The Rapture: Free Cars, No Fundies!

The Clearasil Jesus: This guy
couldn't kill nobody!

Greg:

Sgt. Rock, our brother, sent me a link to a blog by a guy name of Joe Bageant. Good writer. Mighty long-winded, though. Never say in five words what you can say in ten-and-a-half pages, I guess. Bageant was raving about what hate-seething tomes the ultra-rightwing-Christian novels of the "Left Behind" series are. Were it not for the fact that I read this particular installment, I never would have read any portion of the "Left Behind" series. Christian Hate Porno is not my bag. My thing is real estate. Send me pictures of a nice 3BR/2.75BA turn of the century Tudor revival with real mahogany plate-rail and wainscoting, vaulted ceilings and picture molding, and I may never leave the bathroom. I look at architecture the same way most men look at porn. (Yeah, baby! Lift those soffits! Show those dentils! Give the boys what they paid for!)

As usual, I have digressed.

Joe Bageant happened to reprint a paragraph or so of one of the series. It was some over-the-top kill-porn where Jesus was making the guts of the infidel - whoops! unbelievers - 'splode and their tongues dissolve in their mouths with a wave of his hand. Here's a chunk:

"Jesus merely raised one hand a few inches and a yawning chasm opened in the earth, stretching far and wide enough to swallow all of them. They tumbled in, howling and screeching, but their wailing was soon quashed and all was silent when the earth closed itself again." -- From Glorious Appearing by Tim LaHaye and Jerry B. Jenkins

"The best thing about the Left Behind books is the way the non-Christians get their guts pulled out by God."-- 15-year old fundamentalist fan of the Left Behind series

For a second I thought they were talking about some pee-o'd radioactive Guest Worker who had SuperPowers. I was so wrong. They're talking about Jesus H. Christ, the guy that Mel Gibson made that movie about. You know, the guy with all the compassion and stuff. Little Lord Jesus No Crying He Makes. That guy.

So yeah. Wow. I had no idea what a freaking blood-bathing hate-tome industry the whole "Left Behind" thing was until I read Joe's blog. 65 million copies of this stuff has been sold. And as he says, if the same books had been written from an Islamic perspective, we'd be burning them in the streets, expunging freedom of speech from the Constitution, and closing the borders.

To be fair, I didn't quite finish this blog entry. It sucked all the air out of the room and I passed out. And all I really know about the Last Days/Rapture stuff is what I've read on bumper stickers ("In the event of The Rapture, this car will be unmanned" - to which I reply, "Ossum! Free car!"). But the jist I got from it was that the popularity of these books is cause for a great deal of concern for non-theistic types like myself and everyone else who isn't either a honkie or a fundie (fundamentalist Christian) or both. We're all likely to get snuffed either directly or indirectly by these wingnuts any day.

I say "whoah now". Here's why. You know what type of media has a rate of consumption 5-to-1 over every other type of media? PORN. Yeah buddy. So that means for all 65 million of the "Left Behind" series that has been sold, 325 million copies of world-renowned smut classics like "Temple of Poon" ('Witness meat-eating hardbodies lunging on love lumber!') have gone before them. And out of all the people who buy all that porn, how many of them are people we should be really concerned about, viz., rapists and the like? A sheensy beensy teensy percentage, that's how many. Not none, but close. It's one thing to look. It's another to touch. It's the same sort of illogical panic people send up that equates homicidal sprees with video game usage.

The thing that concerns me about Christian fundamentalism - specifically the sort of fundamentalism the authors of the "Left Behind" series espouse, is that I don't hear any other Christians speaking out against it. If they are, they must not be very loud. I mean, isn't there a single priest or congregant out there trying to point out that Jesus was probably more of a touchy-feely and less of a killy-mcbloodbath? (Actually, from what I remember of catechism, I'm damn sure Jesus didn't kill anybody, so these jokers can kiss my left behind.) I mean, c'mon, isn't there even a single Episcopalian (where there's four, there's a fifth!) who can write a scathing letter or something?

So why not me? I'll tell ya why. Because my Vow of Refuge clearly states that I have to take refuge in the Buddha, the dharma and the sangha on this one. And not one of the the Three Jewels has told me (yet) that I can throw all their hate-filled fundie asses into a blazing chasm. Instead, I have to sit my own ass on my zafu and generate compassion for people who would really like to see me get flayed with the flaming sword of Jesus.

Cheers, and give my best to Marie.

-Thaddeus

March 26th, 2006

Greg:

I don't know if you heard the news, but last Sunday morning here in Seattle, a young man named Kyle Huff inexplicably shot six people to death at a house party and then shot himself. No motive. No reason.

The house where the shooting happened is just a block from where Elizabeth lives. We carpool to work together. I can't avoid going past it when I pick her up in the morning. This morning when I drove by, there were still a number of kids holding a vigil on the lawn and sidewalk amongst soggy sleeping bags and wilted flowers. They looked like they were freezing. I went up to the Starbucks and bought half a gallon of hot chocolate and a dozen or so donuts and brought them to the kids. They were overjoyed to get something warm.

There was a news crew standing by from KING 5. They asked me if I'd speak with them on-camera and I consented. They said I didn't look like a member of the rave scene, and I said no, I wasn't. They asked me to spell my name for them, so I did. Then they asked me to spell it again, so I did. Then they rolled the cameras.

The reporter asked me if I lived in the neighborhood, and I said no. He asked me why I brought the donuts an hot chocolate and I said these kids look like they're freezing, so it seemed like the right thing to do. Then he asked me, as a member of the neighborhood, what effect I thought this tragedy would have on the area. I couldn't understand why he asked me that. I had just told him that I didn't live there. It was like a Zen koan. Everything kind of breathed in for a moment. I don't know how else to say it. I noticed that the reporter had a tan. I noticed that the microphone had a torn windscreen. I smelled wax. I thought about Kyle Huff. I heard some of the kids laugh. And then the breath went out again.

I said I hadn't spoken to any of the people in the neighborhood, so I didn't know. But my heart went out to the parents of all the kids who were killed. I said I have a son about the same age as a lot of the kids at the party, and that I couldn't imagine being worried, waiting for a phone call for him, only to find out that he was never coming home.

The reporter said thanks. I got in the car and drove away. On the way to work, I thought about how someone must mourn for Kyle Huff, too.

"Sometimes we think that to develop an open heart, to be truly loving and compassionate, means that we need to be passive, to allow others to abuse us, to smile and let anyone do what they want with us. Yet this is not what is meant by compassion. Quite the contrary. Compassion is not at all weak. It is the strength that arises out of seeing the true nature of suffering in the world. Compassion allows us to bear witness to that suffering, whether it is in ourselves or others, without fear; it allows us to name injustice without hesitation, and to act strongly, with all the skill at our disposal. To develop this mind state of compassion...is to learn to live, as the Buddha put it, with sympathy for all living beings, without exception.

"After I escaped from Tibet, [my brother monk] Lopon-la was put in prison by the Chinese. He stayed there eighteen years. When he finally was free, he came to India. For twenty years, I did not see him. But he seemed the same. Of course, he looked older, but physically OK. His mind still sharp after so many years in prison. He was still the same gentle monk.

