Sunday, May 30, 2010


Really? No one knows of an old timey word that is to "telephone" as "telly" is to "television set"?

You... you... people. And that is an insult, yes.

Monday, May 24, 2010

Frogs on Crack

Here's a snippet of a story I wrote today. It's all I wrote, and I don't really have anywhere to go with it. Also, I don't have anything else to post on my blog at the moment. So here you go.

    They say that VCR rental stores are dying because the world has moved on in the age of high-speed internet and flat screen blu ray players. This would explain why the "Big Mike's" video store of Green Peak, Maine, was still going strong.
    I parked the truck in one of seven or eight spots outside the store and got out. The parking lot was old and bare, like a perverse combination of a war zone with the world of commercialism and concrete. I suppose some people would call it folksy. 
    As I swung open the glass door, a few old leaves skittered away in random hops and jumps, like frogs on crack. I stepped on one and tracked it into the store, but I didn't waste time wiping my boots. I had no doubt that I'd improved the decor. It could have been my good deed for the day, if I hadn't quit the boy scouts to get away from that junk.
    I headed to the thriller section and had just discovered that all the "recent releases" were two years old when I realized something: everyone in the store was looking at me.
    There were quite a few of them. Like I said, the video store was the best source of entertainment around. I could see an old couple by the romance, some creepy looking fat nerd by the sci-fi, an old military dude in the back, and three middle-aged ladies who look strangely similar checking out. Given that this was a small town in Maine, I would have thought that the inhabitants would have made a larger effort not to look like they all crawled out of a Stephan King novel.
    I grabbed a copy of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. I might be able to stand this summer if I had Harrison Ford to help me through it.

My main character turned out to be more of a cranky whiner than I expected at first. He'd probably turn out to be alright if we got to know him better. But we won't. So... yeah.

Sunday, May 23, 2010


In a post a while back, I accidentally used the word "Telly" to refer to a telephone. I'm fairly certain that it's used exclusively as slang for a television set. That's what I get for posting a first draft, I guess. I wonder if there is an old-fashioned word for the telephone? It seems like there is, but I can't think of what it could be.

Sunday, May 16, 2010

The East Wing

Here's a story by Saki, one of my favorite authors, courtesy of the intellectual property laws that have made all works by Saki public domain.

The East Wing

by Saki (H. H. Munro)


IT was early February and the hour was somewhere about two in the morning. Most of the house-party had retired to bed. Lucien Wattleskeat had merely retired to his bedroom where he sat over the still vigorous old-age of a fire, balancing the entries in his bridge-book. They worked out at seventy-eight shillings on the right side, as the result of two evenings' play, which was not so bad, considering that the stakes had been regrettably low.

Lucien was a young man who regarded himself with an undemonstrative esteem, which the undiscerning were apt to mistake for indifference. Several women of his acquaintance were on the look-out for nice girls for him to marry, a vigil in which he took no share.

The atmosphere of the room was subtly tinged with an essence of tuberose, and more strongly impregnated with the odour of wood-fire smoke. Lucien noticed this latter circumstance as he finished his bridge-audit, and also noticed that the fire in the grate was not a wood one, neither was it smoking.

A stronger smell of smoke blew into the room a moment later as the door opened, and Major Boventry, pyjama-clad and solemnly excited, stood in the doorway.

"The house is on fire!" he exclaimed.

"Oh," said Lucien, "is that it? I thought perhaps you had come to talk to me. If you would shut the door the smoke wouldn't pour in so."

"We ought to do something," said the Major with conviction.

"I hardly know the family," said Lucien, "but I suppose one will be expected to be present, even though the fire does not appear to be in this wing of the house."

"It may spread to here," said the Major.

"Well, let's go and look at it," assented Lucien, "though it's against my principles to meet trouble half-way."

"Grasp your nettle, that's what I say," observed Boventry.

"In this case, Major, it's not our nettle," retorted Lucien, carefully shutting the bedroom door behind him.

