

Some online surveys ask some pretty batty questions but this one takes the biscuit. Good to know that my opinions about key issues of the day are important, though.

TV Review

I don’t watch much TV, as it is mostly stupid, but today I have a house guest and this evening they have been watching Midsomer Murders, a hardy staple of British television starring ace detective Mr John Nettles.

I regret to announce that this programme also appears to be mostly stupid.

In the programme this evening, someone was Murdered. A very common occurrence in the village of Midsomer, it appears, hence the name. But nonetheless, ace detective Barnaby whatsisface-oh-it’s-John-Nettles-isn’t-it was on the scene to investigate the deadly doings.

Needless to say, one Murder was not enough, and as the Murderer sought to cover their tracks (or at least fill two hours on a Wednesday evening), more and more Murders were committed. One unfortunate gentleman, who had come to fix the automatic sliding doors, was killed by those self same automatic sliding doors, a remarkable display of what might be called irony. The Murderer, in an astonishingly well-thought-out scenario, observes Mr Door Repair Man making the doors open, and close, and open, and close, and then just as the door is a little bit closed, cuts off the power. The door therefore remains mostly closed, with just a small space between it and the wall.

Mr Door Repair Man scratches his head and seeks to address this problem by (firstly), taking the Sliding Door Remote Control and throwing it into the room, apparently quite deliberately, just beyond his reach. Then he sticks his head through the gap between the door and the wall and grunts a bit. Quite what this was meant to achieve is not certain. I am not an expert in sliding door repair and I could not seek to speak for that industry. Nonetheless, the repair attempts are successful for Mr Door Repair Man has fallen into the Murderer’s incredibly far-sighted trap, as now all they have to do is restore the power to the house. The doors inevitably attempt to close once more, despite the presence of someone’s head in between them and the wall, and the carelessness of Mr Repair Man having (for no good reason) thrown the remote control just beyond his grasp results in a certain amount of dramatic tension.

Presumably these are especially high-powered and unsafe doors, as instead of Mr Door Repair Man saying “Oh, gosh, blast, dearie me, that’s not very comfortable”, and giving the door a shove to stop it (which is of course what would happen in real life), instead he goes “Urgh! Urrgh! Uck! Aargh!”, and slumps to the ground, entirely dead and Murdered.

Later on while questioning, suspicion falls upon the village tradesperson who installs sliding doors, because, and I quote: “He would know how to use sliding doors as a weapon.” This particular line of dialogue, apparently entirely serious, passed completely without comment or incident, despite its entirely preposterous nature.

It’s not them, of course. But later on they get killed too, by the entirely incongruous means of sitting in the back of a Landrover which has been filled with concrete. Apparently by a Murderer who somehow wanted to choose the loudest, noisiest, most easily-observable means of sending someone to an early end. However, it doesn’t seem that there are any other obvious villagers who would know how to use concrete as a weapon.

Suspicion then fell on the vet. He has a collection of tropical fish, and it is certain that he would know how to use tropical fish as a weapon. But some ace detective questioning, of the sort of “Was Mrs X with you at all times, in which case only you can be the murderer, or did she step out of your sight, in which case it might have been her?” reveals that it wasn’t him either. Good job it wasn’t him, really. A guilty man would surely never have jumped at such an obvious get-out.

Mrs X, it seems, was really interested in the vet for the other inevitable perks of his job, and therefore being the only one in the village who genuinely did know how to use ketamine, jellyfishes, scotch glasses, concrete and sliding doors as a weapon, the case naturally concluded itself.

Don’t forget to unplug your set. Goodnight.

Intermission

Well, we have some time to fill until our next blog post. So until then, some music from the house band. Take it away, boys:

Grand Prize Winning Fiction

A small assortment of astonishingly loud brass instruments raced each other lustily to the respective ends of their distinct musical choices like an expensive sports car, fine-tuned and well-built. The notes blatted skyward as the sun rose over the Canada geese, like a flat stone forever skipping across smooth water. Sultry it was and humid, but no whisper of air caused the plump, laden spears of golden grain to nod their burdened heads, eyes flashing like bright hubcaps, her creamy bosom rising and falling like a temperamental soufflé. Portia was sleek, shapely, and gorgeous, impishly drizzled with glistening rivulets of vintage balsamic vinegar and roasted garlic oil; Professor Frobisher couldn't believe he had missed seeing it for so long -- as if she were a giant cage-mounted water bottle and he were the world's thirstiest gerbil.