He told me the Chinese forced him to denounce his religion. They tortured him many times in prison. I asked him whether he was ever afraid. Lopon-la then told me: 'Yes, there was one thing I was afraid of. I was afraid I may lose compassion for the Chinese.'"

-Tenzin Gyatso, His Holiness The XIVth Dalai Lama

God Hates Boners

Believe me, I know exactly what this kid is thinking.

Greg:

You were surprised to hear that Dad's gonna be churchin' up, or re-churchin', or whatever they call it when somebody makes the Jesus-Jew-Jesus turnaround. Perhaps "making a return to the cloth". Ummm, "a rethinking of one's convictions". "Spinning a philosophical donut", or "pulling a religious brodie", to speak in automotive terms.

So yeah, I guess the diocese is going to decide whether he's naughty or nice, and then if all goes well he'll get his collar back. Probably not the same one, though. I think he probably threw that one out years ago before he went to Israel to stay on that kibbutz. Or maybe he sold it at a garage sale, and then some 13-year-old picked it up thinking he had just procured the ideal age-enhancing, beer-purchasing disguise. I wish I woulda nabbed it, because I would be out there right now impersonating an Episcopalian minister. I'd be preaching all over hell and gone. Cash money!

I'll tell ya, though, the one thing I am glad about is that I'm way too old to acolyte for him anymore. He won't be calling me to ask me to be his crucifer or thurifer any time soon. He's probably aware that if I walked into a church, the rafters would burst into flame.

I swear that's how I blew out my L5/S1 disc - by doing all that kneeling up at the altar as a young acolyte. As a matter of fact, the first time my back went out was while I was acolyting the ten o'clock service. I was thirteen, I think. You remember how your mind used to wander when Dad was singing the eucharistic prayer and the sanctus?

"It is very meet right and our boun-de-ehen doo-hoo-ty / that we should at all times and in all places gi-hive tha-hanks unto thee / Oh Lord Holy Father / Al-migh-tee-hee eh-hev-ver-lah-ahst-ing Looooord!"

So yeah, 'bout that time my mind started to wander, and being thirteen and all, it turned to topics far more interesting than eternal salvation - subjects like Kathy Kuhns from my third period English class, and more specifically the size of her brand new boobies. Needless to say, this thought was sufficient to cause me to crack a woodie right there at the altar rail. This in turn caused me to break into a froth of terror because I knew that in just a few short stanzas, Dad was going to get to the holy holy holy part - the part where I'd have to stand up thrice and show the congregation how I'd turned my cassock into The Unholy Tent Of Prurience and Damnation. So I freaked out and tried shifting my weight from knee to knee, hoping to - hell, I don't know what - deaden the erectile nerve or something. And right then bang! my lower back gripped me with a massive spasm. It hasn't been the same since.

I know this all happened because God hates me. I'm pretty sure Jesus likes me just fine. I celebrate his birthday every year, so I think that probably means I'm a "made" guy. God, on the other hand, thinks I'm a douche for that whole boner-in-the-church deal. I can hear the conversations in heaven right now:

Jesus: "Hey Dad, Thaddeus is getting nailed for taxes on all his freelance work from last year. You think you could maybe put in a good word with the IRS - have them cut him some slack or something?"

G-D: "Thaddeus? That kid who got a boner in church? MY church? Fuck that randy little chump!"

Jesus: "Aww c'mon Dad! Just this once!"

G-D: "You know what? Just for that, I think I'm going to just go and arbitrarily fuck his shit up right now, just for hoots. [God swears, like, all the time. It's true. I know this because I was an altar boy. -Ed.] Check it out. The phone is going to ring, and when he goes to answer it, he's gonna slam his bare toe into the table leg. And then - oh man this is sweet! - when he bends over to rub it, his back is going to freak out! But wait - wait! It gets better. He's going to hobble over to the phone and pick it up, only to find out that it's the IRS - and he's getting audited! OhmiGAWD this is gonna be ossum!"

Jesus: That's some cold shit, man. You're just straight-up mean and capricious.

G-D: Of course I am! Why do you think they call me God?

Yeah, it's probably a good thing I became a nontheistic Buddhist. Otherwise I'd be going straight to hell right after I finish my coffee this morning. And if I ever pull a philosophical brodie and decide to re-church, maybe Dad and Jesus can put in a good word for me.

Cheers, and give my best to Marie.

-Thaddeus

One More Time For Us Dumb Kids

Somewhere in Pontiac Michigan, a young wordsmith ponders all the
possible spellings of the word "beeeyotch".

Greg:

Got your email describing your invention (an email which I do not count as correspondence, so you're not off the hook yet). I have just one question: ...What?!

There were many, many big words. What do they mean?

I mean - I consider myself a reasonably intelligent fellow. I wasn't raised in Shackabama or Ohiowa or anything. I was raised - just like you were - in the intellectual heart of the Detroit Megalopolis: Pontiac, Michigan. This auspicious origin, combined with the twelve score and forty sermons we endured at our father's birdy little knee[1], has endowed us with vocabularies mightier than half the tongues in Missouri. This has also enabled us to use words like uxorious and abaxial in casual conversation (with stingingly precise usage, I might add) and has made me the hero of at least one cocktail party. (Dude - I totally got laid for using the term trompe l'oiel once. For real! It was ossum! I was 20! But I digress.)

Again, I reprise my entreaty. There were many big words. Whatever do they mean? I tried reading your description of the product. I really did. But I fell asleep at about the term carbon sequestration. Then I drank a whole bunch of coffee and tried reading it again. Apparently I was still a little dim or a little impatient or a little wired offa my tits on caffeine or All Of The Above because I still didn't get it. So I eventually wound up cutting and pasting the body of the email and making a Mad-Lib out of it...the kind of Mad-Lib you'd probably make if you were a ten-year-old kid who was wired offa their tits on caffeine. Horsies!? Horsies!? Like Horsies!? I must still have some caffeine left in my system. Tic tic tic! The result of my experiment is below. Enjoy.

_______________________________________

MAD LIBZ! Product Brief Crazinesses!

The following is a description of the essential features of the [waste]product/[digestive] system. Interested [f]arties who would like to review [a three-dimensional drawr-ing of my butt] should first [sign an Oath of Alliegance to the Dark Underlord].

Keywords: hyper[kids light fires! fires! fires!], energy [d]efficiency, seis[mime] performance, fire[fire! fire! fire!]-proof, [your mom's] mold[y old underwear]-proof, [tiny, tiny bear]-proof, integrated,[segregated, delegated, masticated] whole-building, carbon sequestration [say what?], green [green is the color of my true love's hair!]

The invention is an engin[qu]eered building envel[d]ope system [so you can mail buildings to people? Neat!]intended primarily for residential building applications.

This system achieves remarkable [weiner] structural, environmental and cost efficiencies through the functional [weiner] replacement or integration of the disparate [weiner] components and meth[addeus] currently used in residential construction, [s]ex., stud [You said "sex stud"! You have a dirty mind!] framing, [s]exterior siding, [weiner] sheathing, (separate) [weiner] insulation, (separate) [weiner]ventilation, electrical [weiner] and water [weenie] supply races, and interior dryw[einer].

These features notwithstanding, the aesthetic [prosthetic kinetic] and archi[tech me on the boobies]values and appear[ants in my pants] of buildings constucted using this system ar[abbi a priest and a] completely [nun]conventional [walk into a bar].

