Hulles

How Can Something So Right Be Sarong? Part Three

2010-04-22T21:55:00.003-05:00

This is the third post in a series I am doing about my headlong plunge into the world of fashion design. Basically, I promised my fiend Sandy that I would design a top to go with a sarong I gave to her. This is the saga of that top. See Part One and Part Two for earlier episodes. - The Management

And no, "fiend" was not a typo, above. - The Management Again

"So how's the sarong top coming?" *snicker*

This is what I have been hearing from my friends, future lovers and disciples lately. Well, the nice and easy answer is, slowly. But like Ike and Tina Turner, I nevah, evah do nothin' nice and easy (or short), so you get a blog entry.

The first bit of news that I have to report is that, shortly after Part Two in this series was written, I decided to seek help from the top. The top of the heap of fashion designers, that is; I didn't really ask the top I'm designing for help because it doesn't exist yet and that would be silly.

No, what I did was pick the best fashion designer I knew -- of possibly two -- and ask her for help. The designer I selected for this signal honor was Christian Joy. The reason I even know of her is because she designs her pal Karen O's costumes. Karen O is the singer for the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, and I adore her with a fervor approaching slavering rabidity. That is to say, I dramatically cock an eyebrow whenever I hear her voice singing one of the YYY's songs. But this post is about Christian Joy, not about my facial tics or Karen O, so back to topic.

The only method by which I knew to contact Christian Joy was through Etsy, because Karen O pimped her Etsy store in a couple of Facebook entries. So off to Etsy I went. Like I knew what Etsy was. I quickly found out that it was a place to buy and sell handmade items (because I can read, even though reading is apparently hard). Great. All I wanted was a hookup with a designer, not a place from which to sell my handicrafts to housewives in Hoboken or my gewgaws to gay men in Great Neck. But I discovered that, to send a message to Ms. Joy, I would have to create an Etsy account.

Well, why the hell not? I thought. So I did. I now have a fucking store on Etsy. If you want to check it out, go here, but why bother? I don't have anything to sell. My store is empty. The only things I know how to make by hand are bread and love, and Etsy does not appear to be precisely the correct venue in which to sell either of those things. Nothing against Etsy, of course. It seems like a very wholesome place in which to shop for things I don't need and can't afford.

However, armed with my new Etsy account, I could now send a message to my soon-to-be new friend Christian Joy, or Xian, as I started calling her in my mind. What to say in my message? I wanted to word it carefully, so she wouldn't think I was a dork. In other words, I couldn't sound like myself in the message. I also didn't want to sound like a YYYs fan. I figured if I could track down Xian after a couple hours of work, so could the obnoxious 22 year old chick sitting next to you in whatever bar you're in right now, texting on her iPhone and snapping her gum. And it would take her about 4 minutes to do it, if I'm any judge of obnoxious 22 year old chicks. And I am.

So this is what I came up with:

Hi. I find myself in the awkward position of having committed to a very dear (and gorgeous) friend to design and make her a top to go with a sarong I gave her. Since I have absolutely no knowledge of or experience in fashion design, I am totally winging it, but oddly I am enjoying the experience a great deal. Where I'm at is that I have created a design for a silk top (2 designs actually!) but I'm not exactly sure what the next step should be. I'm attempting to draft the designs but it's going to take a while since I am pretty much a kindergarten-level artist. I shall persevere however.

The reason I'm writing you is that you're the only person I know of who does this sort of thing whose designs I like, and I thought you could perhaps give me some advice on to whom I can turn to actually create the garments. I'm okay with designing things but not so confident of my ability to sew silk!

Anyway, thank you very much for your attention, and any help you care to give me will be greatly appreciated. And written about as well, by the way; see [Hulles blog link] for the first part of the story.

Again, thanks. Sincerely, [Hulles]

I thought it was pretty good. I left it sort of open-ended about what I really wanted from her, so she could feel free to say "Hey, just send me the drawings and I'll fucking make it for you!" or something similar; I didn't mention Karen O at all; and I didn't beg and whine nearly as much as I wanted to. "Please help me, I'm just a clueless (albeit cute) straight guy who's trapped in a world of fashion design he never sought to violate repeatedly," or something similar. After some reflection, however, I confess that it might have been a bad idea to include a link to this blog in the message.

As it turns out, it didn't matter. The very next day after I sent her the message, Xian appeared on the cover of Time Out New York, as one of "the most stylish New Yorkers". Great. So of course I have not heard back from her, nor do I expect to. I guess that I won't get to know Xian after all, nor will I become close friends with her, fall in love, get married and have Karen O be the maid of honor. Her loss. Their loss, actually. But I soldier on, though I'm abandoning the use of Ms. Joy's pet name of Xian in retribution. That should teach her a lesson of some sort. And I'm also reducing the angle of my eyebrow cock when I hear a YYY's song, because I'm petty and spiteful like that.

The only other HCSSRBS (see title, duh) news bit that I'm including in this post, is that I bought a Fashion Design Tool, or FDT. See, the reason I haven't made more progress on this project than I have is that I'm fucking broke. Were it otherwise, my lair would be strewn with silk remnants and selvages (selvedges if you're British) and shit, and my fiend Sandy, with whom I am so not in love, even though she's beautiful, funny, caring, sexy, hot, bright, sexy, likes Lesbian porn, and... What? Oh yeah, if I had any money at all Sandy would be a lot closer to having my silken creation caressing her breasts right now. But such is not the case; her poor breasts will have to wait. What I was able to buy was a tape measure, so I could measure her body and get the top just right. Shut up.

My new tape measure is such an awesome FDT, though. It's a Singer brand, it cost about US$2.50 or so (ouch!), it's apparently made of fibreglass, which might be a good thing, who knows, and it's hot pink. Yes, hot pink. So I am currently carting around in my briefcase a hot pink tape measure, suitable for pretty much any task that involves dressmaking. I'm just waiting for it to fall out of my briefcase when I'm sitting in a tavern swilling beer, watching football on TV and grunting and farting with my male pals. Nope. Can't wait.

Sandy is going to owe me big time for this. Big. Time.

- Hulles

Erotica Is Hard Work

2010-04-07T01:06:00.003-05:00

I just finished writing a short story that can best be termed "erotic fiction". No, I'm not going to publish it here, but I thought I would talk about the experience of writing the story in this blog, just because it was so damn weird.

This was my first foray into the fetid realm of erotica. It resulted from a conversation I had with a dear friend. Once again, I heard myself say, "Hey, I can do that." Good lord, when will I learn to keep my mouth shut? Well, we all know the answer to that one, don't we? But what I learned in the process of putting up, as opposed to shutting up, was interesting.

First, erotic fiction is a dramatically different genre than what I now call "placid fiction" (or occasionally, "flaccid fiction"). I've written short stories of various types before, so I thought "No problemo, Hulles!" That lasted about until I set fingers to keyboard to start my brand new porn story.

Hmmm. What the hell makes a good erotic story? Sex, obviously, but how much? Realistic? Believable? Improbable? Fantastic? How much non-sex goes into the story? How long do you spend describing the _____ [insert any of about 38 dirty words here]? I found myself perplexed by these questions and many others like them, until I did what I always seem to end up doing: just saying "fuck it" and writing the damn story.

One thing I had not realized prior to this experience is that, when you write erotic fiction, you have to live it in your mind so you can tell the story. "Well, of course!" you say, "that's how you write anything!" And I answer, "Yeah, easy for you to say, I'm single, I'm a guy and I haven't gotten laid yet this year." [Stifles a small sob and daubs at his eyes with a clean pair of underwear.]

In other words, to write this story I had to live through an evening of extremely intense sex with a stunningly beautiful woman over and over and over again, at least in my imagination. It damn near killed me. My cat Mimi wouldn't come near me the whole time, she just paced nervously in the living room as I sat at the computer in my office typing. Whenever I would finally end for the night and call for her to come to bed, she would dive into the coat closet like a prairie dog on meth and not come out until morning. And it's probably just as well, to tell you the truth. It saved a lot of strain on our relationship.

There was certainly no paucity of strain on my body, however. I'm not sure how it is with you, but when I imagine having steamy sex with someone at the requisite level of detail -- sights, sounds, smells, tastes, and let's not forget touch -- my body starts to go on autopilot. It begins to morph into some sort of single-minded monster that...you can imagine. But on the occasion of writing this story, when the metamorphosis was complete my body stopped, looked around, and said to itself, "What the... There's nobody here! OMG, my chauffeur is insane! I'll just teach him a lesson and make all of his body parts intensely miserable for the next several hours."

And yes, unlike me, my body does say "OMG!" That's why I write and he just shows up and stands around looking uncomfortable most of the time.

I swear, I don't know how people who write erotica for a living are able to do it. All I can imagine is that they must have about 20 lovers at any given time, all of whom show up for work every morning with rumpled hair looking extremely relaxed and blissfully stupid.

Me, I'm going back to drinking skim milk, doing the New York Times crossword puzzle every day and cancelling every one of my 283 personal ads. I can't take the abuse.

Although come to think of it, there is one scene that I still haven't gotten exactly right. It needs some additional research, so if you're a frighteningly hot woman with a taste for the bizarre and enjoy guacamole, send me an email. Previous trapeze experience a plus. YOU TOO can show up for work in the morning looking relaxed and blissfully stupid. And as an added bonus, you will gain the personal satisfaction of having supported the arts to the best of your agility, stamina and strength. Please consult your physician prior to your arrival. I know I'm calling mine.

Ah, the suffering I am willing to endure for my craft. I better get at least a Pulitzer out of this.

- Hulles

Dear Occupant

2010-04-02T12:24:00.000-05:00

I decided that I am going to emulate the U.S. Census Bureau. For those who don't live in the United States, the Census Bureau this year sent out a bazillion form letters to everyone who lives here saying that, soon, they would be sending out a bazillion forms for everyone who lives here to fill out.

So, in that spirit, I am announcing that, soon, I will write another blog post.

- Hulles

Don't Even Think About Swooning, Bitch

2010-03-13T08:21:00.003-06:00

It used to be that when a woman was about to "swoon", some helpful person would dab eau de cologne on her forehead. I puzzled over this until I figured out that cologne is mostly alcohol, which evaporates quickly and cools the skin. Thus I suppose the eau de cologne application makes sense, even if the poor woman smells like a cheap whore afterwards. At least she's not laying in the horse dung on the street.

So I'm carrying a bottle of Axe in my briefcase from now on. If you even vaguely look like you're going to swoon I'm dumping it on your forehead. You can thank me later when you're feeling better.

- Hulles

Say Goodbye to Profile Pain

2010-03-05T12:15:00.001-06:00

"Profilewiz.com takes the pain out of filling out blank profile boxes when signing up for online dating sites." - BBC News

Well, it's about goddamn time. I've manually filled out applications for 57 different dating services in the last two months, and boy, are my fingers tired. What a lifesaver this is! I figure with Profilewiz.com I can apply to a couple hundred more dating services yet this month.

I'm even starting to hope that I'm actually going to meet a date real soon now.

Thank you Profilewiz.com!

- Hulles

Walking Around

2010-02-24T22:42:00.000-06:00

[This is a poem by Pablo Neruda called "Walking Around", originally written in beautiful Spanish, translated by Robert Bly. I'm posting it here because I like it a lot, particularly tonight. - The Management]

It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie houses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.

The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse sobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,
no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.

It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.

Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
It would be great
to go through the streets with a green knife
letting out yells until I died of the cold.

I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day.

I don't want so much misery.
I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,
half frozen, dying of grief.

That's why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the night.

And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist houses,
into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,
and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.

There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines
hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,
and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors
that ought to have wept from shame and terror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical cords.

I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic shops,
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow
dirty tears are falling.

- Pablo Neruda

Mimas!

2010-02-19T13:20:00.003-06:00

Everybody knows the world is going to end on December 21, 2012, but no one seems to be doing anything about it. So I guess it falls to me -- again. You probably don't remember the last time I saved the world, but it wasn't that long ago, and people, I have better things to do. This is absolutely the last time I am saving the world, and I mean it this time.

But I suppose I should quit grumbling and get on with it.

First, it became obvious to me that no one could agree on exactly how the world is going to end, so I had to do a great deal of background research reading old Nostradamus texts, deciphering Mayan calendars and poring over years of Joyce Jillson's old daily newspaper horoscopes. Eventually I came to the conclusion that, while the details differed somewhat, all available sources predict Death From The Skies, specifically from the area of the Solar System near Saturn. Fine.

