Kelly Joyner’s Final Days

So, this guy and this chick are standing in the rain, right? In this real hellacious torrential downpour. And the girl turns to the guy and says, she says, “The sky sure is blue today.”

And the guy, he doesn’t know what to make of this at all. So, he closes his eyes so that he can’t see the rain, and he imagines, and in no time at all he can believe he’s standing under blue skies with nary a drop in site.

Strangely, this does not make him any drier.

I don’t even know how far my tongue is in my cheek, ya’ll:

Hello World,

I woke up this morning and wondered where I’d been for the last month. My recollection is hazy, my memories of nothing more than a certain fuzzy peace and rest and happiness.

You know, you and I haven’t ever gotten along all that terribly well. A lot of that was just me being stupid and doing the wrong thing and not being able to figure out what I was doing wrong. A lot of it was you constantly shitting on me, though. I guess any relationship, family, friendship, whatever is like that. Still, I think all in all I did my best by you, and I don’t think you did your best by me. My world was a cold, lonely, and bleak place. Where I was the last month wasn’t. I finally could rest and think on the path I’d trodden.

Sometimes I was trapped on a cliff between the oceans raging below and the mountains towering above. More often the path I travelled was hard because because I climbed over a mountain I could have walked around. Sometimes I couldn’t see the way around; other times I thought the view from the top would be better, would give me some peace I couldn’t find in the low lands. Once or twice I was right.

Still, this journey I took brought me to where I found myself. It was in the end a happy place, like being back in the womb. I don’t want to leave, and I’m going back. To sleep? To dream? Surely, to rest. Any way it goes, it’s a happier place than this alien land I’ve come to realize I don’t belong in.

Don’t worry, though. I’m leaving you someone else to play with, somebody I’m sure you’ll get on famously with. I can’t, as a matter of fact, think of anybody you deserve more.

Have fun. I know I will.

-k. ^_^

(I originally wrote this back in August, but then decided I didn’t give a shit for a while. Been slim pickins here at the de|lusion lately, I know, so enjoy.)

The Death of a Fucktard Lamp

This is the lamp that so vexes me. It’s light is always right in your fucking eyes, no matter where you sit. I’ve figured out–through many hours of arduous study–that it was the product of alien technology, a remote apparatus for spying on earthlings, a miracle of extraterrestrial technology capable of seeing in fifteen distinct wave bands, rotating on its ingenius two-dimensional gimbal*, and transmitting both video and stereophonic audio back to its alien masters.

By night, when everyone sleeps, the lamp descends from the ceiling on its scaly alien stalks.

Due to a slight misunderstanding of the relationship between people and their sources of light, this piece of technological wizardly was only slightly compromised by its somewhat unfortunate disguise. An so for twenty years or more it has abided…abound….abides….stayed in the house and kept silent, malevolent watch over the innocents within.

Until I came, and saw it for what it was. I would end it.

In this picture you can see what the light looks like when it has flipped gravity upside down, which it does every tuesday at seven.

I went to the Home Depot and got a super-uber-mega-cool halogen spotlights to replace it, but when I got home, I discovered that the light was designed to mount in a 4-inch octagonal junction box, whereas all the alien architects had seen fit to put behind their terrible remote-controlled surveillance light was a big hole.

I mean, I’ve got three of these fucking things. I’m going to have to go down to the Depot again and get some damn junction boxes and figure out how to wedge them in there all pretty. I’m going to have to do that some day. Today is not going to be that day. Today, I’m going to break shit. This fucktard lamp from hell** is going the fuck down, man. Down. And I’ve got just the crack team of tools to do it. As long as it doesn’t have to be done well.

*–ingeniously disguised as a completely frozen non-rotating in any way crap hinge.

**–hell/venus/alpha centauri. It’s hard to be sure any more.

Thursday is sideways day. Do you see the hell I live in?

The Tools

To aid me in my quest, I would need trusty sidekicks. Not for the cheap, the Taiwanese drop-forged, a job like this. No, a job like this demands the very best. And I’ve got ‘em. The very best enough.

My mini-tiny-micro Leatherman Squirt. Don’t let the size fool you. The Squirt will fuck you up. If you are a sponge.

My Knife, Betsy. Betsy has tasted the blood of man. Betsy has an important job to do.

My Black and Decker high-speed rotary tool, with my favorite heavy-duty cut-off wheel. 15000, 10000, and 7500 RPM, for wreaking havoc at any speed.

My drill Hubert. He’s a french drill, noir y descartes.

My Dad’s Zebra pen and engraved ruler. The ruler will tell me where to cut, and the pen will remind me. A machinist’s tools, these, although I always wish I still had some of my dad’s finest six-inch rulers.

My trusty needle-nosed pliers. Craftsman.

This tall glass of cold water will provide delicious refreshment, and also I can use it to quench things, should I discover that anything needs to be quenched.

Murder Most Foul

This KVM Bezel will give its life that others may die.

This is my best concentrating face. I need it because I will concentrate on making sparks.

First Blood!

Faaaa–Shwwwooommm!

Kitties!

It must 100% Definitely, without doubt, be something that sort of resembles a right angle. I’ll settle for nothing less.

This means my drill is about the right size, which is good, because it’s the only little one I have. Nine billion big drills and one little one. How does that happen?

I got smart and marked that bitch the second time around.

Ba-BLAM! Fear the power of the BIG-ASS cutting wheel!

Die Motherfucker!

I make holes in things

Needlenose Auger at work.

The last holes.

Redneck engineering at its finest.

My righteous new light bestows its warm, comforting glow on the mortals, below, that it watches and protects from the forces of alien evil.