Prior to specific inquir[ing minds want to know!], interested [f]arties should [get way]downlo[w]and read the no[-]disc[o]los[ers] document found at [h-tee-tee-pee-whack-wack-dubbadubbadubbadot-kiss-my-round-brown-bootay-dotcom].

_______________________________________

Okay, in all fairness, here's what I'll do. I'll actually try to translate all of what you sent me into English terms that everyone can understand. And then I'll put it up here so people can read it. Then they will truly understand how ossum this thing is. They'll be all, "Oh - so it's like a jelly donut that does your math homework. I get it! Sweet!" And we'll be all, "Gzakly!" See what I mean?

Cheers, and give my best to Marie.

-Thaddeus

[1] EXPLANATION FOR THE READERS: When I say "sermons", I don't mean the "how many times I gotta tell ya to look out for the cat when you're mowing the lawn ya friggin' meathead" sermon. I mean the real kind, like "In Hooteronomy twelve, in the third verse, it says he who lays down with the she-ox will blinded verily be". That kinda thing. Our Dad was an Episcopalian minister for 33 years (that's One Score and Thirteen to you Bible-ish types), so we got the dress rehearsal of every one of his sermons on Saturday, the day before it hit the pulpit. But then he converted to Judaism, and then it was all "Jew" this and "baruch" that. Half of it was in Hebrew and I couldn't understand it anyway. Besides, by then I was all grown up and out on my own. When he spoke Hebrew, I just thought all the Xanax my shrink was giving me had screwed up my ears. But now - get this - he's gonna re-up! That's right! He's re-becoming an Episcopalian! He's busting his collar outta mothballs! Stay tuned for further developments.

-TRG

It Ain't The Clapper

Greg:

Look, I know I'm supposed to keep a tight lip on what I say about your invention since it's not on the market and all. On the other hand, here you are in the same situation every inventor finds themselves in at least once: close to marketability but just shy of enough capital to get it there. I mean, c'mon, this is not some Rube Goldberg device we're talking about. It's a viable product that could do a lot of people a lot of good. It has been deemed utterly patentable by a genuine patent attorney with genuine morals. It has been computer-tested by engineers with genuine PhDs who gave it the thumbs up. It has been feasibility-tested by other folks with PhDs who know a thing or two about feasibility. They also gave it The Official Okey Dokey Stamp. Furthermore, there's probably a forlorn computer geek over on Mercer Island who cashed all his MSFT stock and is wondering what to do with that tumbleweed-size mass of c-notes that is clogging the foyer of his McMansion.

So what the hell am I going on about?

Here's the deal. We've already established that people are eavesdropping (eyedropping?) on this conversation. If some of these people knew something about your invention, they might understand exactly how ossum it is. Overcome by the brilliance of it, they might be compelled to gasp about it to two of their friends - and those two friends would tell two friends - until finally the geek on Mercer Island gets wind of it, blows that tumbleweed of cash your way, and faster than you can say cementatious admixture, you're on the market.

I also realize that by using our public correspondence as a venue for discussing something as technologically dense as your invention may create a wave of boredom that sweeps across this mighty land, causing necks to wilt and foreheads to crash into keyboards from Boston to Honolulu. That's a risk I'm willing to take. Lemme know whatcha wanna do.

Cheers, and give my best to Marie.

-Thaddeus

You'll Drink It And Like It

You can't quit the Schmidt. You jes' cain't.

Greg:

There has been a disturbing-yet-amusing development with this whole "people are reading your mail" thing. You'd think that folks would be content to sit back and watch the conversation unfold naturally with the same bemused detachment reserved for Christmas pageants and dog fights. I mean, this is after all a correspondence between you and me (save for the fact that you never ever write me back, so it's actually more like the one-way conversations people have with Baby Jesus - wait; correction: all people except psychotics). You'd think they'd be content to listen in on the party line without interrupting the conversation with a "wait - which one of you guys is Greg?" You'd think we could just serve 'em free Schmidtties right outta the Sport Pak and they'd like it. Oh mais non. That is where you'd be tres wrong.

DG reader-slash-viewer-slash-voyeur-with-an-opinion Dale Zeretzke has made it clear that he wants to hear more discourse on the topic of cognitive science. Jesus H. Gall Bladder of Christ. How do I respond to that? Considering the current forum (viz., a "private" correspondence between you and me), it's akin to having the mailman hand deliver a letter and then tell you, "Just skip to the last paragraph - the one where he confesses." Or like getting dressed and hearing a disembodied voice say, "I like the underwear you had on yesterday a lot better." Dale has gone and busted down the fourth wall on this whole thing.

But here's the unpossibly ironical part about all this. What did you say when you called yesterday? You said, "Hey - I have a cognitive science question for you" did you not? And that's exactly what I was going to talk about in this letter. So at least for know I can continue my original course without believing that I have given in to audience pressure - not just yet, anyway - and this is not the equivalent of playing "Free Bird" for the fried-to-the-hat gentleman in the second row. That said:

Your question about catatonia and whether it is a response that allows time to process information. From what I know about it, catatonia can cycle with states of extreme excitement like some sort of psychotic mania, so - yeah I know that doesn't answer your question, but I think that catatonia can be a response to acute sensitivity to both internal and external stimulus. To wit: when I was a stone cold coke freak, sometimes my thoughts were whizzing by so fast that trying to grab one and make it come out of my mouth was like trying to steal a hubcap off a moving car. I was so high and my thoughts were so frenetic, I simply could not speak. I imagine that from the outside, I appeared very calm. Likewise, I've read case studies where a person who was just on the catatonic horizon would respond to questions as though they were trying to sort out the conversation from myriad distractions, like trying to carry on a conversation in a very loud barroom. So in that case, I'd say sure - catatonia probably allows the person to limit the only stimulus that they can actually control, which is the sensations created by their own movement. Can a great deal of stimulus cause a person to shut down? Sure, take a look at a baby. Sometimes the only way to get 'em to sleep is to overstimulate 'em by putting them in the swingy-chair or the stroller...or at the controls of a loaded-for-bear P41 Mustang.

That's my free cents - or fuppence as I like to say. Take this as you will as I'm just a layperson who reads the MIT Encyclopedia of Cognitive Science for fun.

Speaking of which, it becons me even now. I'm up to h - as in homunculus.

Cheers, and give my best to Marie.

-Thaddeus

How Much For The Gall Bladder?

...and apparently if I save 35% of my income from now until retirement,
I'll be just that!

Greg:

Okay, so I finally figured out how I'm gonna die. Starvation. Here's why.

I don't know about you, but I sometimes like to torture myself with the knowledge that I have no real skills and am tripping, nay, barrelling toward doom with every passing day. All it takes is a tiny market fluctuation to give me an Eskimo-blanket-style toss right out of the job market and back to living in a Ford Maverick. That's what I get for being a writer, I guess. Everyone likes writers, but nobody needs 'em. And I know that you can relate because you made most of your career out of being a musician. Musicians and writers have pretty much the same retirement plan. Which is none. In lieu of retirement at age 65, here's what I see as the options for people like us: #1) Eat a bullet. #2) Take the gas pipe. #3) Armed burglary, followed by conviction, followed by 25 years of three squares a day served in your very own room, followed by carrying out #1 or #2 in a dank halfway house in Des Moines, Iowa. 4) Teach, followed by #1 or #2. (I'd love to teach, but being somewhat short of a degree in education, I don't think anyone is going to accept my qualifications as an itinerant dilletante.) Or #5) Participate in Great Britain's Arse for Shillings program headquartered at the docks in Liverpool (which, in and of itself is a retirement plan, if only a retirement of one's morals).