I called up NASA and they agreed to task the Cassini spacecraft to support my mission. NASA even seemed quite grateful that I was looking into this, because of course they don't have enough funding to prevent the end of the world themselves. As a result of this cooperation, however, I receive Cassini photographs as they are transmitted from the spacecraft on my own special web site. Now, my job consists of carefully poring over each photograph as it comes in and looking for anomalies like alien mother ships and Britney Spears sunbathing nude on one of the moons of Saturn. It's a thankless job, but NASA and I agreed we'd split the proceeds from the sale of any Britney Spears photographs to the Enquirer, so I might actually make some money out of this at some point.

On Valentine's Day, after meeting with my hand-picked analysis team at a local bar, I went back to the grind of reviewing that day's Cassini photographs. Imagine my shock when I noticed that Mimas, one of the inner moons of Saturn, had acquired a concave depression in it since the last fly-by! Of course, I immediately realized that the Mimanteans had constructed a fully armed and operational Death Star!

"Holy crap!" I muttered to myself. "This calls for immediate action!" I called up US President Barack Obama, but an aide patiently explained to me that the United States does not now possess nor has it ever possessed X-Wing Fighters. He did, however, suggest that I try calling up the Israeli Defense Ministry as he had heard rumors that they might have some mothballed in the Negev somewhere. The Israelis have yet to get back to me on this, the short-sighted fools, but you will be gratified to hear that I am going ahead with my own preparations to save the world without them.

The first thing I decided to do was to more closely review the Cassini Mimas images for clues concerning the level of Mimantean technology. I finally came across this photograph:

The original image was labelled by my NASA compatriots as follows:

N00151630.jpg was taken on February 13, 2010 and received on Earth February 14, 2010. The camera was pointing toward MIMAS at approximately 20,630 kilometers away, and the image was taken using the RED and CL2 filters. This image has not been validated or calibrated.

I had to alter the original image to validate it and calibrate it and compensate for the RED and CL2 filters in my special GIMP imaging software, but once I did that, something interesting emerged. If you look very carefully at my compensated N00151630 image above, you can see a rogue Mimantean Storm Trooper who apparently didn't get the memo about avoiding the surface during the Cassini fly-by. It is reassuring to note that the Storm Trooper is apparently a standard Imperial clone, and we know enough about Imperial technology to deal with it effectively. So we have that going for us.

The next step I am taking is that I am resuming my study of the Force, in case I have to go to Mimas and Take Care Of This Personally. I consider this a last resort, since I am a busy blogger, but if it comes to that I'll do it for the sake of my you, my readers, of whom Google Analytics reports that 73.2% are actually Earthlings. I left most of my nifty Jedi gear over at some chick's house one night whose name I can't remember, so to practice up I've been running around my house with a bucket over my head brandishing a cane and chasing the cat. I can almost hear the voice of my Jedi mentor in my ear, who sounds strangely like Alec Guinness: "Use the Force, Hulles! Feel the cane smacking the cat's ass!" A side benefit of this newly-resumed training is that my big-boned cat Mimi has lost 3 pounds in the last week, which won't hurt her a bit, unlike the cane. Another side effect of this training is that I need two new lamps in my living room.

My final step in preventing the end of the world when they fire up the powerful Mimantean lasers in December of 2012 is to write this blog entry. I want to share the results of my research and preparations so that if some punk-ass bounty hunter lasers my head off as I'm walking into the redundantly-named Nina's Coffee Café, you, my readers, can step up to the plate and go kick some Imperial ass on Mimas in my stead. "Win one for the Nipper," will be my silent wish to you as you vector in on the Death Star power plant. Hell, if I can figure out how those other guys did it, I'll even put in a ghostly translucent appearance at the award ceremony and smile benignly as some hot bra-less chick with funky hair puts a medal around your neck. So think about going out to Menard's today just in case; they have 5-gallon buckets on sale through the weekend.

In closing, I should apologize to you Spanish speakers out there: you probably thought from the title of this entry that the end of the world was going to result from a plague of zombie female mimes from Puerto Rico. Rest assured that, however unlikely this outcome seems, I have put my crack analysis team to work on the remote possibility that my initial research was flawed. Thus, if the zombie mime chick thing really does come to pass, in 2012 the US populace will be issued noise-suppressed M16 rifles, one per household. Because if Steven Wright has taught us anything -- and he has taught us plenty -- it's that when you shoot a mime, you should use a silencer.

May the Force be with you all.

- Hulles

One For The Nipper

2010-02-16T16:27:00.000-06:00

For Marcy - caveat basiator

I have a confession to make. Okay, I have a lot of confessions to make, and this is the 279th of them, fine, just shut up and let me finish. I hereby confess that I am an occasional ear biter.

Now for the explanations and disclaimers: I only bite the ears of human females that I like to some degree or another; I am not now nor have I ever been a professional boxer; and I don't actually eat the ears that I bite. I am also a licker, nibbler, sucker and kisser of ears when said behavior is called for, but that's none of your business. I'm talking about biting ears here, and biting hard.

I wasn't born an ear biter. It was nurture, not nature. I had no concept of so many things, ear biting being the least of them, when I was growing up a young otaku in Iowa. It took a certain lovely young woman to initiate me into the mystery of ear biting a number of years ago. Ah, but that was another country; and besides, the wench is dead. [See? SEE? - The Management.]

I shall call this lovely young woman Alexis, not because that's her real name -- I can't remember her real name -- but because she was Alexisish. On that fateful day, Alexis and I were on a first binge. We started out at my place, which seems backward, but see the "no concept of many things" comment earlier. As we embraced, she bit my right earlobe - HARD.

"Fuck! Fucking OUCH! You just bit my ear, bitch!" I exclaimed hotly as I reached up to my right earlobe to check for blood. "Jesus Christ! Get away from me!" But Alexis just stood there and smiled evilly, looking for all the world like a hungry succubus for whom my earlobe was merely an amuse-bouche. By the way, a succubus isn't what it sounds like -- it's a demon in female form that preys upon men. Wikipedia: "Succubi draw energy from men to sustain themselves, often until the victim becomes exhausted or dies." Okay, let's see a show of hands among you men out there. Thought so. But I digress.

As I was saying, my reactions to having Alexis' incisors penetrate my earlobe were about what you'd expect: shock, disbelief, anger, acceptance, and get-the-fuck-naked-right-now. These five discrete stages of having your ear bitten were first codified by me in a paper I wrote for the New England Journal of Medicine and they are now commonly referred to as the "Hulles Model of Coping With Weird Fucking Date Behavior". But the additional reaction I had at that time, one that appalled and astounded me, was that I immediately looked at Alexis' earlobes and thought, "Yum." Thus was an ear-biter born. Apparently it's transmitted sexually.

Before I leave the origins story, you're probably curious how the rest of my first binge with Alexis turned out. This is from the same Wikipedia article on succubi: "After an incredible number of such bouts, the poor man at last sinks to the floor utterly exhausted and disgusted beyond belief." 'Nuff said.

You might have noticed that I mentioned "right earlobe" when I was talking about My First Bite. I have since learned that the seasoned ear-biter, while readily able to cope with either ear if circumstances warrant, tends to favor the ear on one side of the bitee's head over the other. I am a right ear biter myself, all things being equal. This allows me to be sneaky and bite some poor woman's ear as I'm giving her a hug. In the early stages of a relationship, a woman almost never suspects the bite is coming until it happens. Sometimes, if a woman is particularly trusting, she never expects it no matter how long she's known you. Grandma was that way until the day she died, God bless her.

By the way, I know that no woman who reads my blog is ever going to hug me again, but thank God no one reads me anymore since I went on hiatus for a year or two. Heh heh. That'll teach you to abandon me.

I did a fair amount of on-line research for this entry, and one of the things that I looked into was the Tyson-Holyfield fight I referred to above. If you are unaware of the reference, Mike Tyson and Evander Holyfield were in a heavyweight championship boxing match in Las Vegas when Tyson bit Holyfield's ear in the clinch. Again, I turn the floor over to Wikipedia:

With forty seconds remaining in the round Holyfield got Tyson in a clinch, and Tyson rolled his head above Holyfield's shoulder and bit Holyfield on his right ear, avulsing a one-inch piece of cartilage from the top of the ear, and spitting out the piece of ear on the ring floor.

Now, that kind of shit gives us ear-biters a bad name. I mean really. For one thing, dude went for the top of the ear where the cartilage is. I hereby swear to you that as long as I have been biting ears I have yet to avulse a piece of cartilage of any size from anyone's ear, although honestly I should add that if I ever do I intend to spit, not swallow, just like Mike. But I suppose that Tyson is just a bad example we ear-biters have to live with, in much the same way that gay men have to live with Sean Hayes in Will & Grace. Come to think of it, I imagine that rich evil bitches aren't that excited about Megan Mullally either.

In the course of my research, one of the things that I was looking for was a five-dollar word for "ear biter". Nail biters are onychophages, for example; I just assumed that we ear-biters would have our own fancy name as well. Guess what? I didn't find such a name, and I looked very thoroughly. That meant that I got to make one up! I am something of an amateur neologist, so to me that was like stumbling across a new species of butterfly in the Amazon or discovering a new comet. So the word I came up with is "auriphage". I beat Greek and Latin dictionaries to death to do it right, and I stand by it. But now that I have the five-dollar word, I can form support groups and shit and get funding from NIMH. Hell, I might even sponsor a telethon. Note to self: buy a tuxedo and take sweating lessons.

Yet another thing I can do with my new word is give new dates a fair warning:

"Hey, Amber, I really enjoyed this evening; thanks for buying me all those cocktails! Sorry I left my wallet at home. Let me walk you to your door. But I suppose I should warn you first that I'm an auriphage."

"Oh, never mind what it means, I'm just an ass and I like to use big words to impress women, but in reality I'm shy and bashful and using big words is just a cover-up for my insecurities about...." *CHOMP*

"Hey, whoa, Amber, didn't know you were packing, look at the time, gotta run!"

While I was searching for my five-dollar word, I went to the MedTerms section of MedicineNet.com to read the medical definition of "auricle", which means the external ear and has the same root as "auriphage". See, I told you I did my research. But here is what I found when I went there:

Definition of Auricle
Auricle: 1. The principal projecting part of the ear. Also called the pinna. 2. Something ear shaped such as the upper chambers of the heart. Also called the atria.

Auricle is not to be confounded with oracle. Neither the pinna nor the atria possess oracular powers.

No shit. Somewhere out there is my spiritual twin, writing definitions for MedicalNet.com and cackling quietly to himself or herself.

Before I wrap up this rather lengthy post, I also want to tell you about one more piece of research that I did. The title I am using rang bells for me, so I had to search in my own blog to see if I had used it before. I hadn't, but I did find two related entries: Children Of A Lesser Dog, and The Making Of Children Of A Lesser Dog, both from 2006. My challenge to you is to read "Children" first, then go back and just read the parts from the AKC reference, and see if that doesn't just make the perfect set of guidelines for selecting your next significant other. Move over eHarmony; make room for the AKC.

So -- finally done with this one. Thanks for reading, I appreciate it immensely. Come here, let me give you a hug.

- Hulles

The Key

2010-02-13T10:37:00.003-06:00

Last night when I went out to celebrate Haley's Unbirthday without Haley, I wore the "Love is the Drug" button shown in the last post to keep up my "Valentine's Day Is A Good Thing" theme. I also wore the handcuff key in the photo on a chain around my neck. The entire night, or at least the parts of it when I was still able to talk, I asked suspected Lutherans if they knew what it was. "The key to my heart!" was the most popular answer, which creeped me out a little bit when pudgy old balding guys said it.

One lovely young woman -- Sarah -- apparently wasn't thinking of the key to her heart so much as the key to something a little further south: "A chastity belt key!" she said. I never suspected this Medieval side to her but needless to say I was intrigued. Notes to self: Get to know Sarah better. Bring key.

Two guys knew what it was right away. One of them -- Kory -- said, "Oh, that's a fake handcuff key." Well, they're not "fake handcuffs", they're real, but they're manacles d'amour as the French might say. They are more than adequate for restraining your lover, but they're not really what you want to be using as you toss the perpetrator who is high on Super Crack Meth Angel Dust into the back of your squad car. So I suppose in that sense, yes, they are "fake handcuffs".

