You come home from a bar, bladder feeling tight, It’s.. well, golly, it’s after 3 am! Can you come up with the first thing you do that’s geekier than what I just did?
A Challenge
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Author Archives: Jerry
OK, there was one thing I did…
I downloaded more or less at random a Japanese animation (“anime” the kids call it) called Cutey Honey Flash. Somewhere it was listed as a top download. It is a 3-episode reprise of a 1970’s TV series, done in the last couple of years. It’s about your typical super-popular high school girl, idolized by all her classmates, especially expert at fencing (judging by anime, these girls really are typical), who, by touching her brooch and shouting (in English) “HONEY FLASH!” awakens super powers so she can fight an all-female band of supernatural villains known as Panther Claw. (Pronounced “Panthl Crawl” – they choose to use English at the oddest times.)
This story has been redone several times, apparently, including a live-action movie. You just can’t get enough Cutey Honey!
I have only seen the first episode, but there are two things I really like about this silly show. First, the modern version does a great job staying in the whole ’70’s feel, especially the opening song in which, over trumpets and bongoes, a woman sings this (copied from the subtitles):
A right now, en vogue girl
a small bottomed girl
Look my way, Honey
Come on… Come on, just a little bit!
Please, oh please don’t hurt my feelings
My heart is racing!
a small bottomed girl
Look my way, Honey
Come on… Come on, just a little bit!
Please, oh please don’t hurt my feelings
My heart is racing!
No! No!
No, don’t look at me~
HONEY FLASH!
Please, oh please don’t come close
My nose is twitching!
No! No!
No, don’t look at me~
HONEY FLASH!
I’m changing!
HONEY FLASH! Is sung in English. My nose is twitching? Your guess is as good as mine.
My second favorite part is that at the end of episode one her father is lost in a fiery blimp crash. I’m a big fan of blimps.
What I Did Today
… or at least that’s what I would have done had I made the effort.
The day started innocently enough, the sun peeking in through the window and shining in my eyes. “Usually you’re up by now,” the Day said.
“Sod off. I punched out of that world of alarm clocks and books on tape and other nefarious devices designed to enslave humankind. I’m a free agent now.”
The Day laughed nervously. It had only been on the job a little while itself, and was very much tied to a schedule. This wasn’t how previous days had said I’d act. “But,” and here a sly grin stole across the day’s face, “what about the voices?”
They’re not really voices per se, of course. There’s no little Jimminy Cricket up in my head saying, “Oooh! Hop to it, Chumley! Today’s going to be a cracking fine day!” There’s nothing like that. It’s just that, lying in bed in the morning, most days I start getting excited about all the things I’m going to be doing. I get ideas starting to fizz away up there, things to write, insights on that annoying bug in Jer’s Novel Writer, that kind off stuff. Most mornings I feel like a kid who’s been promised an outing to the zoo. I get up because I want to get up.
Most mornings. This morning things inside my cranium were still and quiet. Not the quiet before the storm quiet, not the “Quiet… too quiet” quiet, not even the sigh of the wind over the dunes quiet. With nothing going on up there, I rolled over, and left the day uncertain and disoriented.
Eventually, of course, biology demanded that I rise and drink tea. While the tea brewed I stood scratching myself. And that set the tone for the rest of the day. By the end, the Day crept away, weeping and broken.
I think I’ll go to bed early.
People watching
Where I sit offers a good view of a busy tram stop. Good people watching. Evening is coming on, but the day has been warm and the night will be pleasant.
Out one window I watched a woman, old and bent, age reducing her to perhaps four feet tall, climb onto a tram with deliberate slowness. It was not easy for her to do, but life is not easy, and that’s no excuse to stop trying. She had her life to get on with. Then I glanced out another window just in time to see a young couple, perhaps in their late teens, dash through traffic and hurdle the metal fence meant to discourage people from dashing through traffic. Carefree and completely trusting of bodies that have never failed them, they laughed and joked as they flirted with the autos.
The old woman was once that way, too, and one day, if they are lucky, the kids will be like the grandmother, watching crazy fool kids who think they are immortal.
Jers Novel Writer 0.5.2.1 released
It’s just a bug fix release, and only a couple of bugs at that, but one of them was bad enough to warrant an interim release. 0.5.2.2 will be coming out in a couple of weeks, with fixes to bugs that are merely annoying as well as one other nasty one.