Why the glum ruminations? I just got done using the retirement calculator on the Vanguard website and it's telling me that I'm gonna have to save up $3.5 million in the next 25 years in order to retire. Which brings me to my next question. Is it possible to sell your organs to science while you're still alive? I'm not talking about signing up for medical experiments. I mean something like - oh I don't know - selling your gall bladder to the Chinese, or selling your venom glands to the Malaysians. If you could do that, you'd make a ton of dough in the short run and probably save at least one member of an endangered species to boot. And if I can't sell my whole gall bladder because it turns out that I need it for something, do you suppose I might be able to shave bits off of it and sell those? It'll grow back, right?

Another thing occurred to me and that is there is another direction to go with this whole retirement thing. Instead of amassing property and capital, one could reasonably de-mass property and capital. For instance, if I got rid of the six-acre apartment, the dog sitter, the housekeeper, the solid-gold 500 mph T1 line, the satellite, and the luxury of being able to urinate indoors, I bet I could save a wad. Let's see, if I add all the - (...that's sixteen thirty eight plus fifty five...carry the twelve...subtract pi...add overhead...subtract underpants...divide overcoats...subtract the other pi...) - crap, that'll never work. That's only a savings of something like eighty quid nine shillings tuppence a month. Maybe if I had a skill, I might even be able to throw myself a yurt on a potter's wheel using common garden clay.

If you have any great retirement schemes, I would be glad to hear 'em. I'm not above breaking the law (depending on which law, of course) or dipping my hand into the Republican money stream - which, come to think of it, is probably breaking the law.

Cheers, and give my best to Marie.

-Thaddeus

My Ass Will Not Be Moved

Dr. Brian Graham (above, vertical) demonstrates
correct clinical procedure for the frontal suplex
while simultaneously claiming the WWF
Championship Belt.

Greg:

The diagnosis on my lower spine is in. The word is that I suffer from White Man's Disease. Viz., my ass does not move. In the words of Fatboy Slim, "If dis don't make yo' booty move, you booty mus' be daid". It's true, Fatboy. My booty don't move. It mus' be daid.

Here's how I found all this out. I told you before 'bout how I went and got an MRI and the sports med doctor (Dr. John Robertson who is ossum, by the way) told me that I had a bulge in my L5/S1 disc. Then they told me that they were gonna put weed in my spine to make it stop hurting. Then I went to my chiro (Dr. Brian Graham) and he said "Don't let 'em put weed in your spine, man!" So I say, "Okay, do your worst." So what does he do? He tells me he's gonna give me an adjustment, and then he climbs up on top of the third turnbuckle and does a full-frontal Haystack Calhoun body drop on me. Then he finishes it off with a vertical suplex and a whip-cracking roundhouse to my serratus anterior. I hear my spine go BANG! After that, all is blackness.

When I awoke, there was NO PAIN AT ALL! Dr. Graham had hammered the Love of Baby Jesus directly into my lower spine! And everyone knows that the Love of Baby Jesus is at least 200 times stronger than weed.

First I must say this. I don't believe - per se - in chiropractic. It's not because I think it's a lot of hooey - I don't. I just don't understand how it works. That doesn't stop me from going, though. There's something very weird and satisfying about some guy torquing on you until your joints make a mammoth crunching sound. It's kinda like paying somebody to crack your knuckles for you. Although it has been explained to me a bazillion times, I still don't get how it works. However, I certainly cannot argue with the results I am currently enjoying. Likewise, I would be more than happy to pay Dr. Graham handsomely to wave a chicken leg at my back if it would relieve the pain.

So I went back to Dr. Robertson who said, "Hey man, whatever works." And I said, "You're tellin' me Whatever works. Whatever works like a charm. I'm gonna have Dr. Graham Whatever me right into Palookaville!"

Dr. Robertson did go over my MRI with me, however. It was kinda cool to get to see the inside of my spine. I got to see the bulge in the disc - which is teeny tiny - as well as another herniation higher up which is much larger. It's on the outside of the disc so I don't ever notice it, so that's nice, I guess. Anyway, that is how I learned that my booty don't move. This is how it happened. Y'see, decades of languishing on a barstool caused the disc to become very sad. Then it dried out, compacted and became immobile. It's kinda like Brian Wilson, just laying there in bed all depressed for years, not wanting to do a goddamn thing, just grumpy as hell. And I'm kinda like Sparky Wilson, the Happy Wilson, the one who comes along after all those years and wants to go out and play. So now I'm like, "Hey Disky, wanna do The Twist?" And he's like, "Fkoff." And then I'm like, "Hey Disky, wanna go hike all over hell and gone?" And he's all, "Fuh-period-koff-period." So finally I'm sayin', "Hey Disky, wanna bend over so I can pick my underwear up off the floor?" And then he's totally, "Oh now you really must FKOFF!" And then he stabs me as hard as he can. And then I weep. It's a very difficult relationship.

There is an upside, though. The fact that the disc is about 90% hard means that it most likely doesn't have the elasticity to allow it to bulge further. So I can't see how it can get any worse. You take what good news that you can, y'know?

And speaking of good news, it's time to go home! Yeepaw! I'm going to move my non-moving ass out of this office for the day.

Cheers, and give my best to Marie.

-Thaddeus

Your Wife Says You Snore Like An Oil RefineryPLUS: Chris Marshall!

Chris Marshall: shown actual size.

Greg:

First off, ossum email from Marie. I got it this morning. Nice to know that you still sleep on your back, mouth agape, emitting noises not unlike Bessie Smith trying to gargle a walrus. It sounds like you never got that adenoid pruning that you so parsimoniously saved up for all those years.

I have only a short moment to dash this off. I have work today. So much work. This evening I get trounced by the wrestling saddhus. I borrowed a piece of Silly Putty from one of my co-workers, and I'm beginning to believe that it would make the perfect replacement material for my L5 disc. Maybe I can just get Teresa to pry my vetebrae apart with a 12-inch Kitchen Chef and have her jam some of that Silly Putty in there. Might save a lot of money and put the bounce back in my step post-haste.

All that aside, and in the interest of time, let me introduce you to Chris Marshall here and now, the one and only reader to be featured in this letter. Chris and I used to work at Atom together. Now he is the Master and Commander of the design firm Simple Machine. If the copy on their site sounds familiar, it should. I wrote it.

This short anecdote will explain what I know of Chris Marshall. He and I used to work with probably the most repugnant French girl the world has ever known. He happened to mention to her in passing that he lived on Lower Queen Anne. The very next day, she stopped by his desk and completely out of nowhere exploded with derision for his neighborhood. [Insert Clouseau-esque chevre-loads of French accent here:] "I went to Lowair Queen Anne last night. Eet eez a terrible place! Zere eez nothing to do! Zee coffee eez terrible!"