In the passage they encountered Canon Clore, arrayed in a dressing-gown of Albanian embroidery, which might have escaped remark in a Te Deum service in the Cathedral of the Assumption at Moscow, but which looked out of place in the corridor of an English country house. But then, as Lucien observed to himself, at a fire one can wear anything.

"The house is on fire," said the Canon, with the air of one who lends dignity to a fact by according it gracious recognition.

"It's in the east wing, I think," said the Major.

"I suppose it is another case of suffragette militancy," said the Canon. "I am in favour of women having the vote myself, even if, as some theologians assert, they have no souls. That, indeed, would furnish an additional argument for including them in the electorate, so that all sections of the community, the soulless and the souled, might be represented, and, being in favour of the female vote, I am naturally in favour of militant means to achieve it. Belonging as I do to a Church Militant, I should be inconsistent if I professed to stand aghast at militant methods in vote-winning warfare. But, at the same time, I cannot resist pointing out that the women who are using violent means to wring the vote-right from a reluctant legislature are destroying the value of the very thing for which they are struggling. A vote is of no conceivable consequence to anybody unless it carries with it the implicit understanding that majority-rule is the settled order of the day, and the militants are actively engaged in demonstrating that any minority armed with a box of matches and a total disregard of consequences can force its opinions and its wishes on an indifferent or hostile community. It is not merely manor-houses that they are destroying, but the whole fabric of government by ballot-box."

"Oughtn't we to be doing something about the fire?" said Major Boventry.

"I was going to suggest something of the sort myself," said the Canon stiffly.

"Tomorrow may be too late, as the advertisements in the newspapers say," observed Lucien.

In the hall they met their hostess, Mrs Gramplain.

"I'm so glad you have come," she said; "servants are so little help in an emergency of this kind. My husband has gone off in the car to summon the fire-brigade."

"Haven't you telephoned to them?" asked the Major.

"The telephone unfortunately is in the east wing," said the hostess; "so is the telephone-book. Both are being devoured by the flames at this moment. It makes one feel dreadfully isolated. Now if the fire had only broken out in the west wing instead, we could have used the telephone and had the fire-engines here by now."

"On the other hand," objected Lucien, "Canon Clore and Major Boventry and myself would probably have met with the fate that has overtaken the telephone-book. I think I prefer the present arrangement."

"The butler and most of the other servants are in the dining-room, trying to save the Raeburns and the alleged Van Dyke," continued Mrs Gramplain, "and in that little room on the first landing, cut off from us by the cruel flames, is my poor darling Eva – Eva of the golden hair. Will none of you save her?"

"Who is Eva of the golden hair?" asked Lucien.

"My daughter," said Mrs Gramplain.

"I didn't know you had a daughter," said Lucien, "and really I don't think I can risk my life to save some one I've never met or even heard about. You see, my life is not only wonderful and beautiful to myself, but if my life goes, nothing else really matters – to me. I don't suppose you can realise that, to me, the whole world as it exists to-day, the Ulster problem, the Albanian tangle, the Kikuyu controversy, the wide field of social reform and Antarctic exploration, the realms of finance, and research and international armaments, all this varied and crowded and complex world, all comes to a complete and absolute end the moment my life is finished. Eva might be snatched from the flames and live to be the grandmother of brilliant and charming men and women; but, as far as I should be concerned, she and they would no more exist than a vanished puff of cigarette smoke or a dissolved soda-water bubble. And if, in losing my life, I am to lose her life and theirs, as far as I personally am concerned with them, why on earth should I, personally, risk my life to save hers and theirs?"

"Major Boventry," exclaimed Mrs Gramplain, "you are not clever, but you are a man with honest human feelings. I have only known you for a few hours, but I am sure you are the man I take you for. You will not let my Eva perish."

"Lady," said the Major stumblingly, "I would gladly give my life to rescue your Eva, or anybody's Eva for the matter of that, but my life is not mine to give. I am engaged to the sweetest little woman in the world. I am everything to her. What would my poor little Mildred say if they brought her news that I had cast away my life in an endeavour, perhaps fruitless, to save some unknown girl in a burning country house?"

