Ah, Jedi Love. Or where Little Jedis come from. Or, why I quit playing this game and moved on with my life.

Wow. Just simply. Wow.

There is hope and a kind of beauty in there somewhere, if you look for it.
H. R. Giger

New addition to the extended klown family. My sister just had a baby today (it is her birthday as well, if that is any indication of how organized her life is). Mother and baby are doing just fine. The new one's name is Greer.

Crows get a bad rap throughout mythological history, but look what they have to deal with. 

Man, I love the old school games. I just got Zoo Keeper in a collection of games for the Xbox, a steal at $19.99. Zoo Keeper was the one game that I remember drawing the largest crowd at the neighborhood 7-11. I dumped countless quarters into that damn thing trying to beat my brother's high score, Bob Scrignoli's and Wayne Zacher's. While I excelled at Mr. Do!, I never quite got the top spot on Zoo Keeper (which had "rest:" levels reminiscent of Mario--notice the resemblance?). Anyhow, back in the day when high scores mattered and you identified yourself with three simple initials, I was known as BOO. Anyone who entered ASS guaranteed that the game would be reset, and a the race for number one would begin anew. Sometimes I think that Tom, the night manager was the one who would enter ASS, as it assured that there would be a ton of us hanging around at night keeping him company and bolstering profits as we struggled to re-achieve those multi-million point high scores. 

What the hell is it with ninjas anyhow? Can they cook? Nooo. 

If you're happy and you know it...

then you aren't medicated enough. Or, if your names doesn't begin with C check this website out. If your name is Christopher, however, then you are probably already aware of this blog. If you are Christopher and you are not aware of this blog, then you drink too much (if not more than I do).

Pay particular attention to the January 8th entries. Notice, no Elvis. That's right kiddies, January 8th is now Klown DAY! Whoooohooo!

A little update on the post B-day blitz. The Hockey game was a bit of a letdown. The new NHL is kind of, well, soft. Kind of a lackluster game. The Wild lost, but that's not what made it so miserable. Even the fans sat on their hands. This is MINNESOTA! Hockey games and church should not be interchangeable on the decible meter.

I was drunk under the table by 10:30. Granted, I was out with a bunch of military boyz (read: professional alcoholics) but still....I used to be able to go all night long, puke and still make it to work on time. SheeSh!

Ice, beer, and my brother. Tonight we rekindle an old tradition of taking in a hockey game in celebration of another trip around the sun. When I was growing up, my mother would always plan a birthday party around a UMD Bulldogs' game.

I have been away from hockey for a number of years, living out west (No, I really don't think hockey belongs in Phoenix, LA, San Jose, etc.). So, with the move back to the tundra, I can once again, paint my face, get drunk on $7 dollar beer, and cheer the home team on toward victory.

What a strange, tribal thing it is to engage in.

The sound of bones creaking

Well, I awoke today undeniably on the other side of the hill. The peak is somewhere in my rearview mirror, and I am beginning to make my descent. You know what? Never felt better and more at peace. My twenties, well, what I remember of them were about getting drunk, chasing the idea of love, getting drunk, and maybe eventually getting a degree. But mostly about getting drunk. My thirties were all about catching up for the time lost. The super competitive go, go, go of what? Who was I really succeeding for? Sure, I helped myself out, but at what expense? I lost time with my family that I will never recover, and I helped make money for ungrateful suits without a hint of genuine thanks.

Forty. All that is gone. I am near home. I am at peace with the universe. Well, okay, I have been forty for a little over an hour now. We'll see what tomorrow brings. The other side of the hill brings a much, much better view of what lies ahead.

A little bit older; a whole lot scarier. 

Wow, has it been that long~?

Nearly two months away from the keyboard. But the klown, like the phoenix, has risen from the...whatever.

Just got bored with the same old. Not a lot happens here in the heartland. Not a lot to report. And with the gray winter days, not a lot of things even seem funny enough to send your way.