Chris just looked at her blankly and said, "Are you flirting with me?"

Also of note is the fact that Chris drove The Most Raggedy VW Ghia In Existence (as determined by the Adolf Porsche Institute) for at least umpteen years, and only recently divested himself of it in favor of a new-ish Mini Cooper. So why the switch? "As grand as that vehicle was to own," he says, "it lacked a few modern day necessities such as but not limited to: anti-lock brakes, brakes altogether (at one point), heat, defroster, power steering, seat belts that weren't scary, a back seat, airbags, and last but not least - paint."

That's Chris in a nutshell. And now here's the Man Himself to explain things even further. Hit it!

What do they call you back home? Marshall, king of the brave, commander of imagination.

What do you...uh...do? I make pretty pretty pictures, and say no a bunch. Sometimes I wear pants and go to the office.

What would you like to know about Greg? How many angles (sic) can fit on the head of a pin? Do I scare you?HOW BOUT NOW!!! (You scared me at "hello". -Ed.)

What would you like Greg to know about you? I have no birthmark, wisdom teeth, and was born over-developed. At the ripe age of 11, I flew a Mooney M20 from San Diego to Paris. I ran for senate in Manhattan and was later spoofed by Ralph Fiennes in a stupid maid movie. I've edited books "Dinosaurs of the World" and"The Cricketers' Who's Who". I beat people up every day, sometimes twice. I can't find an alarm that works better than my own mind. I'm not afraid to attack at any moment. I was raised by wolves. I kill indiscriminately. (It's true. You should see him go to town with a flyswatter. -Ed.) I once kicked Chuck Norris' ass, so watch yourself!! (To be fair, Chuck Norris' ass was quite old and was on its way to the glue factory anyway. -Ed.) I'm not to be trifled with.

Isn't it ossum on a hot summer night when you put your arm underneath your pillow and it's still all cold under there, like some kinda"coldness magic"? (ossum is as ossum does )

Cheers, and give my best to Marie.

-Thaddeus

No Weed For My Back, Man!PLUS: 30% More Readers!

Fig. 1 - Our Great Uncle,
Knackered MacVertebrae:
Aigh, me fookin' baack! Think
I'll just sit me'se'f doon an' read fer a wee.

Greg:

Ouch. Not just ouch - fuckin' ouch. I had an MRI done on my lower spine because it's been bitching at me for quite some time now, and lo and behold I have a bulged disc between my L5-S1 vertebrae. So they says to me they says, "Hey - we got this stuff we can shoot in there that'll make the pain in your spine go away. I'ts kinda like weed for your back, man!" So I said, "Groovy!" But then I decided to get a second opinion and the other doc said, "Don't put weed in your back, man! You're old and it'll dissolve your chi! Bussides, just because you got a bulged disc, man, doesn't mean that's the source of the pain, ya dig? What you need is for me and my crew of saddhus to put you in a full nelson and torque you until you scream 'Nirvana'!" So I said, "Far out! Sign me up!"

I know you have had lower back problems, and our Dad had 'em. And probably everybody else in our family had bad backs stretching back to the day when our first Scottish ancestor, Brannoch McForeskin or whatever his name was, broke his ass on a rock when he landed in the Hebrides. (Okay - I know it wasn't Brannoch McForeskin. That was actually my friend Jim McForeskin's ancestor. It was Gunnar Olafsen, son of Olaf the Black of Norway, and more specifically, William Gunn who was Gunnar's son. Oh yeah, and whoever that Pictish woman was that Gunnar "married". Great thing about Scottish ancestry: tall tree, but not too many branches.) Even your wife Marie has had a really serious back problem. Hey, do you think she caught it from you, man? Trippy! Anyway, I wonder whether the whole spinal thing is a genetic issue, or whether it's a neurotic issue, or whether it's a karma resonating down through the ages and jamming itself right up my bum. I may never know. And even knowing might not make it stop.


Fig. 2 - Our Great Grand Cousin,
Aiken MacEverybone:
Aigh, me fookin' baack! Mebbe
if I scratch me arse on this menhir,
it wi' prrovide soom rrelief!

So I'm thinkin' that this is probably a good time to reflect on the first thing that introduced me to the dharma, which was something in the book The Art of Happiness by the Dalai Lama. It was the notion that pain was something that comes with the territory if you have a nervous system, but suffering was an emotional choice that you make about your pain. That idea right there was the bell that woke me up to the Four Noble Truths, even though it wasn't being presented as part of them at the time.

The bad thing about pain is that it freakin' makes you tired, man! Tired! Even when I make an emotional choice about it other than freaking out, I still get tired. Cheebus H. Rice, it's a lot of work to hurt all the time. But just like The Big D said, pain can also draw you closer to others who suffer. When I'm in pain, more and more often I find myself thinking about kids who have had their L5 shot right the hell off in Afghanistan or Iraq or wherever. And it's not that it makes me think, wow, I don't have it so bad. It's that it makes me understand life on the whole as something other than just what's happening inside my head and my body right now. Just moving my pain into that greater context goes a very long way to reducing it. So yeah, more empathy, no weed. Bring on the wrestling saddhus.

Meet Tami Fairweather!


The Fairweather family reunion, c. 1952.

I used to work with Tami at AtomFilms during the dot com boom. We were both intoxicated with the belief that yes, you really could make millions of $$ by playing short films on the InterWeb for free. And we also believed that we would one day cash in all our stock options for solid gold rocket cars and fistfuls of really expensive candy. Man were we way off. So at the "It All Went In The Shitter" party that we had at the end of Atom's heyday, I explained to Tami that no matter how good a person's intentions might be, former co-workers simply never get together when they said they would, they eventually lose contact completely, and this would probably be the last she ever saw of me. Six years later, I still sign all my correspondence to her with "Goodbye Forever".

What do they call you back home? Stormy, Tamilicious, Ms. Forkwrangler, Stormfront.

What do you...uh...do? Lately I've been keeping slightly under the radar, only exposing myself to the peeps that mean something special to me. (I'm honored! -Ed.) And those that I won't see ever again, like Thaddeus. (Whoah! Excellent burn! -Ed.) I think this is due to the fact that career-wise I have to be really nice and social all the time, so my off time is more of a muted color palette. However, I'm a helluva lot of fun and very loyal to the important people.

What would you like to know about Greg? Do you have any baggage (good or bad) from being raised in the mysterious Gunn family? (Oh sweet Jesus, don't even crack the seal on that one! -Ed.) Also, is the current Thaddeus your favorite? As a witness to all past versions of Thaddeus, if you could bring one of them back, which one would it be? (Please not the one with the hair. -Ed.)

What would you like Greg to know about you? I'm really excited that The Electric Company is out on DVD.

Isn't it ossum on a hot summer night when you put your arm underneath your pillow and it's still all cold under there, like some kinda "coldness magic"? It's not only ossum on a hot summer night, it's ossum year-round. I'm not a fan of the way-to-fuzzy (whether t-shirt of flannel) sheets that serve like roller-skate brakes on various body parts as you toss n turn through the night. (Flannel chafing is the #1 cause of death among Canadians. -Ed.)

Meet Your Sister-In-Law Teresa!


Small but mighty! This woman can kick your ass before you
even stand up.