"You are like all the rest of them," said Mrs Gramplain bitterly; "I thought that you, at least, were stupid. It shows how rash it is to judge a man by his bridge-play. It has been like this all my life," she continued in dull, level tones; "I was married, when little more than a child, to my husband, and there has never been any real bond of affection between us. We have been polite and considerate to one another, nothing more. I sometimes think that if we had had a child things might have been different."

"But – your daughter Eva?" queried the Canon, and the two other men echoed his question.

"I have never had a daughter," said the woman quietly, yet, amid the roar and crackle of the flames, her voice carried, so that not a syllable was lost. "Eva is the outcome of my imagination. I so much wanted a little girl, and at last I came to believe that she really existed. She grew up, year by year, in my mind, and when she was eighteen I painted her portrait, a beautiful young girl with masses of golden hair. Since that moment the portrait has been Eva. I have altered it a little with the changing years – she is twenty-one now – and I have repainted her dress with every incoming fashion. On her last birthday I painted her a pair of beautiful diamond earrings. Every day I have sat with her for an hour or so, telling her my thoughts, or reading to her. And now she is there, alone with the flames and the smoke, unable to stir, waiting for the deliverance that does not come."

"It is beautiful," said Lucien; "it is the most beautiful thing I ever heard."

"Where are you going?" asked his hostess, as the young man moved towards the blazing staircase of the east wing.

"I am going to try and save her," he answered; "as she has never existed, my death cannot compromise her future existence. I shall go into nothingness, and she, as far as I am concerned, will go into nothingness too; but then she has never been anything else."

"But your life, your beautiful life?"

"Death in this case is more beautiful."

The Major started forward.

"I am going too," he said simply.

"To save Eva?" cried the woman.

"Yes," he said; "my little Mildred will not grudge me to a woman who has never existed."

"How well he reads our sex," murmured Mrs Gramplain, "and yet how badly he plays bridge!"

The two men went side by side up the blazing staircase, the slender young figure in the well-fitting dinner-jacket and the thick-set military man in striped pyjamas of an obvious Swan & Edgar pattern. Down in the hall below them stood the woman in her pale wrapper, and the Canon in his wonderful-hued Albanian-work dressing-gown, looking like the arch-priests of some strange religion presiding at a human sacrifice.

As the rescue-party disappeared into the roaring cavern of smoke and flames, the butler came into the hall, bearing with him one of the Raeburns.

"I think I hear the clanging of the fire-engines, ma'am," he announced.

Mrs Gramplain continued staring at the spot where the two men had disappeared.

"How stupid of me!" she said presently to the Canon. "I've just remembered I sent Eva to Exeter to be cleaned. Those two men have lost their lives for nothing."

"They have certainly lost their lives," said the Canon.

"The irony of it all," said Mrs Gramplain, "the tragic irony of it all!"

"The real irony of the affair lies in the fact that it will be instrumental in working a social revolution of the utmost magnitude," said the Canon. "When it becomes known, through the length and breadth of the land, that an army officer and a young ornament of the social world have lost their lives in a country-house fire, started by suffragette incendiarism, the conscience of the country will be aroused, and people will cry out that the price is too heavy to pay. The militants will be in worse odour than ever, but, like the Importunate Widow, they will get their way. Over the charred bodies of Major Boventry and Lucien Wattleskeat the banners of progress and enfranchisement will be carried forward to victory, and the mothers of the nation will henceforth take their part in electing the Mother of Parliaments. England will range herself with Finland and other enlightened countries which have already admitted women to the labours, honours, and responsibilities of the polling-booth. In the early hours of this February morning a candle has been lighted – "

"The fire was caused by an over-heated flue, and not by suffragettes, sir," interposed the butler.

At that moment a scurry of hoofs and a clanging of bells, together with the hoot of a motor-horn, were heard above the roaring of the flames.