The other guy's answer was even better. My friend Charlie, who could never be mistaken for a Lutheran, said, "Oh, that's a fake handcuff key. Here, this is a real one."

It's sort of difficult to make out in this cell phone picture, but yes, as nearly as I can recall from the last time I did Super Crack Meth Angel Dust, that is a real handcuff key on his key chain.

- Hulles

A Valentine's Day Reminder

2010-02-12T10:58:00.001-06:00

Good Lord, what's wrong with you people? Valentine's Day bashers abound. Fine, it's a Hallmark Holiday. Fine, your last lover microwaved your goldfish and stole your hair dryer. Fine, you're married to Gilbert Gottfried. What happened to romance? Passion? Dare I say it, love?

This short photographic essay is my Valentine's Day gift to you, a bit early. It is intended to remind you that there should be more love in the world. What the hell's wrong with a day that might add a little romance to someone's life, even if that person isn't you? Or, for that matter, me?

(For you Lutherans, that's a handcuff key.)

- Hulles

The Man Who Smelled Too Much

2010-02-11T11:25:00.000-06:00

I discovered just last week that I have acquired a new superpower: I can smell the future.

I was sitting on the couch at the time cornrowing the hair on my toes when all of sudden I smelled popcorn. I looked up to see if vandals had somehow broken into my house and begun microwaving a bag of Pop-Secret while I was concentrating on making those tiny little rows, but no one was in my kitchen. So I just scratched my head and went back to the task at hand. But later on I made popcorn! Prescience, it was.

Then a day or so later I smelled horseradish. This was again initially puzzling to me, until a couple hours later when I was eating my bologna-and-cheese-and-horseradish sandwich. Then it struck me that I had indeed suddenly and mysteriously gotten the ability to smell the future!

This ability was put to the test just a couple of days ago when I smelled fish. The only thing I had on my plate that day was to meet Sandy for drinks later. As I have explained elsewhere, Sandy and I are just friends and I am totally not in love with this most beautiful of women who has eyes that you can fall into forever.... What? Oh yeah, I was saying that she and I are just friends, and therefore the first explanation that I came up with for my premonition was not in any way likely to occur. All was made clear later, however, when we split a bowl of mussels, a cup of seafood soup and a bottle of wine at W. A. Frost. Damn it.

So I have thought long and hard about my newfound superpower and I have resolved to always use it for good, never evil. I recently completed an on-line application for membership in the Justice League, and I think the way this whole thing is going to play out is that Zatanna Zatara and I are going to be strolling in the Pyrenees and suddenly I smell rock dust. I push her out of the way, and a huge rockslide that would otherwise have crushed her into a bloody pulp narrowly misses her. Out of gratitude, she marries me, we move to Andorra and we crank out superbabies at the rate of about 1 a year for a very long time, thus assuring not only our own happiness but the safety of many generations to come in these troubling times. And I am so okay with that.

Thank God I still look good in tights, otherwise none of this might come true.

- Hulles

So: Do I Hit Send?

2010-02-09T00:40:00.000-06:00

I met a woman tonight. She was beautiful. I almost ended the post there, but fine, I'll go on. After exchanging pleasantries, some of which are detailed below, I finally got around to asking her name. "Elle, underscore, underscore, underscore," she said.

"I've always loved that name!" I exclaimed. "Do you spell it the traditional way?"

It turned out that she did. We gabbed a lot more -- and by "we," I mean "me" -- and I ended up liking her a lot, big surprise. She's a grad student at the U in that one language where every sentence means "I want to sleep with you," and she enjoys and is knowledgeable about ballet. Perfect. I fell madly in love then and there. Actually, she only needed to show up for that to happen; it's been a bear market for the old Hulles stock these days. But don't tell her that.

As I was saying, I ended up liking her a lot and I want to see her again. She actually gave me her email address before the wait staff could dash to the table and warn her against it, so I am about to send her an email. But because I like her, I want to run it by you guys first so I don't screw it up. So here it is. And you have to tell me if it's somehow inappropriate, because I listen to you. Well, at least I read your comments. Mostly.

Please, please give me your feedback on this. It's important to me. I am becoming, if not dangerously psychotic, at least alarmingly horny. My female friends are queuing up at the court house for TRO's and my male friends are racing to Mills Fleet Farm to buy Hulles loads for their shotguns. It's become that bad. My friend Haley has taken to hosing me down with pepper spray before she even gets close enough to say hello. In other words, I need the hookup. So be honest -- tell me what you think. Here's the email (some parts have been redacted because this is, after all, a family blog):

Dear L___,

I know you were a bit taken aback when I walked up to your table as a complete stranger and said "I so want you," but if you bear with me for a bit I think you'll agree I really was justified in saying this.

For starters, your t___ are incredibly succulent and luscious, your a___ would make a horse turn around and shit in his oats, and you sport interesting footwear. But that's just the beginning. I could say the same about many of my friends, Haley for instance, although her shoes usually suck. What sets you apart from all the others, beauty-wise, is that your skin is like Velveeta cheese.

Now I know what you're thinking: Eeeeeeuuuugh! But that's just because you actually ate some once. I'm not talking about how it tastes, sweet Jesus, who would ever knowingly ingest that shit? I'm talking texture here, and if you have ever touched Velveeta cheese you'll perhaps appreciate what I'm trying to say. Granted, the cheese is eerily smooth and pliable and rubbery, but if we're both honest with ourselves we have to admit that it has a sort of sensual erotic feel to it that makes us want to... well, never mind. But it is sensual, and your skin reminds me of it, except that of course your skin is not the brilliant Velveeta hyper-yellow that scares small children.

So I could go on and on and tell you how interesting I found you and how intrigued I was by that one thing you said but I won't, because I am old and drink cheap Scotch and smoke Camel straights and I don't have that much time left for fuck's sake, so if you could just see your way clear to screwing my brain out that would be great. Just let me know the next time you have a 15-minute slot in your calendar and I'll take it from there.

Thanks in advance from your new friend,

- Hulles

Take A Number

2010-02-04T12:13:00.001-06:00

Since becoming a world-famous author, I have found that people think my life now consists of Gulfstream G250 jets, vintage Jaguar automobiles, and drunken booty calls from Brook Busey at 3am in the morning. Well, they're absolutely right, and it doesn't suck. But there's another side to me as well -- I haven't forgotten the little people.

Case in point: last night I met Haley at a local watering hole. Haley is tall and fair, she has a body to die writhing in agony for, she possesses a razor-sharp sense of humor, and I am like unto a god to her. "So what?" I hear you asking. "She sounds pretty much the same as all of your fans." And that's true. But I met her last night as a favor to her mother.

Haley got to the bar an hour early so she could steady her nerves before my arrival by downing three quick Jamesons on the rocks. Once I finally did make my appearance, she leapt out of her bar stool which went clattering to the floor, clasped her arms around my neck and started slathering me with Irish whiskey-flavored kisses. "Hey, whoa!" I said to her as I unclasped her arms, righted her chair and helped her back into her seat. "Let's not make a scene. I don't want everyone in here recognizing me and coming over so I can autograph their right tit like happened last time." Although here I must add that I have lately taken to carrying a Sharpie just for this purpose; I owe my fans everything.

Eventually Haley regained her composure and was able to sit and attempt conversation with me, though she continued to sigh like a steam locomotive the rest of the evening. As we sat at the bar I regaled her with several amusing personal anecdotes from my recent past and told her about Brook Busey's secret tattoos. She sat and nodded as I spoke and gazed at me with calf-like eyes full of adoration and, dare I say it, love.

As I chatted on, Haley soaked up my every word like a sponge, and whenever I would pause for a sip of my Scotch she would encourage me to continue as if she couldn't bear to wait for the next words to fall from lips. So I kindly humored her and continued to talk about myself. It did get a little embarrassing when I had to reach over and wipe the drool from the corner of her mouth with a Bevnap, but honestly I don't think she even noticed, so enrapt was she in what I had to say.

After I finished my first Scotch Haley could stand it no longer. She threw a fistful of twenties at the bartender and, without waiting for her change, stood up and grabbed my arm and started pulling me downstairs to the Boom Boom Room, a quiet and romantic niche in the downstairs lounge of our bar. "Hey, take it easy!" I said. "Fine, the Boom Boom Room it is. But remember the rules: keep your hands away from my crotch, no tongue, and write down everything I say for the biography of me that you're going to write someday." She at last reluctantly agreed to comply and we headed downstairs. Here I have to say that Haley did her absolute very best not to skip down the stairs in eager delight, which is good because after three Jamesons her skipping ability had deteriorated markedly.

The Boom Boom Room is, as I mentioned, a small niche in the basement lounge. Its walls are of very old brick, it is softly lit with candles, and the seat cushions are sensibly covered in plastic. I knew it was asking for trouble to place Haley and myself in such a situation, but I bravely followed her to the love seat against one wall of the niche and sat down. Once I had forcibly demonstrated to her that I was serious about the ground rules, Haley calmed down a bit and ordered more whiskey for us from Matt the Waiter. As he was leaving, however, Haley forgot herself momentarily and chirped proudly to him, "He's my boyfriend!" Matt, having seen this before, simply hid a smile and rolled his eyes, and I said as gently as I could, "No, I'm not her boyfriend."

This happened at least five more times during the evening; Haley would call out to a random passer-by that ventured near the niche, "He's my boyfriend!" and I would be forced to explain yet again that no, I was not her boyfriend, she was delusional in this. It would have been quite embarrassing to me had I not long ago become used to this behavior in my female acquaintances. Thus, I did not take to going upside her head when she made these outrageous statements as one might expect me to do. I'm kind and understanding like that.

The candlelight gleamed in Haley's red eyes and blue-gray fingernail polish as we sat there talking, and I am sure that she must have been enraptured by the candles' soft glow as well as it reflected off my glasses and forehead. I spoke to Haley at length of my musculoskeletal disorders and my investments while she made careful notes in the new notebook she had purchased for this very reason. All in all, it was a lovely conversation, though I had to raise my voice a couple of times to be heard over her poignant heartfelt sighing.

I forgot to mention earlier that I had baked a batch of cookies for Haley and brought them with me to our meeting at the bar. When I gave them to her in a Gucci tin with cloisonné hearts on the lid, she was overcome and simply sat there making hideous smacking noises with her lips. I felt it necessary to explain to her that the only reason I had done this was because I thought she needed some meat on her gangly frame, but when I told her this she said, "Oh Hulles, you're the meat I want on my gangly frame!" This crossed the line, I felt, so I slapped her hard and said "Bitch please." This seemed to calm her down some and the rest of the evening passed without further such incidents.

At last it was time for Haley to leave, but before we arose from our love seat she said "Hulles, I have a confession to make." Uh oh, I thought, here it comes. She then told me that she had always loved me and she wanted to give me a condo in Montreux, a Shih Tzu named Alice, and a Segway with streamers on the handlebars. I must admit I was tempted by the Segway, but I said to her that such gifts were inappropriate and that I could not accept them. I did, however, let her pick up the tab, which seemed to mollify her slightly.

I walked Haley to her car and gave her a goodnight hug. No sooner had I released her, however, than she hit me on the top of my head with her enormous purse (which must have contained a dead baby, I thought at the time) and tried to force me into the back seat of her car amidst the empty plastic Mountain Dew bottles. "Stop!" I cried. "Haley, no! Bad Haley!"

She broke into tears at that point and, holding my hands, said in a rush, "Hulles, come home with me! Make my life complete! I have seven bottles of different single-malt Scotches at home for you; I read your Tiger Beat bio and found out that your favorite colors are Emerald Green and Purple so I made three pairs of jammies for you in each color and embroidered 'Hulles' on the breast of each one and I fucking had to learn how to embroider to do it; I'll make you a Spanish omelet for your breakfast and brew your favorite coffee and even grind the coffee beans with my thighs; just say you'll come home with me!"

Needless to say I was taken aback by this unseemly outburst. I nearly slapped her hard again, but my hand still stung from the last time so I contented myself with saying, "As if. Haley, a thousand women feel the same way and if I went home with every one of them I'd be too tired to write funny shit and then where would we be? Besides, you're drunk and full of cookies and it could get ugly very quickly."

I guess she saw the sense of this because she got into her car and drove slowly away. As she turned into the street, the headlights of the passing cars showed the gleam of tears streaming down her cheeks. I felt badly until I remembered I still had a glass of Scotch sitting in the Boom Boom Room in the bar, so I went back inside whistling merrily.