What do they call me at home? (Honey let me answer this one. I call her a lot of stuff that 't'ain't even English. Nor is it Togalog or Basayan or Illacano. It's all loving, mind you. But other than that it just ain't. -Ed.)

What do I do? I get paid to break stuff. Honestly! (She's a software breaker...uhh...tester. -Ed.)

What I would like to Greg to know about me - Don't slap my face - just a friendly warning. (Even if he's challenging you to a duel? -Ed.)

Isn't it ossum... - Just as long as the temp doesn't drop down below myaccepted temp range so that I don't have to wear my scowl insurance to bed. (Since she spent most of her life in California and Hawaii, Teresa can withstand a wide range of temperatures, like from 68F to 71F. -Ed.)

Meet Mark Keeney!


That's not the "mahalo" sign he's making.
It's ASL for "I've broken both my legs and
my ass is freezing".


Fresh from the monkey farm: Keeney's offspring Alex (L) and
Griffing (R).

Keeney works over there (he said, indicating the other side of the floor over by where I could hit Tyler Hill with a stick, were my arm mighty enough to blast it through four walls of concrete). What he does over there I have no idea, other than it partially involves asking me to write stuff, and partially involves a small flask of tequila that disappears bit by bit every day. Oh yeah, and he does stuff with math that makes my head whirl so I try not to look. You can't tell in the picture, but he's like 6-foot-a hundred. If the Space Needle were a hoop, he could still dunk.

OTHER VERY IMPORTANT NOTE ABOUT KEENEY: Were it not for the fact that he once said "you oughtta have a blog" (after which I asked him "what the hell is a blog"), this blog would not exist. He is Keeney the Kreator.

What do they call you back home? Keeney…if you called me by first I wouldn’t know to turn around.

What do you...uh...do? By weekday I propagate more grey hairs in my mane by performing in a reality show sans the cameras. At night and weekends I construct elaborate railways on the island of Sodor, investigate the subtle differences between a Pteranodon and Pterdactyl, construct forts out of pillows, crank up the Gorillaz and do the funky chicken (er Tofu-Chicken), plant the seeds of passion for Husky basketball, and sit back and watch my two monkeys grow before my very eyes. (It's true. He's a monkey farmer. But not real monkeys - the hairless kind that humans give birth to. -Ed.)

What would you like to know about Greg? What accent do you have? Coffee or Tea? Ale or Lager? Dairy or Soy? Do you have a sports franchise obsession like your brother? If so, what team/sport? (Only if the sport is tuba, and only if the team is the London Philharmonic. -Ed.) If you had to pick one type of cuisine to eat for the rest of your life, what would that be? (Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! I know this one! It's peanut butter, banana and mayonnaise sandwiches! It's like a heart attack between to slices of bread! But what a way to go! -Ed.)

What would you like Greg to know about you? I once saw Jethro Tull perform at Ephesus, Turkey. (Not really a fan at all, but how often do you get to see an aging 70’s rocker jam on a flute on one leg like a flamingo at the supposed birthplace of Mary?) The real bummer was James Brown was supposed to perform but at that time couldn’t leave the USA on account of a little PCP, outrunning cops, and socking his then wife.

Isn't it ossum on a hot summer night when you put your arm underneath your pillow and it's still all cold under there, like some kinda "coldness magic"? When have we had a hot summer night? (He has a point. We are in Seattle, after all. -Ed.)

Cheers, and give my best to Marie.

-Thaddeus

A Whole New Way In Which I Suck. PLUS: Meet More Readers!

If I were the 20-year-old Pablo Neruda,
it would be almost impossible for
me to suck.

Greg:

If there's one thing I shouldn't do, it's read. Reading only uncovers new and multifarious ways in which I suck. Take the book I picked up this morning, A Gentleman Pens A Note by John Bridges and Bryan Curtis. It's part of my collection of writing references. I'm a writer. Did you know that? But I'm not just any kind of writer. I'm a copywriter. I get paid positively scads of money to write compelling two- and three-word directives that get consumers to snap up things they probably don't need. Hell, simply writing the words "download now" nets me about $12.50. I've got the sweetest gig in the universe.

Now back to what I was saying about how I suck...

Bridges and Curtis, through several excellent examples, get across a very simple point. Good note writing lies in thinking about the other person. For instance, if you forgot to send a thank you note for something you got last year, their rule of thumb is that it's never too late to say thank you. "Every time I pick up the 'Kats R Krazy' mug you got me for Hannukah '03, I always get a laugh and think of your smiling face..." You don't say, "Man, I'm so sorry I'm late sending this. I'm such a douche. You're so generous - and me? Well, I don't deserve to draw a breath." The latter is about you, you and only you, and not just that, but what a dunce you are. It's as though you're trying to let everyone know that life is an unfolding drama with you as the central character. That's no way to say thank you, now is it?

Which brings me to this blog, which is about me, no matter how much I'd like it to be about you. Ergo, by the aforementioned standards of etiquette set by Mssrs. Bridges and Curtis, I suck. Although this blog is called "Dear Gregory", at a glance one can see that it's mostly about how I suck at Buddhism, how ghey I am for the football, and how I'm a hack who spends his ill-gotten wealth on overpriced PataGucci hiking schwag.

Forgive me. There should be more in this blog about the person who inspires it. It's worthwhile to note that I write these letters to you because I know that you "get it", not because we're related, but because you and I have a unique attunement and understanding others might describe as "shared comorbid neurotic eustress". I must also say that I shy away from bringing up things that you may or may not want out there for public consumption, like details about your brilliant invention [understandably classified], or your address [transient], or your bass-playing acuity [wicked!] which is currently being rented by a country western band [harsh!].

Most recurrent among comments that I have received while writing this blog is the question of whether you're a real person or not, which only underscores the fact that I don't write enough to you, and write far too much at you. So drop me a note, wouldja, and let me know what's fair game and what's not.

In the meantime, dig your crazy readers, man!

Meet Peter Darchuk!


Darchuk is not a unicorn, but he plays one on TV.

Peter Darchuk currently does something or other for Disney, a job for which he can scarcely conceal his loathing. Given his druthers, I'm sure he would sooner skin cats in a Mexican rendering plant (without the benefit of union representation, even) than continue doing whatever he does for The Mouse.

Alas, his job does supply him with a "connection" to the "industry" which he "milks" for all it's "worth". He's a writer, but not the bad kind like me. He's the good kind, the kind that creates works both authentic and unique, that - speaking of egregious unfairness - do not make him dime one. See for yourself.

Darchuk is also the auteur who brought you "Danny Nutter's Tips For Livin'" and The Idjit's Bible.

Meet Tyler Hill!


L to R: Tyler Hill, Tyler Hill, Sara Hill, Tyler Hill.

I could probably hit Tyler Hill with a stick right now - if he were sitting at his desk, and if my arm were mighty enough to blast it through four walls worth of concrete. Perhaps it is, come to think of it. I'm going to shut up and let him talk while I go out and try to find a stick.

What do they call you back home? Tyler, or Ty (if they are feeling monosyllabic). College buddies refer to me by a wide variety of names ranging from Spongeboy to the General.

What do you...uh...do? I'm a graphic designer and occasional illustrator. But, generally I ramble about the board game I'm designing, or how I'm going to make a comic book one day.