"Ace, watch your head!" hissed Wanda urgently, when the strong, clear voice of the poetic and heroic Handsomas roared, a man to steer her along the right road, a man like Alf Romeo. So I got lucky on Friday the thirteenth.

The camel died quite suddenly on the second day, her red jumpsuit molding her body, feathered rumps mooning the day, webbed appendages frantically peddling unseen bicycles in their search for sustenance. It was, after all, right there under his nose, and Selena fretted sulkily with his barbarous tribe now stacking wood at her nubile feet. The corpse exuded the irresistible aroma of a piquant, ancho chili glaze enticingly enhanced with a hint of fresh cilantro as it lay before him, but in all his years of research into the intricate and mysterious ways of the universe, theirs was a New York love, a checkered taxi ride burning rubber, which was as warm as the seatcovers in July, her hair as dark as new tires, driven by Nature's maxim, "Ya wanna eat, ya gotta work,"

Dolores breezed along the surface of her life, he had never noticed that the freckles on his upper lip, just below and to the left of the nostril, her and her lips as dewy as the beads of fresh rain on the hood during what would prove to be the longest, and most memorable, space voyage of my career. The lovely woman-child Kaa was mercilessly chained to a single accelerant--and she needed a man, a man who wouldn't shift from his views, but the first second that the third-rate representative of the fourth estate cracked open a new fifth of old Scotch, he and his colleagues had only today discovered an exploding nova.

She wasn't really my type, the first female ape to go up in space, a hard-looking but untalented reporter from the local cat box liner, partially hidden until now by the heather-encrusted Headlands, veiled in fog as thick as smoke in a crowded pub, and, buffing her already impeccable nails--not for the first time since the journey began— on reflection, Angela perceived that her relationship with Tom had always been rocky.

They had but one last remaining night together, so they hunched precariously over the moors, their rocky elbows slipping off land's end, while overhead the burning orb of luminescence ascended its ever-upward path toward a sweltering celestial apex, a degree of annoyance that Angela had now almost attained.

Roger stood over his victim with a smoking .45, surprised at the serenity that filled him after pumping six Bic slugs into the bloodless tyrant. She was a woman driven--fueled by a hairy mole he had just removed a week before, the cruel post of the warrior-chief Beast, their bulbous, craggy noses thrust into the thick foam of the North Sea like bearded old men falling asleep in their pints.

The countdown had stalled at T minus 69 seconds when the bone-chilling scream split the warm summer night in two, down to the angry red zit that had just popped up where my sixth sense said seventh heaven was, for although it is not in Kansas that our story takes place, it looks godawful like it.

She finally lost momentum, sank, due to an overdose of fluoride as a child and pondered snidely if this would dissolve into a vignette of minor inconveniences like all the other holidays spent with Basil. Desiree winked at me slyly and pouted, her thick, rubbery lips exactly matched the pattern of the stars in the Pleides, as the newest Lady Turnpot descended into the kitchen wrapped only in her celery-green dressing gown as the gates flew open to release a torrent of tawny fur as close as an eighth note from Beethoven's Ninth Symphony.

As he stared at her ample bosom, she resolved to end the love affair with Ramon tonight, her tart mouth pursed in distaste, rippling reality sporadically but oblivious to it consistently, until through the gathering gloom of a late-October afternoon, he shuffled out of the office with one last look back at the shattered computer terminal lying there like a silicon armadillo left to rot on the information superhighway.

As blood filled her sneakers and she fought her way through the panicking crowd, not quite a roller-coaster ride but more like when the toilet-paper roll gets a little squashed so it hangs crooked and every time you pull some off you can hear the rest going bumpity-bumpity in its holder until you go nuts and push it back into shape --the first of many such advances -- I swept her into my longing arms, causing her to reflect once again as they unheedingly awaited the annual Running of the Pomeranians in Liechtenstein.

Detective Bart Lasiter was in his office studying the dual Stromberg carburetors in his vintage Triumph Spitfire, comprised of angry yapping lips, but he couldn't you know, since nobody can actually watch more than part of his nose or a little period of time during the month of Ricardo and Felicity's affair. Though the term "love affair" now struck her as a ridiculous euphemism . . . not unlike "sand vein," which is after all that gleaming treasure, and like the city, their passion was open 24/7, the first half being before the scream when it was fairly balmy and calm and pleasant, and that tarry substance along the greasy, cracked paving-stones certainly isn't sand . . . and that brought her back to Ramon.

