Dear Diary: 31.07.08

Dear Diary,

Today I was thinking about megafauna again. Man, I just love the ideas of giant mammals roaming the earth, dreaming their giant dreams; and this all while the ice-age's frozen grip held sway. Where have they gone, these majestic creatures of dream? When will they return?

In the legends of King Arthur--that welsh prince of a lost age--there is told a tale of Merlin, who, having gone to Avalon with the intent of building condos there, returned from that isle with strange tales of creatures that were similar to the common beasts of England, save for one feature: their enormous size! None believed the mad ravings of this lunatic sorcerer, but the tale was written down nonetheless and appears in the Fabulae Anglorum an account written by a contemporary of Merlin, the venerable Aethelward, a monk and rumor-monger. Well, anyway, as everyone knows, King Arthur is supposed to return from the isle of Avalon in the hour of Britain's greatest need. Less known, however, is the prophecy that he will arrive again in England riding on a so-called 'beast-of-wonder'. Could this be one of the fabulous beings that Merlin saw? Could perhaps the last of the megafauna be biding their time on the Isle of Avalon, till Britain finds herself in her darkest hour? Idle speculation at best, some will say, though in their heart still whispers that voice of hope that tells them that giant mammals still survive, led by a mythic king, who has for centuries doubtless been teaching them various tricks with the intent of founding a circus of literally gigantic proportions, which would be a boon to us in our modern, magic-less world.

(Picture of a Giant Rhino, Compared to a Modern Human)

Well, Till Later,
Volker The Fiddler

Dear Diary: 30.07.08

Dear Diary,

The other day, at work, a customer informed me that small bird lay dead in front of the sliding glass doors which serve as an entrance to my one-stop-shop store. She (the customer) seemed distraught at this reminder of the futility of existence and the ephemeral nature of life. She suggested that it would be best if it were quickly removed. To be polite, and always hoping to serve my customer's interests, I immediately began the callus process of getting someone to remove the bird from the premises. Unfortunately, we had to wait a bit till someone with the proper 'hazardous substance' training showed up to do the deed. It ended up being the head of my department. In accordance with this training, he used latex gloves to handle the bird, and then put it in a sanctioned receptacle: a garbage sack. This sack he tied off. Then (again according to the guidelines for handling potentially noxious substances) my manger set the first bag into a second and sealed it also. Then the whole bundle of bird and bag was tossed unceremoniously into the trash compactor. Unsung this bird went to his grave. I think, perhaps, it might have been better to have left the bird there, that it might serve as a reminder of our own grim fates.

Well, Till Later,
Volker The Fiddler

The Day of the Pens Part 1

Recently, a proclamation from corporate---whose westerly offices (so I imagine) are roseate, marble towers that rise up from a gleaming island of delicate corals---descended from these lofty precipices like an autumn wind, whose bite presages the bitterness of winter. The words of this proclamation, imperiously spoken, first painted a grim picture of wanton pen-abuse. "No more," it then continued peremptorily, "will pens flow unrestricted, like an untamed river, from a honeyed land of plenty. Henceforth and forevermore will that wild flow be dammed, diverted, controlled, thwarted. Its monstrous surges will be fitted with a valve, to be released only by the will of a bureaucratic army of miserly bean-counters. And if that flow run dry--SO BE IT."

It was with shock, then horror that the humble populace of serf-like employees, myself included, read, then digested this memo from on high. No more the pen could be kindly offered to his neighbor in the spirit of brotherhood. No more could a thrifty, yet pen-less customer, whose gentle insistence that his taking of the pen would be a good advertisement for the corporation, be allowed such an indulgence. No more the gentle freedom from the knowledge that a lost pen is no great thing, and that another is waiting patiently to take the place of the current one. "Woe be unto us!" went up the cry of lament for those golden, dreamlike, pen-rich days now behind us.

Then, a ripple of realization went through the weeping throng (for we gather before a raised dais from which all such corporate memos are read aloud by a crier); an almost imperceptible shift of feeling that smothered these piteous laments into choking silence. Each of those gathered there began to look at one another with strangely altered, suspicious eyes. Hands went to pockets, to places of secret storage where pens, their value now made most dear, were kept. The stillness persisted; an air of malice emanated from the gathered crowd and grew and became gravid with tacit violence. None moved, nor dared breath as the wall-clock's hands progressed, unperturbed. Then there is a movement, near the edge of the crowd and a cry: "Pens! He's got pens!" What then transpired---the horror of it---future chroniclers could only compare to the slaughters of the French Revolution: "Many a Robespierre was born that day!"

When the mists of blood ceased to rain down from pulsing veins, and the lust of battle was spent in those who survived the slaughter through chance or skill (myself included), then were there many grim, yet conquering countenances to be observed. Silent and gory we survivors stood, silent among the ruined forms of our former co-workers. At last I stepped forward and spoke: "Colleagues! Comrades! Friends! We have witnessed here today the horror of what man can perpetrate upon his brethren. And for what? For these?" At this point I cast down to the sanguine earth the pens that I had won through violence, and I continued my extemporaneous speech: "Let us remember this day, and guard against those fears which have led us to this place of shame and sorrow!" At this I tore open my shirt and fell to the ground in a stupor of numbing sadness.

When I at last rose, the carnage had been cleared away and smoke from a billowing and massive pyre was bringing the souls of the dead into the heavens. As I observed this with a wearied soul, a hand tentatively brushed my shoulder. The hand's owner spoke: "Never again." I answered: "No, never again."