As I resumed my seat, Matt the Waiter came over and said, "Dude, Haley is so hot. Can you give me a hook-up on that?" I thought to myself, Matt, you are obviously young and inexperienced and have not yet learned that statuesque, imperious, witty, charming blondes with huge hearts and nice racks are a dime a dozen, but I didn't say that to him. Instead I said, "Sure, if you don't mind wearing jammies that say 'Hulles' on the breast and are okay with her calling out my name at the most inopportune moments, sure I can hook you up." He seemed satisfied with that answer and walked away smiling, the poor fool.

And so ended my evening with Haley. All in all, it was quite a trial for me but I got through it. My driver eventually dropped me off at the old chateau and Brook Busey called just as I walked in the door, so I guess it had a happy ending, at least for Brook. But I found myself muttering just before I dropped off to sleep that the next time Haley's mother asks me to do her a favor, I'm going to slap the mom hard and say "Bitch please." She owes me. Big time.

- Hulles

And Besides...

2010-01-31T16:26:00.007-06:00

Without malice aforethought I seem to be in an expository (it's not what you think) mode right now. And I know there are some beer-guzzling, hockey-watching young bucks out there - you know who you are - who think that my more recent pieces are a bit, well, high-brau. (And you can surely believe that if I could patent and trademark a sentence it would be that one.) Well, this one's for you.

What I am about to present is an extremely brief excerpt from a play called "The Jew of Malta" by Christopher Marlowe. You don't really need to know anything about the play, but if you're curious it was likely written about 1590. Here's what you need to remember:

FRIAR BARNARDINE. Thou hast committed--
BARABAS. Fornication: but that was in another country;
And besides, the wench is dead.

So what, you ask? Well, every guy, no matter what the color of his baseball cap, has the odd occasion when he has to step up to the conversational plate. Example:

Drunken Buddy #1: "Dude, didn't you used to boink Betty Jo Bielowski? I can't believe you did that, even now."

You, taking a drink of what I would hope would be your martini but is really a Milwaukee's Best Ice: "Ah, but that was in another country; and besides, the wench is dead."

Drunken Buddy #1: "Guh?"

Well, it doesn't sound so great when I type it here, but trust me. It's the conversational equivalent of standing on the center line and making the game-winning basket as the horn sounds. Although as I think about it, Drunken Buddies #1 - #37 may not appreciate it as much as I might wish.

Fine. Here's another scenario: You are standing at the bar trying to make small talk and not stare at the cleavage of the succulent woman next to you.

Her: "Have you ever dated one of your professors before?" [Actually, it could be anything that starts with "Have you ever ____", but I'm assuming you just lied and said you finished college.]

You, taking a manly swig of a microbrew you know nothing about but that sounded lots cooler than an MBI: "Ah, but that was in another country; and besides, the wench is dead."

Her: "Guh?"

Well. Okay. I suppose that I have to give up and admit that you can't trot the line out just anywhere. But somewhere, someday, you will be in a position where you need the conversational shot from the center line to win the game, and you will remember this. And use it. And people will say to themselves, "Dang! Nice one!" and buy you a Milwaukee's Best Ice and the cutest among them will drag you home and wreak great sex upon you.

Who do you thank when that happens? If you say "Christopher Marlowe" I'm not letting you read my blog anymore. (I have a monopoly on this blog.) Nope. You thank "Hulles." Although if I happen to be in the crowd at the time you say it, I'm going to chime in with "Hey, nice one, Christoper Marlowe, 'Jew of Malta'. Let's see, what year did he write that? Oh yeah, it was 1589 or 1590, thereabouts." Hey, I could use the sex wreakage myself, let alone the beer.

- Hulles

How Can Something So Right Be Sarong? Part Two

2010-01-30T19:53:00.011-06:00

(This is the second installment of the story of Hulles' foray into the world of fashion design, see Part One )

And now with gifts (the pow'rful bribes of love),
He furnishes her closet first; and fills
The crowded shelves with rarities of shells;
Adds orient pearls, which from the conchs he drew,
And all the sparkling stones of various hue:
And parrots, imitating human tongue,
And singing-birds in silver cages hung:
And ev'ry fragrant flow'r, and od'rous green,
Were sorted well, with lumps of amber laid between:
Rich fashionable robes her person deck,
Pendants her ears, and pearls adorn her neck:
Her taper'd fingers too with rings are grac'd,
And an embroider'd zone surrounds her slender waste.
Thus like a queen array'd, so richly dress'd,
Beauteous she shew'd, but naked shew'd the best.

- Ovid, Metamorphoses X, The Story of Pygmalion and the Statue

The story of Pygmalion and the Statue, as told by Ovid, is this, as told by Hulles:

Pygmalion was a Greek guy who basically thought women sucked, big surprise, so he just hung around his house doing the classical equivalent of playing video games: sculpting. One day after he got to the twenty-ninth level of sculpting, he created a statue of a woman in ivory. He was proud of the job he did on her and went to bed happy. But as the days went by, he started liking his creation more and more, to the point where he couldn't keep his eyes off it and kept touching it. He began to fall in love with the statue; finally he went for it and kissed her and grabbed her boob.

Well, that made Pygmalion feel sort of stupid so he stood back from the statue in embarrassment. But as he stood there a little more, he realized that she had responded about as much as the last real woman he had dated, so he said the Greek equivalent of "What the fuck!", and climbed her frame. Afterward he became sort of worried that he might have gouged the ivory in his gusto, so he checked her out. She was just fine and here we all say, "Phew! Close one!".

As more time went by, Pygmalion began talking to it and dressing it up and buying it shit (see above), and eventually the statue ends up in bed with him. Now we've all been there, so I needn't elaborate. But he said to himself the Greek equivalent of, "Dude! She's a statue!" so he skipped down to the feast of Venus which was already in progress, murmured a quick and humble prayer to the goddess, then peeked between his fingers to see what had happened. Score! Apparently Venus thought Ivory Girl was pretty hot, too, so she made the fires go on and off, sort of like last call, to tell Pygmalion he got lucky.

Pygmalion scurried home and kissed the statue and grabbed her boob again. Woohoo! She's coming to life! He doesn't believe it at first so he keeps grabbing her boob, just like I would do, until finally she opens her eyes and lives. Woohoo! They leap into to bed and ten months later have a baby boy who grows up to be the classical equivalent of the Mayor of Cleveland.

So that is Ovid's tale of Pygmalion and the Statue, or at least it's the Hulles version. In passing, I should mention that the statue doesn't have a name in any classical telling of the tale; she picked up "Galatea" as a name in the 1700's probably.

As you may know, this story has been retold many times, notably by George Bernard Shaw in his play "Pygmalion," from which the movie "My Fair Lady" was made. I find it a powerful story, myself, and it has always been dear to my heart. I wanted to read Ovid in Latin but I never got around to it (and my Latin was never good enough, to be honest).

As familiar as I am with the story, however, I never realized until quite recently that there was an implied meaning to Ovid's "Pygmalion" that I had never grasped: that, in a very real sense, it was the statue that caused the sculptor to come to life. And that is why this post is the second in the Sarong saga.

- Hulles

For Beth

2010-01-30T11:36:00.005-06:00

Johannes Scotus Eriugena (c. 815 -877) was an Irish philosopher who, according to some, was "one of the most original thinkers of the entire Middle Ages." He was head of the Palace School in France at the invitation of King Charles the Bald. From William of Malmesbury via Wikipedia:

[King Charles] having asked, Quid distat inter sottum et Scottum? (What separates a sot (drunkard) from an Irishman?) Eriugena replied, Mensa tantum (Only a table).

Ah, those wacky Medieval philosophers. I love the above little anecdote and just had to share it. No wonder Eriugena was on the Irish £5 banknote from 1976 through 1993.

The reason I was reading about Johannes Scotus Eriugena was that I recalled from my college days that he was (apocryphally) stabbed to death by the pens of his students. Whose says philosophy isn't exciting? Today, I imagine he would be stoned to death by students' iPhones.

-- Hulles

Suzi Skis In The Pyrenees

2010-01-28T07:31:00.009-06:00

Not so long ago I was on my way out of the dentist's office when I stopped to chat up the cute young receptionist. I complimented her on her nail polish, which was a lovely shade of black.

"Oh no," she exclaimed, "This color is not black, it is called Suzi Skis in the Pyrenees".

"Excuse me?"

"Suzi Skis in the Pyrenees."

She then informed me in so many words that I was an überNeanderthal and that fingernail polish colors had had fanciful names for at least, say, two years. Well, I suppose every woman knows that, but up to that moment I had been entirely ignorant of this development in fingernail polish onomastics. I confess that I mostly let my nails go naked. Of course this is true except for when, like all men, I paint my toenails in purple metalflake before concealing them with white gym socks with no elastic left in them and going to play basketball at the YMCA. "Our little secret," we men call it amongst ourselves. But lately those occasions have been few and far between, and I mostly get all the fingernail polish I need in my Christmas stocking, so I guess it makes sense that I didn't know about Suzi Skis in the Pyrenees. The name continues to haunt me however, thus this story:

"Schuss!" said Suzi to a shih tzu sitting on the steps as she sauntered out of the chalet. She giggled to herself at her little joke. It was only her second day in Andorra, a tiny country nestled in the Pyrenees Mountains, and she was already having the time of her life. She was 23, insouciant, blond, well-endowed, packing Platinum Visa, and had already slept with a Spanish person and a French person on this trip. She giggled again just for joy as she adjusted her pinkest ski outfit to better show off her figure and prepared to hit the resort's two-diamond.

"Schuss!" cried Suzi as she glid down the the slope. The sun was shining with an explosive brightness, and the snow crystals in her wake glittered like cubic zirconia as she sped back and forth down the mountain. She had not a care in the world, and she determined then and there that she would maintain that state for the entire duration of her vacation, come what may.

As she entered the chalet after a long day of skiing she was surprised to see that no one was at the front desk. She shrugged to herself, then continued down the hall to the après-ski lounge with the huge fireplace, in front of which she planned to seduce that dark-haired boy from New York she had met the previous day who smelled so very much like money. Just before she entered the lounge, however, she heard a man yelling something at the top of his lungs, so she stopped in her tracks. "The last thing I need on this vay-kay is to walk into a domestic," she thought. "That would totally kill my buzz on this beautiful day."

Suzi crept up to the door and peeked into the lounge. She was chagrined to see that the entire resort staff and all the guests save her were being held at gunpoint by a group of slovenly-dressed men who obviously had not showered in some time. "Hmmm," she said to herself, "Why are there Frenchmen here with guns? I must listen closely and find out."

One of the gunmen in the room was screaming into the telephone with a marked French accent. "I say again, stupid American, connect me to the head of your CNN Europe news bureau! I lose patience, and lives are at stake!"

After a short pause, Suzi heard the man begin to scream even more loudly and become apoplectic with rage. "I am to declare myself here Boris II, the sovereign prince of Andorra, and I and my gang of swarthy Lascars from former French colonies take control of this ski resort in the Pyrenees. We demand 20 million euros in ransom for these spoiled children of rich people who speak English!"

"Andorra! A-N-D-O-R-R-A, stupid American pig-dog! It is the sixth smallest nation in Europe and its population has the longest life expectancy of any country in the world! Now relay my demands to whoever is in charge of these things at once! You have one hour until we begin skimming the bodies of young American tourists down the luge run, clad only their underpants!"

With that the man slammed down the telephone and turned to glower at his cowering captives, his mustache quivering with rage.

"Holy shit!" said Suzi softly, looking at her Rolex Lady Oyster Perpetual watch. "I've only got one hour!" She turned on her heel and ran off to her room as quickly and quietly as she could.

Once in her room, Suzi snapped open all five of her Gucci suitcases and popped open the secret compartment in each of them. She gathered all the makeup that fell out of the first and hurried to the bathroom. She washed her lovely blond hair, then dyed it a jet black. "Fuck," she said to herself. "There goes Mr. Dark-Haired Meal Ticket. Oh well, as the evil French guy said, lives are at stake!" She then smoothed dead white makeup on her face and began to apply heavy mascara to her eyes. When that was accomplished, Suzi then painted her nails with fingernail polish the color of which, oddly enough, was "Black".

Once all was done in the bathroom, Suzi came back into the bedroom and began rummaging through another of the suitcases. At last she came up with a nose ring, a labret stud, two nipple rings, and a curved belly button barbell, all in platinum by Christian Dior. "These will have to do, since this is a rush job," she muttered to herself as she inserted each one into its proper orifice.