What would you like to know about Greg? I think its important that I remain ignorant about Greg.

What would you like Greg to know about you? Recently, I put my quarter-life crisis behind me, and kicked off my third-life crisis by getting a tattoo of a bee. I'm boarderline phobic of both bees and needles, so the event has tons of symbolic meaning that I don't like to focus on too much for fear of it moving from "symbolic" to "trite."

Isn't it ossum on a hot summer night when you put your arm underneath your pillow and it's still all cold under there, like some kinda "coldness magic"? (yes/no) Definitely "cold magic." My wife and I just switched the sheets at our apartment from Winter Mode™ (flannel) to Spring mode™ (cotton), so its all about the cool sheets these days.

(And speaking of Cool Sheet, you should go read Tyler's blog! -Ed.)

Meet Elizabeth Rogers!


L to R: Elizabeth in Australia; Another sign of the impending
apocalypse; Elizabeth at 6,000 ft., above Lake Angeles.

What does Elizabeth do? Well, in her own words she: "...wrangle(s) a bunch of highly intelligent, energetic and crazy people with very short attention spans.

What?

I said I wrangle a bunch of highly intelligent, energetic and crazy people -

Ice cream! Ice cream! Ice cream!

- with very short atten -

Look, birds! I have a dirty hand!

- tion spans.

Can you roll your tongue like this - llyyaaaaayyyllyyyaaaaahhhh?

Thaddeus! Settle down!

Okay, I will. Now what was that first part?

I wrangle a bunch...

Do you like busketti?

LET ME FINISH!

...ok...

Ahem. I wrangle a bunch of highly intelligent, energetic and crazy people with very short attention spans. You know, creative types. During office hours I am their leader which means I mostly channel the collective energy and creative tidal wave towards good instead of evil and remind people to go to recess and write blogs when things are leaning towards the dark side. When I am not at work, I basically hole myself up with lots of sharp tools and yards of fabric. Occasionally stopping to cook and run amok in the great outdoors.

What would you like to know about Greg? What is it like to be Beethoven, Napoleon Dynamite, and Thomas Edison all at the same time. AND how in God's name is that combination possible with the massive amounts of weed you are reported to have grown, refined and ingested over the years? (CLARIFICATION: Greg was not the weed-growing brother. In high school, he only smoked his tuba. She has you confused with the brothers we refer to as "John" and "Tom". -Ed.)

Coldness Magic? YES.

Cheers, and give my best to Marie.

-Thaddeus

Meetez-Vous les Readers, Part 3

Thich Nhat Hanh is probably not reading your mail.

Greg:

So I'm goin' through some things - life stuff, existential stuff, anger stuff, try-not-to-choke-the-living-shit-out-of-person-x. stuff, knowwhatI'msayin'? - and my wife gets me a book by Thich Nhat Hanh (you know him - short fellah, Vietnamese, spiritual behemoth, Nobel Prize nominee) which is titled The Heart of the Buddha's Teaching. She thinks that given my current psuedo-crisis it might contain something that might do me some good. Long story short it's supposed to be a treatise on the Four Noble Truths and how they can be applied to human suffering. You know, some light reading. Or so I thought. In truth this book makes the Principia Mathematica look like Go Dog Go!

So homey-san breaks open 84,000 dharma dams and tries to flood my white ass with oceans of the nectar of enlightenment, causing me to gurgle a resounding "whuh the fuh?" He cross-references so many Buddhist texts both modern and ancient that I have never even heard of that I just throw my flippers skyward and bleat like a manatee. I figure this book will go down in my personal history alongside precalculus, women, microwave ovens, the square root of negative 1, and Every Other Thing I Will Never Understand.

I am as dumb as a trout, I swear. Either I have to circle back to lesson 1 in Buddhism for Dharma-Tards or I have to read a lot more. Or I have to go to the Zendo in Tacoma. I hear this "Zen" thing has a lot of "nothing" in it, so how tough can the required reading be, huh?

Anyway, I'll let you know how that all works out. In the meantime, enjoy three more heapin' helpin's of your public.

Meet Randy Hughes!


A Google search for "Randy Hughes"
returns the image of this rather
dashing fellow, who is not the
Randy Hughes I know. At least I
think not, unless he's putting 10W40
in his hair nowadays.

Hughes consistently wins Best Teacher In The Universe accolades each year from the Gunn Institute. And he shall do so until I cack. He was my history teacher in high school, is still a high school history teacher (with a brief hiatus in the Iowa legislature), and to this day has not flown into a single murderous rage over the neverending shenanigans of his herd of adolescents. I cannot say the same of myself. Perhaps I shall tell you where the bodies are buried in a future correspondence.

What do they call you back home? Among the many things I am called are: RJ, Randa, Scooter, Baby Doll, Mr. Hughes, Huge, (Mr. Huges is not large, by the way. -Ed.), Current Resident, Sir, and The Old Guy Who Introduces The Wrestlers.
What do you...uh...do? Pretty much whatever I want. (It's true. I saw him give citizenship to a hobo once. Naturalized him right there on the floor of the legislature, in front of Gawd and everybody. -Ed.) Additionally, perform all manner of nutritional functions, share-cook-clean perform other household tasks, walk-run-jump -roll over-irritate the sox of most authority figures; live vicariously precariously, tread gently, cry at Field of Dreams and I mean every time, wish that Jeb Bartlett and his staff ran the country.
What would you like to know about Greg? How is he?

Meet Sally Hamshaw!


Sally's got sauce - and she's not afraid to use it!


Pictured: the shack where she stores her excess
sauce in the winter.

Whether you call her Sally or Pony or Who's The Girl With That Certain Jeanie Say Kwaz, she's got sauce. Buckets of sauce. Way too much sauce for Silverdale, WA which is where she now lives with her (no doubt long-suffering) boyfriend. She wants to know where you live, if you're like me, and if you're gay. Regarding that last part, I don't know if she means gay as in jovial, gay as in homo, gay as in heaumeaux, or gay as in Thaddeus, when did you go all ghey for the football? I suggest you ask your wife.

In her own words: I'm a Seattlite, born & raised with a few living stints in Bellingham in a feminist house that didn't allow men, meat or cigarettes indoors, and I've also lived in Chelan 3 times ~ one of those times (the first one) provided me with my high school diploma and my first lesbian experience. And she had the coolest birthmark....oh wait, I've gone too far.

Meet Barbara Pritchard!


Normally a sharp and clear-headed
individual, Barbara occasionally becomes
befuddled and answers the stapler.

I've known Barbara Pritchard since the turn of the century, or Ought Ought as we old-timers refer to it. That's when I freaked out and realized that I had known Barbara since '87. She worked for the legendary C/Z Records back then, and I worked for KJET and had an 18-inch platinum blonde mohawk. It was a simpler time in Seattle. Lattes were only $17.50. Bill Gates had not yet moved to Medina. And you could still pee on or near the floor at the Central Tavern while getting drunk on or near The Fastbacks or The Young Fresh Fellows.