Scorsese really outdid himself with The Departed. Matt Damon (M-A-T-T D-A-M-O-N!) kicked ass in this flick. So did Leonardo DiCaprio, Jack Nicholson, and Mark Wahlberg. If you were to take all the bad things about this movie, and put them in one hand, and shit in the other, the hand with the shit would get full way faster! Way!

You should go see this movie right now. It’s based on the 2002 Hong Kong flick Infernal Affairs, but I’d say they both owe a great debt to Shakespeare.

It has the ending I’ve always wanted to see in an action flick. Really. I was telling my brother about it like a month ago. Ask him.

Why are you still here reading this? You should be at Fandango finding tickets to the next show. What are you waiting for? Go!

I’ve actually had three blogs. I mean, it’s always been de|lusion, but it’s been in three different places. The first one had hardly anything in it, but I started it back on 4/20 of 2004. I wrote:

I was watching Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas last night with the Hunter S. Thompson commentary on. It’s pretty crazy, kind of brilliant senile commentary on the movie and life in general. I highly recommend it. Thompson goes on on the aspects of the movie he liked and didn’t like, as well as the aspects that he liked or didn’t like of practically everybody involved with it, particularly Terry Gilliam and Johnny Depp. He takes questions from callers and generally makes a brilliant ass of himself. It’s truly great.

What a rube! Who writes “makes a brilliant ass of himself”? And how you gonna write a one-paragraph review..of a…movie. I, uh, I gotta go now.

you don’t know the half of it!

at least i gotz plenty of company though.

cocksuckin’ retard muthafuckaz….

/me adds drunk typing to his list of drunken sinz.

okay, ya, i dropped by my work on friday night. and i did a little work. but i took a beer from the fridge in payment. also, as a consolation prize, there’s beer in my fridge at work, for the taking. sofuckyou.

i broke 2000 page views on my blog today; ‘course, mycrack counts vanity hits as page views, and since posting a new blog costs my typo-izing self at least four page views, i’m prolly at least 400 short (99 posts) of a “real” 2000 views.

yeah, as a matter of fact, i did only post this so’s i could make it my 100th post. if i get at least three (3) comments on it, i’ll post a picture of a chick wearing nothing but a thong and a wifebeater–on her head.

I was talking with my buddy the other night about how people changed as they grew. My best friend through about third grade was this girl Charity who was the daughter of my parents’ best friends. She was a chubby little girl, awkward and boyish, as I recall. I had occasion to run across her mother some years ago and saw a picture of the fine-looking championship-winning karate black belt woman she’d grown into.

Probably the highlight of my grade-school career was in first-grade recess. I was always a shy, bookish type, and the kids used to pick on me. One day I was playing and my shoe came off. Instantly I was surrounded by a circle of kids playing keep-away, tossing my shoe across the circle as I ran toward them. Even my friends were in the circle, laughing and throwing my damned shoe as I hobbled after it.

I did this for about thirty seconds before I hit on the solution. I played their game for a few rounds more, chasing the shoe faster and faster, until it landed in the hands of this kid Brett. I don’t know why these kids are always named Brett, but they are. He was the one who took my shoe to begin with, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a prettier expression on anyone’s face than the one he had in the split second between when he threw my shoe across the circle and I smashed into him going full bore. By the time he hit the ground I had the collar of his shirt in my hand and was punching him in the face over and over as hard as I could.

He was a game kid–as much bite as bark, I’ll give him that–and by the time the teachers got to us we had a pair of bloody noses and enough cuts, scrapes, and bruises to last us a week. In a softer day they might have sent us to the nurses office, but back then they just stood us both up against the fence and made us stand there until the end of recess.

I don’t know that I’ve changed all that much. Life still serves me shit sandwiches, and I still figure out ways to make the bastard eat them.

Nobody’s played keep-away with me since then, I’ll say that. And they better not.

“If they’re gonna hit you anyway, hit ‘em back first.”

Check out this shirt that my buddy Dan Mobley sent me from Japan:

with catlike eyes
and feline grace
lithe young somebodyrother
to fools gives chase.

So, apparently squirrels are what sells. It’s funny to me that this picture:

has more people that call it a favorite than the one with Albie:

Still, if you’re only talking about two or three people…..

I wrote this php script that lets you grab your photos based on how recently you posted them, but now MySpace won’t let me put any .. tags in my blog header. Fuckers.

Anyway, I’ll be damned if I wrote it for nothing, so here:

So’s I go out drinking last night with one person (thanks Tracy!), who had to leave early to take her grandmother to church in the morning, so I found myself sitting at Halcyon drinking a Red Stripe and bemoaning my fate (Oh! Woe is me! Drunk and alone downtown on Saturday night! Whatever will I find to do?) when I remembered that Chris had told me to come to Karma. I did this and found a bumpin’-ass party I stayed at ’til four in the morning when they shut the joint down.

The place is pretty cool. The two half-flights of stairs that provide entrance open into your standard bar-al area at the front, then there are these big chill rooms in the back, a little elevated for a better view of the main area, that have soft couches that go all the way around the walls, and this gigormantic bed-like-thing, like maybe ten feet by ten feet. The whole room is red. They air-condition the place as if they expected a couple hundred sweaty people to dance for hours in it every night, which is more than I can say for most clubs.

The main area is surrounded by, and has these stalagtite-things made of, red acrylic rods. It looks like the fortress of solitude done red.

They’ve apparently got another room covered floor-to-ceiling with shag carpet, but I didn’t know it was there at the time, so I never saw it.

Itsa crazy place, that’s for sure. I like it.