On a side note, someone posted this over at the Hut:
I would like to thank Jer for all the work that has been put into this program. I used 0.3.1.3 during NaNoWriMo 04, and intend to use the newest version for this year’s as well. The improvements in the last 10 months have been astounding, and I love JNW. Although it doesn’t make pearls of wisdom flow from my fingertips, it makes the flow of nonsense that is my usual writing easier, and makes the beating of said drivel into shape much less of a chore.
I do believe that no finer program exists for mac, and although I am a little shady in programs for windows, I have not encountered a description of a program I would even think of choosing over this one. In short, I love this program, and just wanted to voice my thoughts on the matter.
You can be sure that I will purchase the eventual commercial version as soon as is is available- it only seems right as I have been using this for almost a year now, and it has helped me so much.
Man, that made my day.
I wrote a story once
It was an odd tale; it started as sleep-deprived ravings but grew on me. It was an odd world, an agrarian culture, but without horses. Giraffes were the beast of burden.
There was a man in the village who no one liked. He had a bad temper, and sprayed saliva when he talked. No one mentioned that to him. He was out working his fields one day when his giraffe had a heart attack. That must be common among the swift ones; the heart has to maintain enormous pressure to keep the head nourished, perched way up there.
The man’s giraffe died and he sat there, out in his field, next to his dead animal, for three days. Then he packed what he could carry and left the village forever. The story was not about him.
In this world of odd mammals and random blinding rainstorms, metaphors had a disquieting concreteness. Promises were trees, and lies were death. I was big on the truth back then. Wombats would pursue their victims relentlessly across the grassland, but neither hunter nor hunted would voluntarily enter the forest. I think they were wombats. They sound more dangerous than platypuses. The plainsmen raised them to be particularly nasty.
I’m thinking of that story now, wistfully hoping to recapture its unfettered randomness and heavy symbolism. Fifteen years later, I seem to recall some good prose as well. Tonight I have been sitting, groping for some of that silliness, my prose prosaic. There are only so many hours you can spend editing your own work before you turn into a pile of dependent clauses and dangling participles, with nary an idea in sight.
It’s time for action! It’s time to recapture that old-school mild schizophrenia. All nighter! Yeah! Rock on!
Body Czech, Part II
I’m at the bowling alley, in my observer’s seat high above the blacklit lanes. It’s busy right now, but one foursome has caught my eye. They are two couples—a short blonde who has without a doubt earned the title hottie is with one of those tall, dark types, while her best friend the willowy brunette is with a reasonably tall, slightly pear-shaped guy.
Blondie knows how to bowl. She works with the ball the whole way down the lane. It is pleasant to watch and I suspect she knows that. When she gets back to the table, either celebrating success or mourning failure, she is welcomed by her boyfriend and much smooching and ass-grabbing ensues. That’s not unusual in these parts, and I thought little of it until I observed, high in my crow’s nest, the behavior of the other pair.
When willowy brunette comes back from the line, she will gently touch her man’s shoulders as she slips by. When he comes back from his adventure with ball and pin, he’ll put his hand on hers where it rests on the table. They are simple acts, unconscious, not meant to prove anything, secure in the simple joy of togetherness. So if you ask me which of the two are in love, the groping, smooching, rubbing-against-each-other couple, or the couple that is simply together because there’s no other way to be, you know what I’ll answer.
Cheap Beer Place
After writing that last bit I stayed in Cheap Beer Place perhaps a bit longer than I should have. I was nursing the beers and nursing the batteries, giving me plenty of staying power, but the ol’ laptop had been in my backpack quite a while when the three guys asked if they could share my table. Things were getting crowded in my section of the bar, after I had spent the afternoon as king and sole patron. Time had passed, shifts had changed, and my favorite waitress had given way to some new guy, who was obviously a rookie.
The three guys were all right. They were younger, Slovak, and there for the dancers. I’ve never been able to figure it out. Cheap Beer Place has, on seemingly random nights, girls who dance without very much on. They do this as the rest of the bar continues its normal vibe, ignoring them completely. They’re just part of the background. I think, if I was hired to be sexy (no worries there), it would suck to be completely ignored. But that’s how it goes, there.
The lads I was with actually approached the evening with much more gusto than the average customer. When the first dancer started they all moved their chairs around for a better view. They made little effort to include me in their conversation, but that was all right with me. Striped-shirt-guy even went over and talked to the dancer for a while, joking and chatting and getting nowhere with her. The dancer did her job, however; I decided to stay for one more beer. As my refreshment arrived so did three more guys, older men, also Slovak.