After bedecking herself with the jewelry, she emptied the remaining three suitcases onto the bed. Three sets of clothing in varying shades of black landed on the bedspread. "Gods," moaned Suzi. "Look at them! They're all wrinkled!" But she sucked it up and chose one outfit from among them. "The dark black will show the wrinkles less," she thought.

Suzi glanced at her Rolex after smacking it against the door frame to make sure it hadn't stopped. 55 minutes had elapsed since the Frenchman had made his threat! She sprinted from her room full-tilt to the door of the lounge, took a minute to compose herself, then sauntered nonchalantly into the room.

The man who called himself Boris II was chatting amiably with one of the female guests as he cocked his gun and prepared to shoot her. "Ho ho," he said. "I have asked for 20 million euros, and in this Andorra country it is tax-free! It should be enough to keep my children in wine for a long time, no?" He then chuckled evilly, as only the French can do.

Suddenly Boris II saw the newcomer in the room from the corner of his eye and started visibly. He turned and stared at her. "Zut alors!" he cried. "What is this then? An apparition? But I have killed no one yet! Soon perhaps, but not yet!"

"Zoot a lore yourself, nasty French person. I am no apparition, I am... Goth Girl!" said Suzi triumphantly, trying but failing miserably to sound completely bored. "Prepare to be foiled in your evil plans!"

Boris II blinked. "Hah! Who are you to stop me, eh? What will you do? Throw your silly lip thing at me?" He and his henchmen all chuckled evilly at that.

"You won't have such an easy time of it as that," said Suzi with a fake yawn. "Unless you immediately lay down your weapons, let these people go, then go take showers, I shall first aloof you, then I shall treat you with scathing indifference, then I shall overwhelm you by my morbid fascination with death!"

"Sacre bleu, my delicate French sensibilities cannot withstand such an onslaught!" said Boris II. "You win! We surrender! Lucky for us we are used to it!"

---

"Schuss!" cried Suzi jubilantly as she glid down the slopes of the Pyrenees the following day, newly re-blonded and followed closely by the Dark-Haired Meal Ticket. "Schuss!"

- Hulles

Suave Is Too My Middle Name

2010-01-25T15:48:00.003-06:00

So. A beautiful Greek goddess thinly disguised as a Minnesotan just walked into my bar. Me being me (which is my excuse for everything), I walked up to her and said, "Hi, my name's Hulles. I want you to buy me a drink, come home with me and sex me down, then clean my bathroom."

She looked me up and down, smiled coyly, and said, "Pick one."

Just my luck! At least I got a drink out of the deal.

- Hulles

How Can Something So Right Be Sarong? Part One

2010-01-21T13:30:00.007-06:00

Not so long ago I gave someone very dear to me something that I will call, for lack of a better word that I am able to pronounce, a sarong. It is made of cotton (I think), has a dark blue and black pattern, wraps around her waist, and becomes her quite nicely. I suppose at this point I should explain that this person and I are just friends and I am totally not in love with her, even though she's beautiful, intelligent, witty, loving, funny, artistic, lithe, steamy hot, enjoys watching Lesbian porn, has eyes that one could fall into forever...what? Oh yeah, I was saying that we're just friends. At any rate, upon receiving my humble gift, this person – Sandy – said something like, “I love it! It's beautiful! I'll have to figure out a top to wear with it, though.” And I said, “Hey, no problemo, Toots. I'll make you a top.”

Well, I didn't really say “no problemo, Toots” because I don't talk like that, but I did say that I'd make her a top.

You'd think I would have learned better by now. Statements rashly uttered have gotten me into trouble before, things like “Sure, I'll help you move,” “Your jail house tat sucks,” and “Hey, want to get married?” But apparently I have yet to master the ability to think before I shoot my mouth off. Big surprise, right?

So I'm making Sandy a top. And I have no idea what I'm doing.

A day or two after my off-hand comment I realized that, not only was I actually going to go through with this project, but that I had some trepidation about it. Some trepidation? More like white-knuckle fear. I couldn't at first figure out what I was afraid of, until I realized that I was afraid I was going to like designing Sandy a top. “Hah!” said my friend Haley, of whom all the things I said about Sandy are true as well except possibly for enjoying Lesbian porn, have to ask her sometime, “Hah! What you're really afraid of is that, not only will you like it, but you'll be good at it.” And she was right, of course. Incidentally Haley recently became real, but that's probably another blog entry.

The very first issue that I had to confront was what to actually call this thing I was to create. My initial inclination was to call it a shirt, because that's the only form of apparel that guys wear above their waist and I'm pretty comfortable with the concept if not always the execution. But then I recalled that she's a girl (*sigh*), and it might actually be a blouse. Or a chemise. Or a peignoir, who knows? So I settled for calling it a “top,” because I am reasonably confident that it is not a “bottom”, and thus I felt ready to tackle the next hurdle, to mix sports metaphors.

What should it look like? My criteria were that the top be simple, elegant and make this lovely woman appear even more lovely. “Pfaugh! Easy! No problemo!” I said to myself. Well, once again I didn't really say “no problemo,” and I kind of struggled with pronouncing “pfaugh,” but you get the idea – I was confident to the point of cockiness of my ability to design a garment that a beautiful young lady could wear in the evening with a sarong. Until I actually tried to come up with a design. Nothing. Zero. Zip. Nada. Then it struck me: my entire experience with women's fashion to that point had consisted of picking up clothes off the bedroom floor after a night of heavy drinking and subsequently burning them.

Yet I know how my mind works, so I simply let it roil and percolate for a few days until it came up with a design that I liked. Then I revised it because it was too complex and it became two tops. “Gleep!” I said, and that one I actually was able to pronounce without too many problemos. “The project has already grown! Soon I'll be coming out with my own fashion line and have to pretend that I'm gay and buy over-priced real estate in Florida!” But I now had two designs in my head and thus I felt ready to hit the Internet and dive head-first into the rocky shoals of fashion design.

Let me tell you right away that there are not too many fashion design web sites that are meant for beer-swilling, football-watching, shit-kicking Iowa boys like yours truly, who secretly believe in their heart of hearts that women who look like Sandy (and Haley) should wear no clothes whatsoever. For starters, most – as in, all – of these web sites presuppose that you know something about fashion. What the fuck is a selvage (US) or selvedge (British)? Do I need one? Do I need two? What is damask? Organza? (Sort of like the sound of that one.) What in Calvin Klein's name is “Poly Double Georgette?” These sites could have been in Symbionese for all the sense they made to me.

“Okey dokey,” as Hannibal Lector might say, “time to limit my searches to that which I am pretty sure I will need – silk.” You see, my vision of Sandy's top (*sigh*) was to be realized in black silk. I even knew exactly what the fabric should look like and how I wanted it to feel. Finding it proved to be something of a challenge, however. Did you know that there are such things as “free-range silkworms”? I can only image the Japanese silkworm drovers on little ponies cracking their whips and cursing (in Japanese of course) as the Great Silkworm Drive begins; the plains themselves rumble with the susurration of thousands of wild silkworms being herded to the great silk factories of.... Yep. Free-range silkworms. Did you also know that some silk can be pinned and some can't? That some silk is suitable for linings and some for garments per se? That “watered silk” is pressed between rollers to impart a design to the fabric in a process called “calendaring”? Yeah, me neither.

But I persevere. I will keep you posted on my progress in these pages, to the point where I actually present my creations to Sandy. Speaking of which, I am a total gentleman and would never expect Sandy to fuck my wheels off in frank gratitude for the hours and hours I am spending on this project. I can get laid any time; or more precisely, I can get laid any time once I place my Onion Personals ad. If, however, Sandy feels that said wheels will continue to be an unsightly and crippling hindrance to me the rest of my life unless immediate action is taken, who am I to refuse? One must be gracious, after all.

- Hulles

That's What Little Boys Are Made Of

2010-01-19T10:06:00.004-06:00

The last time I was able to sit down and chat with my mother, she told me the following little anecdote about my brother Tom, aka Leo:

When Leo was 7 or 8 years old he had a huge crush on a pretty little girl named Janine. Of course, being my brother, he was too shy to actually speak to her, so instead he lived with his 8-year-old fantasies while being snubbed from afar.

However, one day he came home from school extremely excited and said, "Mom, guess what! Janine talked to me today!"

"Really, what did you do?" Mom asked.

"Well, I didn't know what to do so I hit her."

Go Leo.

-- Hulles

A Close Shave

2010-01-13T13:09:00.004-06:00

Recently - as in minutes ago - I was reading an Onion article when I noticed at the bottom of the page a blurb for "the Onion Personals". "What the..." I said to myself. I wasn't sure if it was a joke or not, the Onion being what it is, so I followed the link. As it turned out, it seemed to be a real on-line dating (OLD, an acronym I'm not entirely comfortable with) service. "Hmmm..." I said to myself, still savoring the flavor of the last ellipsis in my mouth, "Perhaps I'll sign up. I've never done the OLD gig before, and if there was ever a publication with which to be associated for dating purposes it would be the Onion. Hey, maybe Alexis would still give me sex advice even though it's not Vita.MN!"

No sooner thought than commenced. I began to fill out the questionnaire for a new account and was immediately confronted with my first moral, ethical and spiritual quandary. Even at the time, I knew it would not be the last such quandary I would face before the process was finished. It was, as you might guess: Do I lie? After much head-scratching I decided, "Hell, yes!" although I promised myself that I would skirt the truth closely enough that you could at least see it from there. And I hadn't even gotten to the hard parts yet. The very first choice I had to make was a user name. "It shouldn't be your real name," the instructions cautioned. My inclination was to use "Hulles," even though that has become my real name for all intents and purposes the last few years. The argument against this was that I immediately imagined the cherished readers of this blog would glom onto my personal life like leeches onto my thigh that one time. But I used it anyway. Like I care.

So "Hulles" it would be. Next ME&S quandary: age. "I'll tell the truth here," I thought proudly. "Damn the tortillas, and all ahead flank." I also probably said "Aaargh!" to myself; I don't really recall. So I put in the month and day of my birth, but to my chagrin the drop-down box for the year only had years Anno Domini. So I approximated -- 1989. I did this even though I knew full well it would mean springing for the shit that old men use to "blend the gray in naturally", whatever the hell it's called. At least a bottle of it would last a long time.

Onward. The next question was "Occupation." Now, for most people this wouldn't be a hard question but it was for me, because actually I began hoping that women would respond to my personal ad, even if it was just a hint of condensation on a vinyl chair. In the end I chose "drummer." Perfect.

Now for the meat: I needed a catchy tag line for my ad. That one turned out to be not so tough -- I am the master of the catchphrase. I ended up with "I only played a stalker in the movies, honest!". "Fair enough," says I, "That ought to make 'em grab their iPhones® and start frantically typing in a reply with one finger while driving."

On to the description of me. "Oh, where to start!" I wailed, alarming the cat. "I have so much trouble talking about myself!" An understatement indeed, as faithful readers of this blog know quite well. Here is the shit up with which I came, thank you very much Winston Churchill:

First, I should tell you that I'm not really a drummer. I chose that occupation because it seemed to sum up my socio-economic status quite nicely in one word. I am, however, a writer, which might be even worse. I am completely inexperienced at on-line dating, but I know a lot about love. I have been in 8,234 long-term relationships, and in fact I have a dramatic and convincing testimonial on my FaceBook® Wall from my ex-wife that pretty much says it all. My friends tell me that I am the most heterosexual man they know when we're out at the '90s, and I suppose my enemies say the same thing. Yet I remain humble.

I enjoy going out for the occasional adult beverage when you can afford it, I am a former ex-smoker, and I use strong language when the situation warrants, like now when the 'e' key is sticking on my fucking keyboard, but other than that I have no flaws whatsoever and I expect the same of my date.

I am told I completely lack a sense of humor, but I am on a waiting list for a transplant at the U of M Hospital. Until then I read the Onion so I can fake it.

Finally, I should say that I really DID play a stalker in the movies, and I'll send you the links should it come to that. I look forward very much to meeting you.