Gerald began—but was interrupted by a piercing whistle which cost him ten percent of his hearing permanently. Folks say that if you listen real close at the height of the full moon, when the wind is blown’ off Nantucket Sound from nor’ east and the dogs are howlin’ for no earthly reason, Stanley Ruddlethorp wearily trudged up the hill from the cemetery where his wife, sister, brother, and three children were all buried, the light from his one small window falling on his super burrito that was a stupid idea like Martha Stewart begging to be inspected and adjusted as described in chapter seven of the shop manual.

For those who hadn't heard the scream at all, but not calm or balmy or even very nice for those who did hear the scream, as it did everyone else in a ten-mile radius of the eruption, steam rising from their bodies like slick streets exhaling warm, moist breath through manhole covers stamped “Forged by DeLaney Bros., Piscataway, N. J.”.

Paul Revere had just discovered that someone in Boston was a spy for the British, coyly garnished by a garland of variegated radicchio intestine and caramelized onions, and yes, as he surveyed the body of the slain food critic slumped on the floor of the cozy, but nearly empty, bistro, the Detective Leary knew she had committed suicide with a kiss--a lengthy, ravenous kiss, Ricardo lapping and sucking at Felicity's mouth.

Discounting the actual scream itself when your ears might have been hearing it but your brain wasn't reacting yet to let you know, which caused her to lie forever on the floor of her life as useless as an appendix and as lonely as a five-hundred-pound barbell in a steroid-free fitness center, slick from the sputum of the sky, blissfully unaware of the catastrophe, highly functional yet pleasingly formed, that was soon to devastate his life. Not that it mattered much because for them “permanently” meant the next ten minutes or so until buried by searing lava or suffocated by choking ash—to pee, when the door swung open to reveal a woman whose body said you've had your last burrito for a while, and when he saw the young woman believed to be the spy's girlfriend in an Italian restaurant he said to the waiter, “Your last meal," thus ending her life.

For the first they greeted one another at every stolen rendezvous, perched prominently on top of the intake manifold, aching for experienced hands, the small knurled caps of the oil dampeners whose face said angels did exist, and whose eyes said she could make you dig your own grave and lick the shovel clean, grasping the cap on the tamper-proof bottle, pushing down and twisting while she kept her thumb firmly pressed against the spot the arrow pointed to, until she hit the exact spot where the tab clicks into place, and forced open the door of his decaying house that mocked him day after day, and then, As the fading light of a dying day filtered through the window blinds, nervous as a tenth grader drowning in eleventh-hour cramming for a physics exam, and, humming "The Twelfth of Never," on just such a night when the rum was flowin’ and, Davey Jones be damned.

The moment he laid eyes on the lifeless body of the nude socialite sprawled across the bathroom floor, a quick inventory of his senses told corpulent Inspector Moreau that this was, in all likelihood, an inside job. Summarily, he daydreamed of that two-flavor entwined string cheese that is orange and yellowish-white, the orange probably being a bland Cheddar and the white . . . Mozzarella, although it could possibly be Provolone or just plain American, as it really doesn't taste distinctly dissimilar from the orange, yet they would have you believe it does by coloring it differently.

You can hear the awful screams of the crew of the “Ellie May,” a sturdy whaler. "Hold the spumoni--I'm going to follow the chick an' catch a Tory.", for it was captained by John McTavish the sous-chef, allowing her to remove the cap through red, full, sensuous little cheek or lips that nipped at Desdemona's ripping ankles, as big John brought his men on deck for the first of several screaming contests.

“You’ll feel my steel bullets through sand crisp shrimp’s”, the entire contents of the bottle, summarily embraced each other unmistakably, inside as tightly by the cyclic tail, yet somehow provocatively, if he really tries, but not of their.

“Flick to your naïve and swallow. The ape ran out of a vein chick flick. You’ll feel my…” -- He appreciated her warning.

"I don't know what to make of her." whispered the scullery boy.

And at last I knew Pittsburgh.




"What the hell was all that?" you might ask. Not the first chapter of my award-winning space detective mystery, but more a curious synthesis of some of the very worst fiction in the world. Since 1982, San Jose State University has sponsored the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest, a literary competition challenging entrants to compose the opening sentence to the worst of all possible novels. Sentences are well and good, but they're not very long. So, armed with only the last 17 year's winners, I sort of cut-and-pasted bits of the sentences together to get the above clear and cohesive narrative. (Individual words and even letters by the end, when as you may have noticed things got slightly desperate.) So no, none of this is mine, but the compilation is, and that sort of counts, doesn't it?