"The fire-brigade!" exclaimed the Canon.

"The fire-brigade and my husband," said Mrs Gramplain, in her dull level voice; "it will all begin over again now, the old life, the old unsatisfying weariness, the old monotony; nothing will be changed."

"Except the east wing," said the Canon gently.

Saturday, May 15, 2010

An improvement for Gilbert

           Gilbert and Sullivan were two famous playwrights in the late 19th century. Well, technically, Gilbert wrote the plays and Sullivan composed the music. They have an interesting history, since they had a tough time working together, but they still managed to write some pretty brilliant plays. The most famous nowadays ones are The Pirates of Penzance, HMS Pinafore, and The Mikado, but they wrote about 14 of them in total.

           I read one of their first plays, The Sorcerer, a few days ago. I'm going to give a bit of a synopsis here, so....
******Spoiler Alert!******

        Here's the plot: Some guy is getting married to some gal. The guy, deciding to be a philanthropist for no reason in particular, resolves to make the whole village love each other. He does this by contacting a sorcerer to brew him up a love potion, which he feeds to, yes, the whole village. Unsurprisingly to anyone who's ever seen or heard of any other story that ever even mentions the phrase "love potion", it doesn't work out the way he'd hoped. Everyone falls in love with the wrong person. The sorcerer, unwillingly in love with the heroine mentioned in the first sentence of this synopsis, reveals that the only way to reverse the potion is for either the hero or the sorcerer to die. The hero has to stick around to get married, so the sorcerer agrees to sacrifice himself. The final scene shows all the correct couples happily dancing while the sorcerer dies.

         On the whole, I liked it. It was funny, and there were some good songs in it ( The ending, however, could have been a lot better. The sorcerer was the kindest, most level-headed, and the funniest, so he was the best character by far. Not only that, but (and here's the point of my post) there was a fairly obvious, fairly clever, and much better ending.

          You see, when the sorcerer is selling the potion, he explains that it has no effect whatsoever on married couples, since it's made with the "strictest of principles". Told you he was nice. But this little fact is just a joke that never comes up afterwards. I think that it's a loophole in the potion. The play should have ended with all the wrong people marrying each other, and the potion's effects stopping soon after. Granted, that does leave the village with a morbid divorce rate, so it would also be a good idea to throw in a twist of the preacher not being legitimate, but still enough to break the curse, but that wouldn't be too hard. Not only is there a better ending, but it can even be found foreshadowed in the play.

          But this does give me an idea for a musical... I can have a love potion with effects that will leave once the people marry, together with a sideplot about a criminal disguised as a preacher. I just need to be sure that I'm different enough from The Sorcerer that I won't be accused of copying.

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

Word of the day. Or the month. Whichever. I'm not really planning on making this a recurring feature, so it doesn't matter that much.

NIMBY: Someone who objects to siting something in their own neighborhood but does not object to it being sited elsewhere; an acronym for "not in my backyard".

Monday, May 10, 2010

Hey you!

Pick up a pencil and piece of paper and see if you can write a mirror image of your signature. I'm interested in knowing how easy it is, since I've just realized that I can do it with very little trouble. Except for the "e". Apparently, the loop that composes the "e" is just too ingrained in my muscle memory.

Sunday, May 9, 2010


        Here's a story that I wrote when I was 12. It was the first short story that I wrote entirely by myself. That's a mixed blessing; bad since I feel like I should have gotten an earlier start, but good because it means that none of my stories were written at such a young age that they're completely terrible. This one has some problems with grammar, rhetoric, and plotting, but I still like it. I actually made it into a series, with eight other stories, but I ended up losing the others. This is the only one I have left, in it's original, unedited form.