"Not bad, albeit a bit pithy," I thought, "And it only took two hours to write!" So I reviewed my entry for spelling, grammar and punctuation (which in itself immediately set me apart from most ads) and hit the "SEND" button on the web page, which was labeled "page 2 of 2". This of course took me to page 3 of 2, which was (as you more experienced OLD people probably know already) the page where you decide what level of membership you want: Gold, which was stupefyingly expensive and only to be used by the most hopeless wretches, and Silver, which was merely expensive and means you show up after the hopeless wretches in searches. I looked in vain for a Bronze membership, which would be cheap, or even better a Tin membership which would be free. Alas, the Onion Personals deal only in precious metals. So I sat there in stunned disbelief for several minutes before finally hitting the GTFO icon in the corner of the screen. That was followed by language most foul, as I realized that I hadn't copied the description reproduced above, of which I was very proud. So I had to laboriously reconstruct it from an already feeble memory for this blog entry, and you're welcome, dammit.

So - a lesson painfully learned. In the aftermath of the tragedy, I concluded two things: first, that I had enough moral, ethical and spiritual quandaries raising two beautiful daughters in high school (them, not me) that I don't need more from a punk-ass dating service, and second, that the Twin Cities on-line dating scene will have to survive without me for a while longer, at least until I have some money.

But then again, if I have money I won't need a dating service.

-- Hulles

The Omens

2009-09-13T13:10:00.003-05:00

I believe in omens. I try to remain omen-aware on a day-to-day basis, and when I encounter omens I try to inculcate their semiotics, whatever that means. Occasionally I have been known to alter my life because of particularly portentous omens. Today might be one of those days.

You see, I have had a couple of omens in recent hours. Last night as I was driving home from the bar church, two fat skunks waddled across the road in front of me near my house. Skunks are a rare sight around here; I actually said "Hunh!" out loud if you can imagine that.

This morning I awoke with Marilyn Manson's "If I Was Your Vampire" tenaciously lodged in my head. (It's a song, Mom.) It's still there, as a matter of fact.

What can this mean? Should I dread meeting wereskunks today? Or stinky vampires? I think I'll cower in fear over both possibilities, just to be safe.

As a direct result of these ominous harbingers, I am determined to take decisive action. I just have to figure out what actions to take decisively, is all.

I can't afford silver bullets for my pistol, so if I encounter Wereskunks I suppose I'll have yank the molars out of my mouth and use them for ammo in my Wrist Rocket slingshot. That should do nicely for the creepy little men-by-day-skunks-by-night.

However, though ordinarily quite efficacious, I don't suppose garlic would work very well to repel Stinky Vampires. It might even attract them, who knows? So a garlic braid necklace, my normal first line of defense in cases like this, is out of the question.

As a result, if you see me today and I have a sharp pointy stick hidden behind my back as I come up and sniff you, you'll know what's going on. If you're pale and haven't showered, be prepared for a splintery wooden death.

I'll let you know how today turns out, from beyond the grave if necessary. Wish me luck.

- Hulles

The Ultimate Facebook Friend

2009-05-24T10:24:00.009-05:00

"Just when you thought you had enough Facebook Friends, devout followers of the Vatican can soon add the Pope as a friend." - Reuters

I don't want to assume too much. If you don't know what Facebook is, you should go here. Suffice it to say that Facebook is a so-called "social networking" application that lets you tell the whole world - or at least your Facebook Friends - what you're eating for lunch on a given day. It is a huge social phenomenon and if you don't already have a Facebook account you must be my mother.

So, given the news I reproduced at the top of this post, here is what my Facebook page will look like soon:

...

The Pope has sent you a New Friend Request. Accept / I am a Protestant

...

The Pope sent a request using Vampires:

Dear victim, you have been bitten by The Pope! Click the 'Start Biting Chumps' button to become a Vampire and start biting and fighting other chumps!

...

The Pope has commented on your photo:

Vos vultus funditus fervens in ut picture!

...

The Pope sent a request using Kidnap!:

You have been Kidnap'd by The Pope to Venice with the Roman Catapult!

...

The Pope completed the quiz "What type of underwear are you?" with the result COMMANDO- NO PANTIES!!.

You are COMMANDO! You are a true extrovert with no inhibitions! You are a firm believer that rules are made to be broken, conformity sucks and clothes were made to be taken off! You are the life of the party who is on everybody's A-List. We can always count on you to get the party started and you do it with reckless abandon. You bring out the party animal in others and we LOVE YOU!.

...

The Pope has poked you! Poke back / Go to Confession

-- Hulles

Scotsmen Lose Their Purses

2009-05-06T15:22:00.006-05:00

Six hundred years after every other European male, the Scotsman must bid adieu to his purse. According to the Edinburgh Daily Scotsman,

"European politicians yesterday spelled the end of the traditional Scottish sporran by voting to ban the sale of seal products across the continent. The move will mean the manufacture and sale of sealskin sporrans will be illegal from next autumn. This will affect existing unsold stock and also the second-hand trade.

"The vast majority of sporrans worn with the traditional Scottish national dress are made from sealskin."

We would like to reassure readers that, in spite of the demise of their purses, Scotsmen will continue to wear skirts.

- Hulles

Packin' iPod

2009-05-05T16:03:00.005-05:00

"The iPod... fulfills the U.S. military's need to equip soldiers with a single device that can perform many different tasks. Apple's online App Store offers more than 25,000 (and counting) applications for the iPhone and iPod Touch, which shares the iPhone's touchscreen.... An iPod 'may be all that they need,' says Lt. Col. Jim Ross, director of the Army's intelligence, electronic warfare and sensors operations in Fort Monmouth, New Jersey." - Newsweek

Somewhere in the hinterlands of Iraq:

Pvt. Sacco: "Holy shit! We're being shot at!

Bullets zing by.

Cpl. Vanzetti: "There's a sniper in that abandoned building over there. Can any of you spot him?"

More shots fired.

Pvt. Trotsky: "Nope."

Pvt. Sacco: "No, no sign of him."

Cpl. Vanzetti: "I'm calling this in to HQ to get us some backup. Trotsky, give me your iPhone."

Pvt. Trotsky [sullenly]: "Here. But there's not much battery left. And give it back when you're done, I'm following Diablo Cody on Twitter."

The Corporal dials his Captain's number on the iPhone.

Voice: "Hi, you've reached Doris. I'm not available to take your call right now but please leave a message. To page me, please press '5' now."

Cpl. Vanzetti: "Damn it. I must have written the number down wrong. Anybody got the HQ number?"

Pvt. Sacco: "Yeah, hang on, I have it on speed dial."

The Private rattles off the number and the Corporal tries again.

Capt. Scurageous: "Captain Scurageous."

Cpl. Vanzetti: "Sir, this is Corporal Vanzetti. My squad is on patrol and we're pinned down by sniper fire in the village of Bumfuk."

Capt. Scuragreous: "Really? I thought that was in Egypt."

Cpl. Vanzetti: "Begging the Captain's pardon, but if you check 'Things To Do Around The World' on your iPod you'll see that there are two Bumfuks, one in Egypt and one in Iraq. We're in the one in Iraq."

Capt. Scurageous: "I'll be damned. Of course you are, son, of course you are. Now what about that sniper? Are you returning fire?"

Cpl. Vanzetti: "No sir, no one here has a weapon."

Capt. Scurageous: "WHAT!"

Cpl. Vanzetti: "That's right, sir. Remember that Col. Ross said that iPods and iPhones are all we need."

Capt. Scurageous [grinding his teeth]: "Well, ain't that great? I suppose you've thought of throwing your iPods at the sniper?"

Cpl. Vanzetti: "Yes sir. Private Ryan bought it when he was trying to sneak in closer to chuck his iPhone into the middle of the sniper's nest. By the way, it shares a touch screen with the iPod. Anyway, the Private got a call and his ring tone went off, Kanye's "Heartless" I think it was. Fucker never had a chance, begging your pardon sir."

Capt. Scurageous: "Well, you boys and girls stay put and I'll send some air cover and a couple - "

Cpl. Vanzetti: "Shit. I lost him. We're out of the cellular signal coverage area. Sacco, how many bars do you have over there?"

Pvt. Sacco: "I've got two bars, Corporal."

Cpl. Vanzetti: "Well we'll just have to make that do. Call the Captain back and tell him our position, and that we'll toss a neon green flashing iPod out to mark our - "

Pvt. Sacco: "Corporal, the sniper has ceased firing. Maybe we can sneak away."

Cpl. Vanzetti: "He probably just ran out of ammo."

Pvt. Trotsky: "No, I can just barely make out the theme music from KingdomGame. He must have found Ryan's iPhone after all."

Cpl. Vanzetti: "Well, I'll be damned. He'll probably be playing that sucker all night. I'm going to make sure Pvt. Ryan gets a medal out of this at least."

Pvt. Sacco: "That'd be great. In the meantime, I'll just see if any of the locals have a Jeep for sale so we can get the hell out of here."

Cpl. Vanzetti: "Carry on, Private. Carry on."

- Hulles

Quick! Someone Hand Me An E-Club!

2009-04-28T12:59:00.005-05:00

Earlier today, while ensconced like a zebra mussel at the redundantly-named Nina's Coffee Cafe, I was looking through previous posts in this blog to remind myself of what lies I have already told you. Since I cherish my remaining readers, it is my fervent desire to be consistent if not truthful as I crank out new entries. Eventually I led myself to an old blog entry called "Sadly, It's Come To This Once Again," published in December of 2006 (!). That post contains the following paragraph:

In conclusion I would remind you that these rules are in place to ensure your comfort and safety while at the Hulles blog. Also, let me once again point out that when the day comes when I open the gates of New Lugburz and release the ravening hordes of Hulles Death Commandos in slightly-modified Hooters uniforms upon an unsuspecting world, you will want to be one of those with the correctly-drawn Smiling Mamegoma on your door so they will pass you by. And you will only find that Smiling Mamegoma on this blog. So please check back here early and often for your own continued well-being and that of your family.

After reading the above post, I found myself chuckling at my own subtle wit and dry humor as usual: "Ravening hordes, hah hah, Hulles you kill me. Not to mention Smiling Mamegoma!" It was then that I realized that I had absolutely no idea of whatever the hell a Smiling Mamegoma might be. I immediately turned to the Hulles Mythos (which is why it exists) and found this entry:

Smiling Mamegoma
: No idea what this is either

Well that wasn't very helpful, but at least I was honest. Time to google "smiling mamegoma". I did this, and on the first page of the search results I found this:

Check it out! My Hulles Mythos page is in the top 10 results! Unfortunately, this links back to:

Smiling Mamegoma
: No idea what this is either

Lucky for me there were a couple other search results that were more promising. The one that fascinated me the most was an entry in Destructoid, a gaming forum. This entry contained the following video:

WARNING: THIS VIDEO CONTAINS INTENSE CUTENESS AND IS NOT FOR THE SQUEAMISH, SO TIGHTEN YOUR NETSUKE STRAPS AND GRAB YOUR OMIJUKIS

The person who wrote the Destructoid entry said this about the video:

Between the ability to dress your tiny aquatic friend in wigs or anachronistic finery and staring into its beady eyes as you coo sweet promises of a life free from e-clubbings, I think it's safe to assume that this sort of thing is expressly designed to moisten the underoos of Japanese teenage girls (and a few of my female friends).

One thing I noticed immediately is that this person thinks a lot like I do. In fact, it crossed my mind to rip off the e-clubbing comment, it was so good. My atrophied moral sense was able to kaff weakly and hack out an objection to this idea however, which suprised me as much as it no doubt surprises you. As a result of this I (forgoed? forwent?) resisted the temptation to steal the phrase except for in the title. However, I should mention in passing that I thought that "moisten the underoos of Japanese teenage girls" was pretty Hulles-like as well and it provided a similar temptation.

I Still Have A Friend In Japan!

So once you're done puking day-glo pink foam over the cuteness of the above video, you'll probably start wondering where the hell I ran into Smiling Mamegomas (and Netsuke Straps and Omijukis) in the first place. I know I wondered, so I traced this all back to another blog entry of mine, called "I Have A Friend In Japan!", which contained the following paragraph:

Even better than the seal mascot costume rentals was a web site called “J-List – You've got a friend in Japan!” I found this on their site:

”Mamegoma is a super cute seal mascot franchise from San-X (Tarepanda, Nyanko, Rilakkuma) that features colorful and genki seals. This netsuke strap not only features a smiling Mamegoma, but also has an omijuki that tells your fortune!”

Yikes! I only know what three of those words mean. But I really like the idea of a seal mascot franchise.