The mood at the table instantly soured. Striped-shirt-guy in particular was not happy to see the newcomers. One of the new three sidled up next to him and put his arm around the young guy. They left for a while. One of the other youngsters explained to me that we were the only two heterosexuals at the table. The elder batch gave off a predatory air. It gave me the creeps.
I don’t get hit on in bars. It’s just a simple fact. Well, while I was trying to flag down rookie waiter to pay and get the hell out of there (Prosim! Prosim! Zaplatim! dammit!) and the mood at the table was swirling down the crapper, I was hit on. Hard. With no subtlety whatsoever. He wasn’t vulgar (that I could tell), but he was persistent. I tried to absorb myself watching the dancers to, you know, give a hint. I’m not sure why I thought a hint would work, since “I like girls” and “NO, NEVER, EVER” (with gestures) hadn’t seemed to get the point across.
Finally rookie came by with my bill (prices have gone up at Cheap Beer Place). I stopped on the way out and told the dancer I thought she was very pretty – not a lie at all. She smiled and thanked me, also sincerely, as she slipped out of her top. What a crazy place.
Prague – the Homecoming
Soup Boy blew his knee (again), and is mobilistically impaired. He dropped me a line, saying he would be at Cheap Beer Place for the afternoon. What better place for me to reintegrate myself in my two-months-forgotten lifestyle? I walked in and as I was crossing to the table my favorite waitress asked (in czech, of course) “Beer, yes?” It was as if I had never left. I was kind of hoping for “Hey! Great to see you! Where’ve you been?” I was also dreading the greeting, since what smattering of czech I had has completely fled. “I’ve been in America, making a movie,” I was hoping to say in a suave, offhand, no-big-deal kind of way. Making a movie. Nothing to get excited about, but you’re welcome to gush and think I’m a big shot if you want. Unfortunately, even at the best of times I didn’t know past tense in Czech.
I would have settled for “nice haircut.”
But I’m here, and the words are coming. Soup Boy is an animator, a creative individual at that, and he’s stuck in a spot with a bunch of characters, a great setting, and a lot of potential, but no story.
Favorite waitress just passed, and I had my finger way in my ear. It was itchy. I looked stupid.
ANYway, Soup Boy is an animator, he wants to do little short bits with his characters. I looked at what he has and it’s Writer’s LEGO. Lots of good stuff to work with, the pieces fit in an infinite number of ways, and there’s no right answer. Heck, when God’s one of the characters, you have a lot of room for fun.
Now I am alone; Marcela has carted Soup Boy off to his job, leaving me here to Get Back to Work.
Post-Amy Stress Disorder
I slipped out of San Diego without saying goodbye – just a short phone conversation during her lunch break. I don’t like goodbyes all that much – better just to slip out the side door and move on. I didn’t even wait for Rory to drive me to the airport. I was done with Ocean Beach, my home for the past week, and ready to move on. I was tired.
Physically tired, certainly, and mentally weary as well. It’s been a grinding couple of months, and my stamina has been sapped. Crashing on the sofa of a whirlwind who is trying to figure out if she has a boyfriend or not, who loves wine a little too much, and finds sleep optional is not how you regain your energy. Luckily this time around Amy was starting a new job – a square job with square hours. That meant we only stayed up way too late three-qarters of the time, and I had mornings to recover while she had to go to work. “Have fun,” I’d croak as she passed the sofa on the way out the door. Then I’d roll over and try to sleep some more. That only worked once.
Ocean Beach is a small neighborhood, and is geographically isolated from the rest of the city. That means it has managed to hang on to some of its small-town charm, and it means that if you don’t have a car lying around your options are limited. It wasn’t long until I well knew all the places of interest. There was the brand-new amazingly cheap café with free Internet, run by a really weird guy. There were other, swankier places with Internet, but not for free. Once I had locked Amy’s door behind me I spent my days in those places, trying to string words together, but, in my frazzled state, editing was the activity of the day.
Then it was off to the O. B. Grille, which became my office in the late afternoons when I had no place left to go. This is where Amy knew to find me when she got off work, finished her evening activities and negotiations with Cute Boy, and was ready to play. There was no question of sneaking in any writing later, The only thing that ended the evening was sleep.
Now, in the calm after the storm, I miss that wildness, the unpredictability that is Amy. She is a tiny little Las Vegas, a loud and constant invitation to excess, all bundled up and ready to travel. You know when she is there. As the night begins, there is anticipation. Amy is grinning ear to ear, only a little bit crazy yet, and the night extends before us, a journey into the unknown. Somewhere along the way someone says “one more,” and you know it’s not just one more, and someone has to be the designated walker or you’re not getting home.