One Word Film Review: Journey to the Center of the Earth 3D

Feldspar-Joke.

Dear Diary: 22.07.2008

Dear Diary,

Today I was thinking about the 'Blood-Apes'. Now, I've never really developed the concept of what a 'Blood Ape' might or should be, but I know it isn't a good thing. I know this 'cause I'm always telling myself things like: "Damn blood-apes, damn it all to hell!" Or: "The damned blood-apes are back, we're all f*cked!" Or: "Those damned blood-apes stole my wife!" Or: "Bloody damn blood-apes, damn them and their tough, bristly hair!" Stuff like that. So I was thinking about blood-apes today. Man, they suck.

Well, Till Later,
Volker The Fiddler

Dear Diary: 21.07.2008

Dear Diary,

I have a number of things to discuss today. At my place of employ, in the apparel department is the baby section. In the baby section are a number of one-piece numbers which sport slogans intended to be amusing to the parent or other adults (babies can't generally read). During Halloween, for example, there was available a baby-sized jump suit upon which these words were written: "Daddy's Little Ghoul". I thought this rather horrifying, as a ghoul is a flesh-eating demon. (Baby Ghouls would make an excellent horror-film, however). But nothing could match the distasteful notion expressed by the one-piece which bears the slogan: "Mommy's New Man". Ick. Let's start our next generation off with a healthy oedipal complex, right? That's just too incestuous, even for me. Let's stick with more traditionally themed, neutral baby clothing---bunnies, duckies, and what have you. Humorists, wits, and ne'er-do-wells should avoid penning lines for infant-attire.

Now, changing our tack a bit, let us consider the noble institution of queues. That's right, queues. Certainly queuing-up is one of life's most horrible yet necessary inventions. Life seem to waste and wither away right before one's eyes as the person standing at the front of the line---who is full of irrelevant queries and complex problems created from their own ignorance or folly; who has cartloads of food, when you have but a single item; who writes checks with by bony, arthritic, un-quick hands---speeds the hourglass that measures your years, each grain of sand dropping with undue haste, building up that cone of sand so reminiscent of a pyre burning up one's remaining years with irrelevant necessities.

Well, anyway, my time in Germany has convinced me that Germans have done away this necessary institution. How? By ignoring it. There is no line structure in existence that the average German can recognize, a fact which has been proven to me on numerous occasions. Today, at my place of employ, as I stood at the service desk helping a customer, two German tourists blithely ignored the line of people waiting for my assistance and politely asked me to ring them up. What could I do? I rang them up right away, of course.

Once, in Germany, as I waited, hands on the counter at a coat check, a group of Germans came up behind me and asked if I was waiting in line. What else could I be doing? I was standing expectantly at the counter for the return of my belongings and wouldn't have been waiting there for any other sensible reason. On another occasion, upon my return from Germany, an abrasive American excoriated a lovely German couple for their ignorance of what was fairly apparent line-structure. I could only look on and shake my head.

Of course, I don't recommend the German way of doing things. Lines---queues are a necessary evil affording us a fair if tedious means of moving human-kind through life.

Well, Till Later,
Volker The Fiddler

The Poor Man's...?

Zac Effron: the poor man's Emile Hirsch?

Dear Diary: 14.07.08

I found out today that the lady who looked like she was going to die at my store did in fact die. She was corpulent and twitching last time I saw her; her wan, grub-colored belly was jiggling in the produce section as her life's blood spilled onto the floor, while people stood around her body watching the horror. She had had a heart attack, which dropped her to the ground, to the hard concrete floor which smashed her skull open. The paramedics couldn't save her. They tried for 20 minutes. We found out she had gotten out of the hospital but two days before; she was there because she was struggling with a bout of pneumonia. She was old, but not that old.

Well, till later,
Volker The Fiddler

Dear Diary: 13.07.2008

Dear Diary,
Feeling rather crapulous today; ate too many chicken tenders yesterday. Seriously, I ate probably like, 2-3 lbs. of chicken tenders, with apricot barbecue sauce (delicious, btw). I really shouldn't have done that.

Well, till later,
Volker The Fiddler

The World: Almost Destroyed

A certain scientist had created the most powerful weapon the world had ever seen; no earthly power could withstand its might. Were it ever to be employed, none would survive it, not one living thing. The weapon dealt its death in stages. First, the weapon would cut the target-planet into manageable pieces by powerful cutting beams. Then, the resulting pieces would be placed into a frying basket. Finally, the basket would be lowered into a giant vat of boiling oil. When removed, the newly dead planet would be golden brown and crispy, but not delicious. (Salt to taste). Verily, this weapon had the power to deep-fry an entire planet.

Now, the sheer implausibility of this weapon made it desirable to all the governments of the world, and soon countries were waging wars to secure its control. At length, the bloodied victors, their hands covered in the gore of their enemies, achieved control of the weapon that could bring death to an entire world. Gloating, this newly victorious faction sought to impress upon their compeers the virility of their new weapon, and so chose a nearby planet to subject to its power. Alas, when it came time to activate this doomsday weapon, it was realized that there wasn’t enough oil in the world to be used in the weapon’s frying-vat, nor was there a electrical socket into which it might be plugged (the eccentric designer of the device had inconveniently made it incompatible with the common sockets of his day; he found them lacking in both style and functionality). Now, this situation was very embarrassing to the power that had expended so much effort in obtaining the weapon, and so to save face, something had to be done.

But what could be done? Nothing. Though, that didn’t stop the thwarted government from following variously ineffective courses. Oh well, back to the drawing-board, I guess.