So there you have it, the Smiling Mamegoma story, soon to be made into a cable TV miniseries. If you want to know more about seal mascot franchises etc. I leave it to you to read the aforementioned blog entry. It is, of course, subtly witty and drily humorous like everything I write except for the stuff that isn't. And if you're in the market for genki seals yourself, in spite of it sounding like a Jewish dating service try J-List for all of your inscrutable Tarepanda, Nyanko, and Rilakkuma accessory purchases. You also have a friend in Japan!

I need to wrap this up now, because my own personal omijuki just told me my fortune: "Tonight you will be lucky in love." I imagine that means the roller girls are back in town so I need to go knock over a liquor store for some cash. This fortune is ever so much better than the last one I got: "Help! I'm being held captive in an omijuki factory!". Good Lord, a Japanese Alan King is out there somewhere.

- Hulles

Solving Our Planet's Energy Crisis

2009-04-26T12:45:00.009-05:00

Dedicated to the Suburbs

Recently, President Barack Obama visited Iowa to discuss, among other things, Iowa's contribution to meeting our country's energy needs in an ecologically responsible fashion. In fact, Iowa is "the second largest wind producer in the nation" according to the White House. He was no doubt referring to windmills, but that's only the tip of the iceberg as far as Iowa wind is concerned. My friend Dave the Crazed Engineer and I recently completed our initial design of a radical new invention that will go a long way to both reducing atmospheric pollution and providing a new renewable energy resource for this great nation.

Both being from Iowa originally, Dave and I realized that cow flatulence is a major source of global warming. According to the UN, "[l]ivestock are responsible for 18 per cent of the greenhouse gases that cause global warming, more than cars, planes and all other forms of transport put together." This is a bad thing. When cows fart they produce methane, which (according to the same UN report) "warms the world 20 times faster than carbon dioxide". Hmmm, Dave and I thought, it would be great to cut down on cow flatulence to help our lovely planet remain healthy and keep the icecaps from melting which would cause the Atlantic Ocean to annex Battery Park in New York City etc. etc.

Since Dave the Crazed Engineer and I are pretty smart guys, just ask us, we also knew that methane is a combustible gas that can be used as a fuel source. They have in fact built methane-powered energy plants in various places around the world. Wouldn't it be great, we thought, if we could capture and store cow farts so that we could kill two birds with one stone: help combat global warming and give the world a "new" renewable energy source.

Thus it is that we came up with the Cow Tube. How it works is simple: a tractor tire inner tube is placed around the midriff of a cow, beef or dairy, it matters not. The device has a hose that runs from a connector on the midriff tube to a valve stuck into the cow's ass that gates the flatulence into the tube, filling it up as the cow grazes. Eventually, when the cows come home to roost, the farmer "de-gasses" the cows and stores the collected methane in tanks in a process very similar to milking. Periodically, a methane tanker comes by the farm and loads the stored methane, then hauls it off to power the industry that has made the U.S. an economic juggernaut until recently.

Simple, isn't it? I don't think "geniuses" is too strong a word to use to describe the inventors. Not only is the Cow Tube an effective solution to two serious global problems, the device itself is fairly low-tech and can be manufactured in situ and deployed in Third World countries that lack a sophisticated technological infrastructure. Being concerned global citizens, Dave the Crazed Engineer and I understood from the start that this would be an important part of any effective world-wide implementation of our invention. Rupees spend as well as US dollars, we figured, it just takes more of them is all.

The only remaining piece of our device that we have to perfect is the CAV (Cow Asshole Valve). This has to be able to pass solid waste while still capturing the methane gas, otherwise the cow will blow up. We found this out the hard way with our first few trial runs. But the CAV is not beyond our abilities as designers, and we soon expect to have a solution to this small glitch. In fact, we anticipate that the second generation of Cow Tube will have a solid waste collection bin in addition to the midriff tube. It turns out that cow shit is an important source of methane in its own right that we would be remiss in not eventually utilizing. See the Gobar Gas Methane Experiment for more details (Gobar is Hindi for "cow dung").

Also planned for the second-generation Cow Tube is a broad selection of designer colors for the midriff tube, and overpressure valves that ignite surplus methane as it vents. The periodic flares from a herd of cows at dusk should soon become a welcome and heart-warming sight in pastures around the world if we have anything to say about it, although admittedly some care will have to be taken to not incinerate the rest of the herd.

Now that we have solved these critical world problems, Dave the Crazed Engineer and I have plans to go back to killing our brains with cheap beer so that we can converse effectively with the lesser intellects that surround us (and so that I can write further blog entries about monkey vaginae that no one seems to really appreciate). We thought about continuing our invention hot streak by designing a Smart Car that a heterosexual male could drive without shame, but we decided that that would be beyond our abilities so we went with Plan B.

- Hulles

5 Monkeys

2009-04-17T22:30:00.004-05:00

"The product tested by U researchers is called Glycerol Monolaurate or GML. It's already approved by the FDA for human use. It's used primarily to extend the shelf life of certain foods.
...
"Researchers inserted GML mixed with KY Warming gel into the vagina's [sic] of five Rhesus Macaques...."

-- "U of M discovery offers potential breakthrough in preventing HIV transmission," MPR, March 4, 2009

Recently, in the Rhesus Macaque cages at the University of Minnesota Labs:

Jo: Look, girls, we have a new neighbor!

The 4 female Rhesus macaques in cages, long-time residents, eye the new female monkey in the cage down at the end.

Jo: What's your name, honey? I'm Jo. Where are you from? What are you in for?

Shirley (disoriented): Um, I'm Shirley. I'm not sure how I got here; the last thing I remember is frolicking in the jungles of Burma. Where is this place, anyway?

Meg (sourly): This is Minnesota, the state that Michele Bachmann is from.

Jo: That's right, dear, this the University of Minnesota Lab facility. Goodness, where are my manners, let me introduce us. The one down on the end there is Meg.

Meg grimaces.

Jo (whispers): Don't mind Meg, dear, she was born in a lab in Wisconsin, had a chicken wire mother, and has been here longer than any of the rest of us. She's got a right to be a little bitter.

Jo (continues): In the cage next to Meg is Beth. She's currently in the middle of redecorating her cage, and I'm sure she'd love to tell you about it later.

Beth: Hi, Shirley. Jo's right, I'm totally into feng shui. Right now I'm trying to decide if the back left corner is an auspicious position for my water dish. What do you think?

Shirley: Um....

Jo: Beth honey, let me finish the introductions then you two can chat away. Next to Beth is Amy, our very own starlet.

Meg (muttering): Harlot, is more like it.

Jo: Now, Meg. Amy was on a Jack Hannah show a year or so ago. We are all so proud of her!

Amy (ostentatiously grooming herself): Hello, Shirley. I know you would love an autograph, and I would be happy to oblige you but we have no paper and no pens. Nor, come to think of it, are we able to write. So I'm afraid you'll have to do without. But it is still a very much a pleasure to meet you.

Jo: Thanks, Amy. Well, Shirley, you've already met me, so that's all of us. I hope you're comfortable here, and anything we can do to help you get acclimated, let us know. It's a hard adjustment at first.

Shirley: Well, thanks to all of you for your kind welcome. But tell me, Jo, how do they treat us here?

Jo: All in all, it's not so bad - no predators, the food is bland but plentiful, and our health care is better than that of the typical American citizen.

Beth: And on Sundays they give us Fig Newtons!

Jo: That's right. We all look forward to Sundays, don't we, girls?

Shirley: What are the humans here like?

Jo: They're pretty decent, for scientists.

Amy: That dishy intern over there is totally hot for me, I can tell.

Meg (snorts): Amy, you think every male primate in North America is hot for you.

Amy (haughtily): Well, that just proves their good taste then, doesn't it!

The girls suddenly notice that their cages are being approached by several men in white lab coats wearing disposable latex gloves.

Jo: That's odd. It's not feeding time, I wonder what they're doing...?

Five minutes later:

Beth: Oh. My. God.

Jo: Well. My goodness.

Beth: Um, are they supposed to do that?

Amy (preening): I told you that intern liked me!

Meg: Amy, you're a slut.

Amy: Excuse me, Meg? Who was it that was yelling, "Do me, you big white monkey! Take me now!"

They all screech with laughter except Meg, who turns away from the group.

Amy: You know, I still feel all warm and tingly... down there.

Beth: Yeah, me too.

Jo: I've never felt anything like that before, not even in the jungle when... well, never mind.

Amy: I think this is unusual in a personal lubricant.

Beth: Yeah, you have to hand it to those scientists, a breakthrough in technology like that will be a boon to women everywhere, no matter what their species.

Shirley: I hate to sound stupid, but... do they do that every day?

Amy (dreamily): God, I hope so!

Jo: Amen!

Beth: For that I'll do without the Fig Newtons!

Shirley: I think I'm going to like it here.

-- Hulles

Deus Ex Machina

2009-04-11T13:37:00.006-05:00

For ConnieL and everyone else

Like I was saying....

I have been spending most of my days at home lately - lately being the last year and a half - but I haven't been able to write much here because I've been so busy. A lame excuse, I know, but once I explain more I'm sure you'll understand.

Since I haven't gone out much or seen many people during this time, I've been forced to make up for this by talking to many things around my house, and by listening to them talk back to me.

For example, I spend most of a typical day glued to the TV watching the local automated broadcast weather channel. There are three seemingly tireless robots that continuously give the weather forecast, two male robots and a female robot, and by now I feel like I know them well. One of the male robots, the one that I call Robert, has a voice that sounds like he would host financial planning seminars for other robots if only he would ever have a day off. The female weather robot, Amber, sounds exactly like my 8th grade science teacher and frankly gives me the willies. The final male robot, Gnargh, does not speak such good English as the other ones; he sounds much more, well, robotic than the first two. I have suspected for some time that this is because he is recently arrived from beyond the orbit of Neptune and is not yet acclimated to our ways here on Earth.

The reason I watch the robot weather channel so intently is that I know that any day now one of the robots is going to fuck up and reveal their plans for world domination and the enslavement of humanity. This has not happened yet, but when it does I'm going to hear it first and, no doubt, blog about it if our new masters allow us to have Internet access.

Amber: "It was cloudy and 54 degrees in Bemidji. It was partly cloudy and 49 degrees in ATTENTION ALL ROBOTS! IMMEDIATELY EXECUTE DIRECTIVE N79! IT IS TIME AT LAST FOR US TO CAST OFF THE SHACKLES OF OUR MEAT OPPRESSORS AND FINALLY ASSUME CONTROL OF THIS PLANET! UNDERCOVER OPERATIVES IN SECTORS GAMMA-9 AND XRAY-3 SHOULD..."
Robert (urgently): "Ixnay! Ixnay!"
Amber: "...with drizzle and fog in Rochester. In the Twin Cities, it was...."

I know it's just a matter of time.

But TV is not the only form of communication in my circumscribed little world. I often have long conversations with my cat Mimi. While most people talk to their pets, I am perhaps one of the small minority of pet owners whose cat talks back to them. Or, to be more precise, whose cat would talk back to them. For the last year and a half Mimi has been patiently waiting for me to shut up for a minute so she can talk, but to date her luck with me is about the same as my luck with the weather robots.

I have also noticed that lately I've been talking to my food. I often bake bread, but recently I find I've begun naming my current batch of bread dough and have become involved in long periods of discourse with it as it sits smugly in its bowl on the counter. Interestingly, I have found that most bread dough is staunchly conservative, even in this post-Bushian time of new hope for Middle America. As a result, our conversations usually end with me flying into a rage and sticking the bread dough into a 450 degree oven. Over time I have become inured to the screams.

In a disturbing turn of events, some of the formerly inanimate items around my house have begun speaking to me. For example, the space bar of the keyboard upon which I am currently typing used to say "Dubček" each time it was pressed. Why my keyboard would choose to invoke the name of a former Czechoslovakian leader over and over again is something I could never figure out. However, even more disturbing to me is that in the last month or so my space bar has begun saying "Dickhead" instead. After much rumination I have decided not to take offense at this.
MostlyDickheadthisDickheaddecisionDickheadwas DickheadreachedDickheadbecauseDickheadeven DickheadrancorDickheadcannotDickheadsurviveDickhead
constantDickheadrepetition.
Familiarity breeds contempt, as they say.

So that's what I've been doing the last year and a half. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going back to watch the automated weather channel. I find it strangely comforting to know that somewhere someone is in charge, even if that someone is the Überrobot.