by Adam Rowe

    "Blumber, you idiot! You've mangled this last case beyond recognition! You arrested the pizza place manager and let the real criminal get clean away! You're fired unless you shape up and stop arresting the wrong people! What do you have to say for yourself?!?"
    The meek man in the low chair across from the roaring Commander Tuntle nervously twiddled his thumbs.
    "Wh-well..." he stuttered, "...the pizza wasn't half bad..."
    "That's the last straw!" As Tuntle talked, he slowly raised himself up until he towered over Blumber. "You've got one more chance to prove yourself or YOU ARE FIRED!"
    Tuntle fell back into his chair and sighed. Then he began again, more quietly. "We've got news of a robbery on Pi Lane. Be there. Solve the crime. Report back. Is that clear enough?"
    "Uh... Well... y-yes, sir." The rotund man attempted to climb out of his chair, fell back, struggled out again, tripped on the doorstop, caught himself, turned to the Commander, ventured a weak smile, and tumbled out the door.
    As soon as he was gone, the Commander's phone rang. He picked it up and listened to a voice on the other end. "Yes, yes. It worked perfectly. He's completely fooled. What you've forgotten already? Frankly, I think your memory gets worse every day. Here's the plan. Blumber thinks that his case is real, but I've set it up. I want to see if he can solve a crime when all the clues are provided or if he really is the incompetent bumbler that I think he is."


    Blumber went down Pi Lane until he came to the house with a 314159 address. Seconds after he had knocked on the door, it was opened by a short, squat lady with white hair. Had Blumber been a good detective, he would have pondered the fact that the lady must have been waiting for him inside the door. But he lived up to the Commander's expectations and did not ponder at all. 
    "Well, M-mam, I hear you've been robbed. How about you tell me about it?"
    "Well, I don't have any bank account," Mrs. Brown said in a wavering voice, "So I hid my money under the floorboards in my bedroom. Then one day..." She paused to blow her nose. "I came back to find the floorboards pried up and the th-thief escaping out the window with my money. All I could see was the back of the robber. He had on a red and yellow sombrero, though. Can you trace that?"
    "I- uh- yeah." Blumber racked his brains for another question to ask. "So... does anyone else know about the hiding place?"
    "No. In fact, I haven't invited anyone in for several years."
    Blumber pulled a stick of bubblegum out of his pocket. "Have some gum?"
    "Oh, no thanks. I don't really care for the stuff."
    Blumber couldn't imagine anyone not enjoying bubblegum. He had spent a third of his salary on it and had used to be a salesman for Burple bubblegum before becoming a detective. He was a lot better at that then he was at being a detective. Too bad he had been fired for eating his merchandise.
    "I don't suppose you could show me around the room where you were robbed?"
    "Oh, sure."
    Mrs. Brown led Blumber up a flight of stairs into a practically empty room furnished with only one table and one chair.
    "Here it is."
    Blumber investigated the floor, the ceiling, and the window. While he was doing this, his hands messed up the fingerprints perfectly imprinted in the dust on the windowsill. But that was all right, since he hadn't noticed them anyway. After a careful search, he finally looked under the table. To his surprise, he found a wad of Burple gum stuck to the underside. He reached into a  pocket in his small trench coat, felt around, pulled out an old banana, looked at it, wrinkled his nose, dropped it back (the banana skin, not his nose), and pulled out a small knife. Then he chipped the gum off the table and dropped it into his pocket.
    "I- uh- think that's all, Mrs. Brown." Blumber stuttered. He stammered whenever he was hot on a clue (or nervous or sad or happy or angry or puzzled or thinking or tired or normal).