Like Las Vegas, that sort of lifestyle can only be sustained for a few days before the brain goes into rebellion, shuts down, and leaves you for another head. When you part with Amy, the rest of the world seems muffled; your ears are still ringing after a sternum-thumpingly loud concert. Cowering behind their defenses, your synapses are still tender, still skittish. When a stimulus punches through the scar tissue it rasps across your raw psyche like a cheese grater. You jump, the look of a trapped animal in your eyes, and blurt out “One more!” You are suffering from PASD, Post-Amy Stress Disorder. It’s in the medical books. Look it up.
As I was driving through the desert my thoughts began to slide into their old grooves; a story was born, teased, and buried (one little bit stashed away for future use). There were too many cars for a Saturday. I sighed, relieved, disappointed, adrift, vaguely missing something, already looking forward to the next time I enter Amy’s world.
Bud Light is Horrible
I got some decent work done tonight, hanging at my new Ocean Beach headquarters, getting my baseball fix. I moved one short story to the next level, thanks in large part to Jojo’s criticism. (There is nothing more valuable to a writer than a good critic. I am blessed with several. Friends who back you no matter what are one thing, friends who tell you when you’re full of it are another, and are infinitely better friends.) It was not a word count day at all, I was weighing each word carefully, climbing inside its implications, weighing the symbolism, and generally having a good ol’ time.
Amy called. “I left the door open for you,” she said.
“So, then, you’re going out tonight.” She is still trying to make things work with her ex. Last night it was “Screw him! I don’t need that shit!” Things have changed in the last 24, it seems.
“Uh, yeah. But help yourself to anything in the fridge.”
I am home now. The beer in the fridge is not beer. It’s Bud Light. I popped a bottle open, thinking to myself, “I’ve had worse,” but swallowing was difficult, and I can think of no reason to put more of that into my mouth. It is bad. Really, really bad. It redefines awful. In the short term, it is worse than getting your teeth knocked out by an angry Russian hockey player who hasn’t bathed since 1984. Long term, it’s a tossup. [Exercising the journalistic restraint for which I am justifiably well-renowned, I have deleted the reference to the vomit of a rabid pit bull who ate a skunk road kill that had been baking under the Texas sun while buzzards pooped on it.] Bud Lite is bad, bad, bad.
If Bud Lite had no taste at all, that would be an improvement. But for all that it doesn’t have very much taste, what little it does have is retchingly nasty. I am staring at the new stylish bottle, and I know I am looking at one of the world’s most popular beers, and I am flabbergasted. People drink this crap on purpose! I’ve heard them, in bars, requesting the stuff when other beers are available.
That’s not to say that any other pisswater lite beer is any better; I just haven’t had the pleasure lately. But people, please! When you drink this stuff, the terrorists have won.
Steelers, Eagles, and Rose
Public transportation here is expensive and inefficient; it took two hours and three busses to get from Ocean Beach to Mira Mesa. I had plenty to read, however, so the trip was pleasant enough. I spent part of the time trying to remember czech words. Ty vole! That didn’t go well.
No matter. After an hour at the library checking up on the media empire I headed over to my former home away from home. Larry, the manager, had the nerve to have his laptop opened up at my table (the one near a plug), so I bellied up to the bar for a while. Rose was working, so it was an easy choice anyway.
It wasn’t long before we were back in the same old easy rhythm. We all chatted about sports, Pittsburgh sports in particular, and by great fortune the Steelers were playing last night. Fortunate because it meant Rose stayed after her shift to watch the game. Jocelyn told me it was time for a haircut. Travis came on duty and the bar continued to ebb and flow the way it always had.
One thing that was odd, though – Rose didn’t break a single glass.
Funny how that works
I’m in a bar, trying to close out the last paragraph of a story that might even be good. There is a woman to my right, blonde and shrill. She is a graduate student studying law. She is pretty. She is an obnoxious self-promoting blowhard. I would never be tempted to date her, no matter what she looked like.
Funny thing is, as I sit at my laptop, scruffy and absorbed, the prospect of us dating likely never even occurred to her. She may not even know I’m here. So while I’m actively repelled by her, I haven’t achieved that stature with her.
Which is worse?