But lo and behold, something to report. Fortieth birthday just around the bend.

Apparently, I have just a scant 7 years left. Which is nearly 2600 blogging days until they find me in the bathroom, boxers around ankles, dead on the toilet. Elvis and I share more than just a birthday.

In light of all this hullaballoo over gas prices and wars fought over oil, I propose that we outlaw NASCAR until the crisis passes. Or at a very minimum, NASCAR develops an alternative fuel program. I propose beer. The combination of advertising alcohol and driving seems to be the perfect synergy anyhow, so why not gas the cars up on the same thing the fans are getting gassed up on? If they can't do that, then do the Denver thing and legalize marijuana. Then I either won't care or NASCAR races might seem somewhat interesting.  

They keep talking about snow here. The inevitability of snow. Like death and taxes. Looking forward to two out of three isn't such a bad way to get through the day.  

I don't get it. According to the DC website, issue #25 comes out in December, while #24 comes out in February. Batzarro!

In honor of recent postings at my favorite blog...here's the ink...a laughing squid proudly displayed at Comic-Con 2003. Yes, they still call me Squid. No pics of the other arm yet. Let's just say the true yin-yang Comicdom.

My best friend is a weirdo. If this frog were toast...well, you get the picture.

No one can ever paint the perfect cloud. 

Near a storm drain at home

I stared into the disappearing water, unable to identify a clear image. Once my eyes isolated what appeared to be a consistency in the wave's motion, it quickly disappeared and my eyes were forced to refocus on another portion of the whirlpool. Leaves were caught in the vortex, the small toy boat that I had when I was seven. The face of my grandmother, the teacher who had tied my shoes, the banker who refused the loan for my first house-all caught for a moment-then gone. The faces of strangers appeared for a moment and then disappeared. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the distorted image of myself come into view. Quickly, I shut my eyes, clenched my lids as tight as possible, until all I could see was the blood pulsing through the thin membrane. I was safe. Safe from the inevitable. I can keep my eyes closed forever if I have to.

I had fifteen, or so, minutes to myself today. I spent them with a Winston and moment. While I was outside the student union, I had the chance to crouch and reflect on many things, but a duck and drake were what filled most of my time. There is a certain perfection to be found in ducks. Any animal form, for that matter, but it was ducks today, tomorrow it could be an albino spider for all I know. Today, though, those fifteen minutes were spent admiring the flow and curve of a mallard and its mate as they stood breast deep in a shallow stream, October pregnant with late season rain. The time and selection, the perfection of design. At times, I am embarrassed by the moments that I steal away from the day to simply observe. Momentarily. That passes, and I am left grateful for the privelege. The duck: clownly colored, perfectly shaped, supremely designed. Were we all to find ourselves reshaped, remolded, reaquainted with ourselves, could we compete with the simplicity and purity of the simple waterfowl? Klowns, shamans and the like, borrowed from the beasts an admiration for the gods.

Surf long enough on the internet, and you are bound to find...well, actually it didn't take that long at all. Google Ass Clown and voila! 

Say it ain't so, Joe. Yup, I put Joe J. out on the waiver wires to get through a brutal bye week in the old fantasy football. It paid off and I won, but I had high hopes of swooping back in and picking up the number 3 WR for the Seahawks. Well, oh well. Injuries have befuddled the Seahawks once again and Joe's value on the boards went up almost overnight. Foolish me. We'll miss you, Joe. And we are sincerely sorry that we toyed with your heart. 

I get the point and all, but it is the Smurfs, afterall, so it kind of misses the mark...a little. Okay, a lot.

You have absolutely fricking got to be kidding me. How many more inner circle, unqualified appointments is it going to take to get to Armageddon.

Exclusive interview...

Nick "nutty as a squirrel sack" Cage has a kid...still love the guy, but whoa!

Uh....Kal-Elle? 

The Whizzer.