Hattie's Hats

    Blumber passed under the gaudy and, in his opinion, overdone sign and entered the hat store. This was the third hat store that he'd been to. None of the others even carried red and yellow sombreros, much less sold them. He made his way through throngs of chattering women and slipped behind the check-out counter.
    "E-excuse me," he said to the large woman at the counter. "But..."
    This was as far as he got, for the woman answered in a piercing voice. "Excuse you? For what?"
    Then she gave him a penetrating shriek undoubtedly meant to be a laugh. Blumber rolled his eyes. It was one of those ones.
    He thought about giving up, but his job depended on this, so he squared his jaw and asked, "Have you sold any red and yellow sombreros lately?"
    "Why, we haven't sold that kind for five years. We only sold one then and before that, we didn't sell one for seventy years and, in fact, we stopped carrying two years ago, becuase of so little sales, and..."
    Blumber was even less pleased to hear that Hattie was a talker as well as a bad-joke-cracker.
    "Do you have any record of the consumer who bought the hat five years ago?"
    "Why, sure I do." Hattie said, peering at him as if he was a hat inspector in disguise. "I print two of all the receipts and I store-- this is a hat store, get it?-- them in a big tub. I'll go fetch it."
    The woman trotted off and came back a few minutes later with a huge tub in her hands.
    "Here it is," she said cheerfully. Then she upended the container. Hundreds of thousands of sales slips cascaded onto Blumber's feet.
    He groaned.

    Three thousand receipts later, Blumber found it.   
    1(one) sombrero----------------------69.95
    Blumber scanned the rest of the old sales slip. It had the name of the criminal, his phone number, and his credit card number. There was enough information there for even an incompetent detective to trace. (Which was lucky.)


    "That's right, he's making a total fool of himself. According to 'Mrs. Brown', he missed the fingerprints entirely. Although Hattie did report that he found the right sales slip, without the fingerprints he has no evidence to arrest Bugsly! That's all for now. Yeah, yeah, goodbye."
    Commander Tuntle set the phone back into the cradle and leaned back in his chair, unmindful of the squeak. he chuckled. Soon he would be rid of that no-good detective.


    "Excuse me, but is this the residence of one 'Bugsly O'Brien'?"
    The man who answered the door had a grimace and glared at Blumber. He pushed his purple Burble gum to the side of his mouth.
    "Yeah. Waddya want? If you're sellin' sompin', I don't want it."
    Blumber was used to this opening phrase from his days as a bubblegum salesman, and he launched into his speech without stuttering.
    "Sir, I'm investigating a robbery and, in following up a lead, I have come to your door. Please do not be alarmed, as I will only be asking you simple questions."
    At the word 'robbery', the short man's tight features grew even tighter.
    "I don't know of any robberies."
    Blumber slipped out of his speech and assumed a lighter, yet dignified tone.
    "Oh, yeah?"
    Bugsly slammed the door shut in response. Blumber decided to use a more direct approach in hopes that the villain would lose his nerve and confess. He rang the doorbell again.
    Bugsly looked less then delighted.
    "You again?!"
    "You robbed Mrs. Brown by prying up her floorboards in her bedroom while wearing a red and yellow sombrero. Then you jumped out the window to escape when she saw you. I'm arresting you."
    Bugsly's left eyebrow twitched, but otherwise he gave no sign of alarm.
    "Ya got evidence?"
    "Uh, well... Mrs. Brown... eye witness... heh."
    "Get outta my house!"
    Blumber left.


    "Well, Blumber, I assume that you've come to give me a report on your investigations so far. What do you have to say?"
    It was one day later and Blumber sat dismally in the Commander's office.
    "W-well, sir, I followed a lead to Hattie's Hat store and then traced a receipt to this guy named Bugsly, but I didn't have any evidence, so I can't arrest him."
    "Hmm... not very good, but if you can find the evidence, then you can keep your job."
    "Why thank you, sir. I guess I'll be going then..."
    As Blumber got up to go, his elbow joggled a jar of ink on Tuntle's desk. It soared in the air, spilling ink as it flew. Commander Tuntle instinctively reached out his arm and snatched it out of the air, covering his right hand in jet-black ink. Blumber, aghast, grabbed some important documents off the desk and began to blot the ink.


