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Randomness

Scooped up from a comment I left on another blogger's post:

Threes are everywhere. Supernaturals may be at in the limelight currently, but I'm of the opinion that triangles are a staple of conflict generation for writers of all types. Examples that spring to mind are Galinda and Elphaba seeking Fieyro's attentions in Wicked, Booth and Hacker at romantic odds for Brennan's feelings on Bones, and, finally, Marigold and Faye reaching the awkward conclusion that they both fancy Angus in the web comic Questionable Content.

Besides the ability to create tension and strife for the characters to deal with, three is an aesthetically pleasing number stemming from the Fibonacci sequence. It is frequently referred to in the visual arts as the Rule of Thirds and tends to be a basis for the creation of all types of art. We see it repeatedly in writing with three acts in a play, three lovers in a triangle, or three heroes in a team.

Stay Classy!

Just a little something quickly drafted to respond to those classy individuals who feel the need to wish another Katrina on New Orleans simply because Manning did an excellent Favre impression. Saints 31, Colts 17

On a straight football level: Sean Payton has the biggest, brassiest balls since God himself; he calls plays that make everyone wish they’d thought of it first and hate him for it. The Saints don’t lack superstars due to lack of talent, they lack stars due to lack of ego. The entire team plays as one humble unit. Don’t get pissy when your team can’t match twenty two touchdowns by twenty two different players and more defensive touchdowns than the Browns offense.

On a human level: Wishing for anything like Katrina is just… subhuman. Yeah, sure, let’s have another one and kill another thousand plus people in Mississippi, Alabama, and Louisiana. The media may have slobbered all over New Orleans, but Katrina was three hundred miles from eye wall to edge. She was six hundred miles in diameter and she was not picky about destroying anything in her reach.

On an intelligence level: It’s not smart to go pissing off the Who Dat Nation. The Who Dats backed the NFL down on its sniveling ass when it came sniffing around, and you are not special. You’re talking about men willing to parade down the street in dresses to honor a beloved sportscaster. You’re talking about a culture steeped deeply in traditions of people and places. You’re talking about a nation with a symbol that inspires faith and an irrational love. You’re talking about starting a war you cannot win.

Next time you boogie on down to New Orleans to eat her food, drink her beer, dance in her streets, and catch her beads, remember that she and her people have suffered long and hard under your labels of “loser” and “never gonna be”. This is her year, her time, and she will not take your shit any longer.

WHO DAT say dey own WHO DAT?

NFL Orders Shops to Stop Selling 'Who Dat' gear

Who Dat Say Who Can Use 'Who Dat'? Trademark Holder Speaks Out

The NFL is doing this under the delusion that the small business owners either won't have the time or the money to fight back.

First of all, this is the Who Dat Nation. Ever seen what happens when you rile us? BBQs and poker runs raise the money while professionals and volunteers among us donate their time. We help our neighbors come back from fires, cancer, car accidents, hurricanes, pompous football organizations, and anything else the universe wants to toss our way.

Secondly, look at the history of "Who Dat". If you believe wikipedia.org, King Leopold of Austria started it in the 1890s. If you believe your mom, dad, or grandparents, then "Who Dat" started in the 1950s at St. Augustine in NOLA.

Finally, the fluer de lis is not specific to the Saints. Look back over French history and you'll see the fluer de lis repeatedly. Neither the NFL nor the Saints originated the fluer de lis either.

All told, the NFL can suck a bag of fetid donkey dick. Bunch of douche nozzles over there trying to money grub the Saints' success.

2010

This I shall carry with me into the New Year...

Four Letter Words

A friend on Falebook postulated that "socialism" is now a four letter word and that people must be illiterate for not wanting a socialist government. My reply:

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The short of it is that everyone screaming for socialism seems to think that it's all going to turn out like Star Trek.

Okay, let's start with the fact that Star Trek is *fiction*. Yes, we've been able to make plenty of the science gizmos from that world work, but it is still *fiction*.

Then let's progress to the fact that the story world of Roddenberry's socialist utopia was only able to happen long after shit like the Eugenics Wars, Bell Riots, and WWIII where the populace nuked the hell out of itself, killing 600 million and destroying most of the world governments.

Why did it take that much for socialism to work? First, because the people actually living in today's real reality suck. Given the opportunity *not* to work, most won't. It took having so few people left to be able to affect the cultural change needed to ensure that all members of the society contribute. Secondly, in today's "global economy", no one is going to let another government become purely socialist because, in theory, a purely socialist culture is self-sustaining and needs no outside trade - which would ruin other economies.

Resign yourself to the fact that where we're headed is Idiocracy, not Star Trek.

An Excerpt

I was "in the zone" tonight. I sat down to puzzle out why my character wasn't following the story line I set out for her. I meant to do a simple character outline and suddenly found myself writing a scene for her. When I had finished, I re-read what I'd written and was flabbergasted by how visceral it was, in my opinion. So, I've decided to share it here because, to completely toot my own horn, I think it's fabulous. This is also completely unedited. It is the original brain dump that fell out of my fingers. Enjoy, or don't. Either way, say something!

      "You're la-ate!" she sang out over the doorbell.
      The wet rip as the door peeled away from the humid exterior paint of the frame might as well have been the sound as her smile peeled off her face when she laid eyes on her ex at the foot of the steps.
      "Look, I know that I've done alot to you, and that I'm asking alot standing here now..." he began as her reflexes clutched her right arm, still in its cast, to her stomach. "...but I wanted you to know that I'm sorry. I didn't mean any of it."
      He slid his hand into his pocket and she cringed hard enough to make him wince in response. He seemed to slow his movements to keep from frightening her further as he produced a small box.
      "I really.." he trailed off while his sausage fingers fumbled with the lid. "I really do love you."
The lid snapped back to show a diamond ring nestled in its velvet folds. She gasped as she felt her face and hands go cold, just before the voice of an old memory poured through her head.
      "From the feet, to the hips." it said.
      She turned away slightly as he hesitated as he slipped it on to her shaking hand. Her weight shifted with the turn as she raised her arm to bring the flawless brilliance that now circled her finger into view.
      "Then into the shoulder, like a spring let loose." the voice finished.
      Her hand flew forward, the white flash turned ruby as a gash appeared in his cheek, fueled by the hundred pounds of her body weight behind the blow. Now lubricated, the ring slid off with ease as she tossed it at his feet and slammed the door. She threw the lock and collapsed against frame, bloody smears following her to the ground as dry heaves took over her body.