In all of that time, I have never once seen Barbara freak out. By comparison, everyone else I know, including me, has freaked out at least 36^5 times. This is impressive considering the fact that Barbara has done stuff like manage projects that involve having to motivate sluggards like myself. Sluggards exactly like me. Okay - me. She should also be canonized for helping me pass my programming classes. So when you think of Barbara, think of a giant slice of calm floating in a lake of serenity surrounded by a raging brushfire made of craziness. Nowadays she works for Smashing Ideas, a bunch of very nice creative people who continue to hire me for freelance work, regardless of the blazing mediocrity of my copywriting.

Her advice to you? In her own words: Please tell Gregory that it’s not the squirrels nor is it Bambi he needs to worry about. If there’s marmots around keep your boots on.

If John Muir had taken that advice, he'd be alive today!

Cheers, and give my best to Marie.

-Thaddeus

Meet The Readers! Part Deux

Greg:

I prolly oughtta explain that I started this whole "Meet The Readers" thing by sending out a list of four questions to the whole "Dear Gregory" email list. I thought I should "prime the pump" as it were and give people a place to start if they were going to tell me something about themselves.

Oh yeah. And I prolly oughtta explain that there's a whole "Dear Gregory" email list. Greg? There's a whole "Dear Gregory" email list. (There, I explained it.)

So anyways, here are two more honest-to-Church flesh-and-bone people who peep at your mail.

Meet Dave Crawford!


A Google search of the term "Dave Crawford" returns
this image, whereas...


...a kindly-worded email to Dave Crawford returns
this image.

Dave and I went to high school together in Creston, Iowa way back before the InterWeb was invented. If we wanted to surf porn on the InterWeb back then (and believe me, we wanted to), we had to do it the old fashioned way. We had to carve it ourselves out of birch. After graduation, he went and circled the globe and came back. I left and never returned.

I can't possibly top what Dave had to say on his completed questionnaire, so I'll just let him speak for himself - which he does, very well.

What do they call you back home? Crawdad.

What do you...uh...do? Drink beer, ride my Harley and shove Snopes down my relatives' throats by responding all. I lure young women to my hot tub and ply them with alcohol. I killed a gopher with a stick once. (And he also makes music, which you can listen to here. Not the dead gopher. I mean Dave. -Ed.)

What would you like to know about Greg? Why don't you ever write? PCs go both ways (as do some of the hicks here in Bumfuck --- so I've read).

What would you like Greg to know about you? (Please, I draw the line at descriptions of birthmarks.) I know a million jokes on almost any subject. Some of them are funny, like this one: Two muffins are baking in an oven and the first one says "Man, it's hot in here", to which the second replies "Whoa, a talking muffin". I used to be a yuppie but now I scoff at them. Life is too short.

Isn't it ossum on a hot summer night when you put your arm underneath your pillow and it's still all cold under there, like some kinda "coldness magic"? (yes/no) Yes; on particularly balmy nights I may flip the pillow several times to take advantage of the newly-cooled outer edges. The older I get the more appreciative of the thermostat I've become even though I have friends who are all "outdoorsy" and like to camp in the yard or keep their bedroom windows open even when it's obviously the wrong choice. You can die outside. I checked Snopes on that one.

Meet your brother Tom!


Not pictured: rocket launcher, murderously enraged hell-hounds,
beautiful daughters.

Long on brass, short on words, and more gold teeth than an Incan mummy: What are three things that describe our brother Tom, Alex? Ding ding ding! It's a Daily Double!

Your (or our, if you count me) brother Tom has a farm - e i e i o - on which he apparently raises opinions, then slaughters and butchers them for consumption on the Web. Think I'm lyin'? Take a look at his blog.

Now for his almost koan-like to-the-point answers to the questionnaire:

What do they call you back home? Define "Home" white boy.
What do you...uh...do? What do you ah do?
What would you like to know about Greg? What's "like" got to do with it?
What would you like Greg to know about you? (Please, I draw the line at descriptions of birthmarks.) Second verse, same as the first. (Readers: at this point, you fully understand Tom. You really, really do. Watch, he's gonna use the term "nukkin futs" pretty soon. I guarantee it. -Ed.)
Isn't it ossum on a hot summer night when you put your arm underneath your pillow and it's still all cold under there, like some kinda "coldness magic"? (yes/no) Are you nukkin futs? (Bingo! -Ed.) That's what they make AC for. Everybody knows it's cold under your pillow because that's where the ghosts live.

Man, this stuff is easy. It practically writes itself! And that's because it does!

There will be more soon. Much, much more. In the meantime, cheers and give my best to Marie.

-Thaddeus

Meet The Readers! Part 1

Greg:

A short while ago I wrote you a letter titled People Are Reading Your Mail (or something to that effect). Well to prove that point, I'd like to introduce you to a couple of flesh-and-blood humans who actually eavesdrop (eyedrop?) on your correspondence. And speaking of eavesdropping, one of these guys actually works for the government. Not our government, mind you - that other government, the one that puts the "B" in BBC. Now then:

Meet Luke Keen!


Keen - Before

Keeno, Dukester, Lukem Dukem or Scrote. This dashing young denizen of London answers to 'em all. Keen wins his bread from The Beeb (BBC), albeit only scanty handfuls of it owing to it being a government post. Therefore, he is forced to supplement his income by going down to the docks each night to participate in England's Arse for Cash program, which is considerably more popular than the US Food for Oil program. (Keen points out that the term "arse for cash" is also a euphemism for selling things on eBay, and that he unfortunately has no oil to trade to the US. Well, not much anyway, other than what's already in the kitchen. -Ed.)


Keen - After

In his own words: "I regularly disappoint myself and working for the world best broadcaster (the BBC) does little to alter that opinion. I think I'm a funny bastard, who's wasted talents strangle me and drag down into the deepest darkest recesses of emotional despair, and I'm too lazy/ lacking in self confidence to pull myself out of it. If I could get a job as Devil's Advocate, I would smash it! I live in London, and love the place to bits!! It totally rocksaws!"

Keen is the genuine article, a stand-up guy with real wit and talent (musical and otherwise) which you can get a taste of right here in his blog.

Matt Meat Lange!


Paging Mister Bag! Mister D. Bag!

Everbody calls Lange "Douchebag", which is the self-same sobriquet he distributes widely upon his fellow man. He is employed, if by "employed" you mean "freelancing" - and if by "freelancing" you mean "unemployed". He is a designer by trade, if "by trade" you mean "something to tell chicks in bars so they don't think they're gonna go home with an unemployed guy". He smokes and has at least two thumbs.

What else can I say about Lange, other than he left the writing of this mini-bio entirely up to my malicious caprice? He's the outdoorsy type - snowboards, hikes, pees in the yard - that sort of thing. He recently had a very heated conversation on the phone with his sister which I overheard. As I recall, it came up just short of "I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU WITH MY BARE HANDS!", and it was over something like "who fuckin' drank the last of the fuckin' Sunny Delite?!!". I saw them together after that on Chinese New Year. They were all smiles, and no one was dead.

He's from Buffalo, and is therefore and enormous Bills fan - which in turn means that he is filled with the kind of hope usually reserved for the people who maintain a constant vigil for the Escape Ships that will land Any Day Now.

That's all the introductions I have for now, but owing to my calculations (and the distribution list for this blog), I have about three hundred seventy nine more people for you to meet.

Cheers, and give my best to Marie.

-Thaddeus