    It was two days later. Blumber had been to three movies, two libraries, and played some miniature golf. He had also given some thought to the mystery. Now he was reporting back, he thought, for the last time.
    "Well, Blumber, I assume that you've come to give me a report on your investigations so far. Again. What do you have to say?"
    "Sir, you'll be glad to know that I've caught the thief."
    This was the first that Commander Tuntle had heard about it.
    "In fact, sir, he's standing in this very room."
    "Blumber, there's no one here but you and m... Blumber?"
    Blumber leaned over and snapped the handcuffs on Commander Tuntle's still slightly ink stained hands.    
    "Remember, sir, you have the right to remain silent."
    Tuntle was silent. For two seconds.
    "And now for that report," said Blumber cheerfully, "You see, at Mrs. Brown's house, I found a still fresh wad of Burple gum. Mrs. Brown doesn't like gum, and she hadn't had any visitors lately, so I concluded that it must have been left by the crook. There was a perfect thumb-print in it, since the burglar had used his thumb to stick it onto the underside of the table. Then, when I spilled the ink on you, I kept the paper that had your thumb-prints on it. They were one and the same. So now, I get to keep my job. I wish I could say the same for you. Take him away, boys."
    As the squad car with the bellowing Commander in it drove off, Blumber gave one last piece of advice.
    "Remember, sir, crime does not pay!"


    "Well, Blumber, I've decided to let you keep your job. After all, you did come up with an answer, even though it was not the one I wanted."
    It was a few days later. Commander Tuntle had finally convinced the police that he was innocent. Now he was meeting with Blumber in his office once more.
    "And I must say, I'm very impressed with the way you made that ink mishap look like an accident."
    Blumber thought about telling him that part of it was an accident, but concluded that what Tuntle didn't know couldn't hurt him. 
    "I suppose that I shouldn't have stuck the gum to the bottom of that table when I was inspecting Mrs. Brown's house. Well, Blumber, you're free to go. And we've got another case for you. I suspect a bank robber will try to rob a bank soon in Plumville. Can you stake it out?"
    "Yes, sir!"
    Blumber attempted to climb out of his chair, fell back, struggled out again, tripped on the doorstop, caught himself, turned to the Commander, tried to look dignified, failed, and tumbled out the door.

Friday, May 7, 2010

I just looked at the sentence "Punctual." and laughed quite hard. 

(That's because I'm tired.)

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

Cop Rock

In 1990, ABC aired a new TV show: Cop Rock. It was part police drama and part musical. Yes, musical. Sadly, has been deemed the 8th worst TV show ever, and was canceled after 11 episodes. I think it would have worked better as a police comedy musical. Maybe it would have been higher up the list of bad TV shows.

At any rate, the musical numbers that remain are pretty entertaining.

Here's a song set in the court room, complete with a singing jury.

My favorite is this song that the Sarge uses to tell his men to be careful. It's easily the most ridiculous.

And, as if a musical cop show wasn't weird enough, they decided to have a dream sequence as well.

In the last episode, they finished with a song that broke the fourth wall, with characters chatting about how the show was ending before being joined by the various producers and stage hands for a final number. Also, a random fat lady is lowered down from the ceiling.

Monday, May 3, 2010

A trait

I adopt an interesting trait whenever I'm overly tired: I confuse the words I type.

It's not quite the same thing as when I mix up the letters, which I have talked about before. This is when I type an entire word incorrectly. I was pretty tired last Saturday, since I hadn't been getting much sleep that week, and I had missed my normal Saturday morning recuperation by getting up at 7-something that morning to volunteer at a plant sale. Due to this, I made several mistakes, like typing 'is' instead of 'so', or 'we' instead of 'you'. When I don't think carefully enough, different words slip out of my fingers. Once I even typed a synonym of the actual word I was thinking of.

I also have just now noticed another mistake I made on Saturday. I said "One of Larry's recent ones, it's the best." in the last post, when I meant to say, "Out of Larry's recent ones, it's the best." They're both three letter words that start with O, and the sentence still almost worked, so I didn't notice it until today, after a night of sleep.

Here: hear

One of Larry's recent ones, it's the best.

Saturday, May 1, 2010


May Day!! MAY DAY!!! MAAY DAAY!!!!!





Sorry, just felt like saying that.

An amusement