Into the Valley of the Pizza Rat
I was one of the fortunate few to be selected for an extra-thorough security check at the airport yesterday, just another part of the government trying to make you feel safer by inconveniencing you. I have nothing against the people who have to carry out the illusion, however, and I had plenty of time to burn, so it was no big deal. Certified as USDA Grade-A safe, I climbed into a metal cylinder, took my seat, and a couple of hours later I was in San Diego. My bag, it seems, took a shortcut and was waiting for me when I arrived.
As I stood in the airport I was blindsided my Amy and the fun began.
If, that is, you count Chuck E. Cheese as fun. Amy has family visiting, and the family has kids of just the right age to enjoy a place like that. I had never been in one of those places before, but my mind was filled with horrific images of kids juiced up on caffeine and sugar, running around and screaming and puking on someone dressed up as a rat. I walked in and the first sound to hit my ears, the vanguard of the audio assault, was the wail of a crying child. Oh, grand.
In the end, it was not as bad as I feared. The children were running loose, bouncing from video game to video game, but the noise was low enough to make conversation possible. The place is, simply, Las Vegas for kids. Slot machines have been replaced by other games, and the payout is in tickets redeemable only at the casino for junk that you wouldn’t want to buy anywhere else, but the kids have the look of slot machine junkies, automatons plugging in a coin, running the game, and watching the string of tickets slowly growing at their feet. They are hoping for the big score, the lucky break that converts a single quarter into 200 tickets.
I met Amy’s mother and sister. I have been corresponding with Nicole off and on for some time; Amy has long harbored ideas of hooking us up. This put a great deal more significance on the meeting, but I tried not to think about that. Naturally we had each formed images of what the other looked like, and I was pleasantly surprised. I don’t think I made as strong an impression. My best is none too good, but I was looking scruffier than usual. Shoulda planned a little better. I sat down and nibbled leftover pizza and didn’t try to force the conversation. Eventually the two kids ran out of tokens, and after the ritual Selection of the Prizes we were on our way. I had walked through the valley of the Pizza Rat and lived to tell the tale.
Amy drove as only Amy can, to the horror of her mother. Green Bay was playing, and she wanted to get somewhere with the game on TV before she missed the whole thing. We raced back to the hotel where the family is staying and made a break for the bar there. We arrived in time to watch the last thirty seconds of the game. The place had wireless Internet access, however, so while I was there I popped open the laptop and discovered that someone had crashed Jer’s Novel Writer and his file had become corrupted – very bad – and I had managed to piss off one of the main guys behind the Duke City Shootout – also not good.
Not sure just how I gave offense, but without Christopher Coppola there likely wouldn’t have been a Shootout this year at all, and that means he is directly responsible for our opportunity to make Pirates. It is very cool what he and the other organizers have done (an episode dedicated to them is on the way someday), and perhaps in my exuberance I appeared ungrateful somewhere along the way. Nothing could be farther from the truth. There is no other festival like the Shootout, and no better opportunity for aspiring film writers that I know of.
So maybe I deserved a little wake-up call to remember to say thanks to these guys, but it didn’t do much for my mood last night or this morning. Knowing one of my faithful beta testers lost some work (not too much, fortunately – he had backups) didn’t help. What did help my mood was Amy. We made it back to her place and just sat and shot the breeze like in the old days. I got the rundown on her life and the juicy gossip about her friends, managed to get a word in edgewise every now and then, and slowly faded.
Then Amy wanted to go to a bar. I wasn’t enthusiastic, but I wasn’t ready to give up on the camaraderie, so off we went for one shot and one beer. The shot was horrible, some kind of mixture that was sweet and clingy. I don’t know why things like that exist at all – if you’re just going to throw it down your throat, why not use some cheap-ass booze and be done with it? The beer was good, though. Stone Pale Ale.
Amy had to get up early this morning; I didn’t. They are all at Legoland right now, and I’m thinking about breakfast and wondering where I can find Internet. It’s almost like I never left.
Gettin’ Googly with it
People search the Web for all kinds of stuff. It’s good for that. However, sometimes things go terribly wrong and the searcher ends up here, where there is almost no chance they will find what they are looking for. Sometimes the search itself is interesting, however. Here is a smattering of phrases that search engines decided related to MR&HBI. As usual, key words I want to keep pointing to the original episode where they appeared are obfuscated with spaces.
- pronunciation becherovka – I’m no expert, but the more you drink the easier the pronounciation gets
- slivovice – like the above, linked to the bars tour category page
- this might pinch needle – top link, for some reason. It came to an episode like this one.
- “i love the r o a d” – top hit! Links to an episode I rather like.
- z e p t e r vacuum cleaner – went to the Roma Time Warp episode. I wonder how Z e p t e r feels that I score higher than they do on the search. Maybe they’d pay me to plug the Diavolo.
- genetive czech preposition – yes, someone came to this site hoping to learn something about czech. Scary.
- “you have to do stupid things” – Top match on Google, and why not? When it comes to stupid, I’m an expert.
- alpha romeo faults – out of many choices on the AOL search, came to a page like this one.
- alice b e n d o v á bikini – Alice has been bringing in several visitors. I wonder if the czech who did this search appreciated what (presumably) he found.
- in the forest, does it make a sound? – top match on Google led to an episode like this one.
- pitchers of the fresh prince of bel-air – it’s that damn misspelling again.
- s w e a t cheese – mmm, s w e a t cheese.
- you’re as indigent as i am – I’ve slipped in the rankings since that visit, but this episode I rather like.
- “Pirates of the White Sand” – not long after the Duke City Shootout winners were announced, someone was a-googlin for it.
- bitchin poem – second place out of 11,000, baby!
- alcohol and “yellow sick” – linked to an episode like this one.
- “brian votaw” – Holy crap! There’s more than one of them! Linked to a czech lesson
- cheskie puller – this tale of travel in the Czech Republic was not only the top match, it was the only one
- “ruthie + miguel” – just part of the growing buzz around Pirates.
- but I will go through the valley if you want me to – but will they reach the bosom of b o b b i ?
- San Angelo radio sucks –
- Lincoln+ragtop – top hit, baby!
- being unemployed sucks – linked to an episode where I make exactly the opposite case
- Expose bosom – Ahhh, B o b b i again.
- whale blowhole dynamite – links, in an unlikely convergence, with the story of J o j o becoming my beer s l a v e . (By the way, I am ranked at the top of Google for the phrase “beer s l a v e”)
- hollywood bang half up half down hairstyles – I am not the guy to consult about things like that.
- a u t o m o b i l i z a t i o n of America – alluded to often, but mentioned here
- wear a red carnation and stand under the big clock – linked to the stories category page
- new york sucks – yes, it does. Good rebuttals in the comments, though.
- no miniskirts after 35 – there, I have to disagree. There are plenty of women who are downright dangerous in a miniskirt long past their 35th birthday.
- sex gogs with girls – mmmm… gogs.
- bicycle blimp – linked to a popular get-poor-quick scheme
- eunuch sex life – I’m not proud of being found by that phrase, but not surprised.
- confirmation of r e g u l a r i z a t i o n – the searcher was probably looking for mathematical theory, but instead was lured in by this.
- RUBBER ALIEN PROPS TO PURCHASE – linked to the main page here, but was mostly attracted to talk of props for Pirates
- Los Lunas scary places – also attracted to various bits of pirate chatter
- B l a c k H o l e Thrift Store Los Alamos – a well-named establishment.
- beauty big ass – more interesting than the connection to my page about big-ass beers, Roger Ebert had the top match for this phrase.
- poems on chickens – you’ve got your poetry slam and your poetry barnyard scramble. I think the latter would be more fun to watch.
- stroming my pay with his fingers – it was a german who did this search. Inexplicably the Eels category page was the top hit.
- r e u s a b l e space capsule – it seemed like a good idea until I did the math.
- how to sell a refrigerator to eskimos – linked to the Bars of the World Tour category page. Why? Only Google knows
- “bare legs” cold winter girls japan 2005 – and make sure there’s none of those crappy 2004 pics in there! The Japan-bare legs-winter search is actually fairly common. Linked to an episode like this one.
- The Joy Of M i n i s k i r t s – amen, brother!
- women in real jail pants – I do mention pants and jail in an episode, but I don’t think that’s what this searcher was looking for.
pics of giant rattlesnakes found in West Virginia – linked to the homeless tour category page, where there are no rattlesnakes- i wold want to now where i can go to (play games of Tinker Bell) – Wow. A convergence of various Get-Poor-Quick schemes brought the searcher here.
- “fern bar”+definition – linked to an episode like this one
- lost squirrel secret stash – an odd thing to search for on the Internet – unless, perhaps, you’re a squirrel. Linked, of course, to the SSDC page.
Of course there are the usual suspects – eggs, x-ray gogs, and now A l i c i a B e n d o v a . Lou Reed and P o w e r of P o s i t i v e D r i n k i n g have been popular as well. What does it all mean? Not one damn thing.