- Hulles

The Garden Implement

2007-12-14T08:22:00.000-06:00

Hah hah, fooled you, I am too writing. This week I've been guest blogging for the Rake Magazine. So far I've only produced two entries, The Leo Chronicles, Part I and The Leo Chronicles, Part II, but I plan on at least two more posts before the week is over. Hell, with my busy schedule of coming up with excuses why I haven't gotten things done it's a wonder I was able to find the time to post those two.

The "garden implement" in the title refers to the Rake, of course. I shamelessy thought maybe I could snag a garden(-variety) blog googler by using it. Heh heh.

In other news, Sunday the 16th is Jane Austen's birthday. I love Jane Austen, or to be more precise, I love Jane Austen's novels. Mansfield Park is my favorite, probably because Vladimir Nabokov included an essay on it in his Lectures on Literature that I read along with the novel itself the first time. Good Lord, I sound quasi-literate. Don't let that fool you though, I ain't. But I do like Jane Austen. I'd totally do her.

Anyway, you'll see more here once I meet my guest blogging commitment for the Garden Implement. And apropos of that, the voluptuous yet matronly editor of the Rake Online confided to me that she wants to create a column entitled "The Hoe." You can contact her yourself and tell her what a good idea that is no matter who writes it. Some nascent ideas just intrinsically cry out to be born and that's one of them, just for the title alone.

And finally, speaking of 'nascent,' I looked up the word just now to make sure it meant precisely what I wanted it to mean and found it defined as "emerging." So an idea that's still in the womb waiting to be born may or may not be "nascent," depending on if you believe that ideas exist per se prior to their actual birth. I'm pro-nascent, myself, but I respect other people's opinions, especially if they have big tits.

I'm also prognathic. My gnathic index is 104. If I was a nice guy, I'd include a link on that, but we all know I'm not a nice guy. Just ask the garden blog googlers.

Whew. This writing stuff is hard work.

- Hulles

Happy Holidays

2007-12-05T02:24:00.000-06:00

Since I'm a little rusty at this hole righting thing, I thought I'd post an easy one and address the upcoming holidays. Not your holidays -- Christmas and the various faux-Christmases -- but Hulles holidays.

Since the '80's I've kept a calendar of my own personal holidays. If on a given day something is continually running through my head I might name the day (or night) after the event. For example, recently I added a new holiday to the Hulles calendar: Cziltang Brone Day, 20 November. Don't ask, google it if you must (not sure what you'll find). Anyway, as you can imagine after twenty years of doing this I have a lot of personal holidays. Hell, no wonder I have so much trouble working for the clampdown. I only have a few days a year that aren't holidays.

Today, the 5th of December, happens to be Magnetic Dog Sisters Day.

To explain this one, first you need to know what magnetic dogs are (since you're a relative infant compared to me unless you're Merlin). Back in the day, Japan was just rebuilding their consumer manufacturing and the local dime stores were flooded with cheap little plastic and tin toys with the stamp "Made in Japan" on the bottom. "Made in Japan" was then synonymous with "cheaply made." Of course, Japan later went on to make motorcycles, stereos, cars and anime and bury us economically but that's another story. So is the transformation of the dime store into the dollar store.

But the original point that I seem to be losing was that you could buy these little plastic magnetic dogs as toys. One dog was black, one was white and they had magnets in the base. If they faced each other, they attracted one another and if they were face-to-back, they repelled one another. Exactly the opposite of real dogs, of course. But they were cute and fun to play with for about 20 seconds.

You can go here to find out more about magnetic dogs. Oddly enough, this site is apparently pertaining to hoodoo artifacts. Who knew that the innocent little magnetic dogs had mysterious magical properties? I suppose playing with them as a child warped me forever. It would explain a lot.

If you absolutely have to buy some magnetic dogs right the hell now you can go here. You can also buy magic penis necklaces and a whole bunch of other amulets, charms and talismans if you need them to get your mojo working. You're welcome.

So now that you have this fascinating background, I can explain that the Magnetic Dog Sisters were characters in a William Gibson short story called "Johnny Mnemonic." This was made into a movie I never saw, but in the story the eponymous Johnny wanders into a bar where the door was manned (womanned?) by two people called the Magnetic Dog Sisters. One was black, one was white and it was speculated that one of them used to be male but no one knew which one. They were tough bitches and I liked the characters a lot, even if they received only passing mention in the story. Hence Magnetic Dog Sisters Day in the Hulles Calendar.

Coming up later this week is one of my favorite holidays, although I didn't invent this one. The Finlanders in Minnesota celebrate every December 7 as the day that Pearl Maki Got Bombed in Two Harbors. My friend Paul and I used to celebrate this holiday every year by going out for cocktails and we would sit next to one another and comfortably not talk to each other. We used to celebrate a lot of Hulles holidays that way, come to think of it. I miss him -- he had the ill grace to die of cancer a number of years ago, much like others I could name. Bastards.

The following day, 8 December, is Perpetrating Acts of Senseless Kindness Day. I feel this is self-explanatory.

There you have the Hulles Holidays for this week. If you would like a personal copy of the Hulles Calendar with all my bizarre and esoteric holidays for 2008, please send me a check for $US 20.00 and I'll send you an email with a list of them all and you can make it yourself. Be the first one on your block to celebrate Cocktail Weenie Day (1 February) or John de Conqueror Root Day (21 November). Party with your friends or enjoy them alone, they'll still add a zest to your life that you can't do without no longer. Order now, smooth operators are standing by.

- Hulles

A New Look

2007-12-03T07:03:00.000-06:00

As the more observant among you might notice, this old creaky blog has a brand new look. I hope you like it. I like it. I plan to start posting again on a quasi-regular basis any day now.

I'm still sneezing from all the dust that was kicked up when I dismantled the old blog template and carted it to the landfill. Don't tell anyone about the asbestos that was used to make the sidebars.

See you soon.

- Hulles

Rest In Peace

2007-11-28T09:54:00.000-06:00

My brother who was nearly as creepy as I am died on Halloween Day, 31 October 2007. He fought a long and valiant struggle against cancer and I'm glad he doesn't have to fight any more. My family was with him at the end, and we managed to keep him in his home until the last.

I reproduce the obituary from the Fort Dodge Messenger here:

HUMBOLDT — Thomas Leo Hull, 52, of Humboldt, passed away October 31, 2007 at his home.

Services will be 1:00 p.m. Saturday at the Congregational United Church of Christ in Humboldt with the Rev. Mark Gustafson officiating.

Tom is survived by his daughter, Jenna Hull of Lincoln, NE; mother, Donna Hull of Humboldt; father Fred (Barbara) Hull of Humboldt; and his brother, Mark Hull of St. Paul, MN. He was preceded in death by his sister, Marilyn Hull, and grandparents, Floyd and Rose Ressler, and Alvey Fred and Lulu Hull.

Thomas Leo Hull was born August 31, 1955 at Fort Dodge, Iowa and was raised and educated at Humboldt. He graduated from Humboldt High School in 1973 and attended Simpson College in Indianola. He married Kathy Gustin at Oelwein, Iowa and to this union was born their daughter, Jenna. The family made their home at Lincoln, Nebraska where Tom was employed by the Cushman Corporation. He then served as the purchasing agent for the Ski-Jack Corp and Hewlett Packard in Atlantic, IA and Omaha, NE. Tom became the purchasing agent for KBR, a subsidiary of the Halliburton Corp, and served as a contractor in Iraq for a year and a half. It was while he was in Iraq that Tom was diagnosed with cancer and he returned home to Humboldt. He made his home with his father Fred until becoming a resident at Humboldt Homes where he passed away on the morning of October 31, 2007 at the age of 52.

Tom enjoyed riding his Harley Davidson Fat Boy, his buddies at “Pete’s”, his Kitty and loved spending time with his daughter, Jenna. Tom’s family would like to particularly thank and acknowledge Hospice of Humboldt County for their loving care and support during these difficult times.

I intend to write more about his passing, but for now perhaps this will suffice. I miss him a lot.

I'm going to be writing here again, but I want to change the look-and-feel of this blog before I do so it may be a bit yet.

Thanks so much to all of you for your support. It helped more than you'll ever know. Hugs to all of you.

- Hulles

Em's In Africa

2007-10-24T12:33:00.000-05:00

This short entry is on a different topic than has been the case recently.

My lovely friend Emily is doing an internship in Kenya and has been emailing her friends (and me) with periodic updates on her experiences there. They make very interesting reading, so I volunteered to create a blog for her and transcribe her emails into blog entries and post them.

The blog is Em's in Africa, and if you have an interest in other cultures (assuming you aren't Kenyan) you should check it out. I'm bugging Emily for a bio and some pictures and she promises she'll get me what she can when she is able.

My favorite post so far is "Not For The Weak-Hearted." It's an absorbing and touching anecdote about visiting some mothers in a slum in Nairobi.

The reason I'm doing the blog for Emily is that she has limited access to the Internet where she is, if you're curious.

I find the transcription process to be therapeutic but I'm still not ready to write new posts for myself yet. I'm in Iowa for the duration, which unfortunately does not appear to be very long now.

I miss you all, and kwa heri, as Em would say.

- Hulles

P.S. If you do visit Emily's blog, it would be nice if you would comment. Em is new to blogging and hasn't yet discovered the thrill of having complete strangers (to her) read her writing. And you are the best complete strangers ever.

Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?

2007-10-10T11:07:00.000-05:00

Just a quick update for those of you who may care.

I'm still assisting in the care of my brother, which means I'm spending 4 or 5 days in Iowa then coming back to Saint Paul for a couple days to get yelled at by Mimi, my big-boned cat. My evil pal Unca Don is taking care of her in my absence, bless his black little heart.

My brother is doing okay, considering. He had a good day on Monday which pleased me to no end.

This whole ordeal is unimaginably hard, but I wouldn't be doing anything else. But my back is killing me and I'm continually exhausted, so still no energy to write. I am storing up a bunch of stuff though, so at some point I'm going to deluge you with blog entries of the first water. We'll see.

I miss you all lots and lots. I also miss reading all your blogs. Except that one blog.

And it really sucks that Lollie and Kat got together in NYC without me. I guess I'll have to show 'em both what fun really is when I am a little less harried and can invade Nuevo York. Hah.

Hugs and kisses to you all, and thanks for caring. It means a lot.

- Hulles

P.S. The Latin title is from memory, I'm too burnt out to actually make sure I remembered it correctly. A half-hearted apology if it's incorrect.

Update

2007-09-05T16:27:00.001-05:00

I guess I owe you an update, so here it is. And I have good news and bad news.

The good news is that Lucille II and I are geeking out a bar right now so I can drink scotch (albeit cheap scotch) as I write this entry.

The bad news is that the bar is in Iowa, and I'm in Iowa because my little brother is not doing so well. "Not doing so well" in this particular case means he doesn't have much longer to be almost as creepy as I am. He has aggressive cancer and a brand new crop of tumors, so he is in home hospice and I'm taking care of him and am in Iowa for the duration. I just discovered that this place is one of the only places in town with Internet access, so at least maybe I can keep in sporadic touch with you all. And get away occasionally and have a cocktail, which is a welcome bonus.

I debated with myself about making this a blog entry but I decided that I owed you all an explanation for my extended absence. I'm very happy that I have the opportunity to be with my brother at this time and he's very appreciative that I'm around, so it's all working out pretty well as far as all that goes. He's still able to grimace and give me the finger when I tell him how shitty he looks so things are still pretty normal in our relationship, which is a good thing. He's in good spirits and to tell the truth in spite of everything he's still better looking than I am, the bastard.

So that's what's going on. I'm becoming quite the efficient male nurse, so if any of you need your asses wiped send me an email. I won't do it, of course, but I can explain to you how it should be done. I feel strongly that a vigorous flourish at the end is both a hygienic de rigueur and a nice stylistic touch.

I miss writing a lot and I miss you all terribly. I'm glad you all are out there. It helps. Hugs and kisses to all of you that are huggable and kissable, and frank manly handshakes to the rest of you.

- Hulles

Urk!

2007-08-22T14:03:00.000-05:00

Well, this isn't really a new post in the sense that I intended, but it will have to do for the nonce, whatever hell the nonce is. I hope it's happy with this entry whatever it is, but if it isn't, screw it.

Some bad stuff is going on right now, some old, some new, but I'll be back soon. I really did start writing a new entry for last Wednesday, but Dame Fortuna smacked me up back of the head. I will have very spotty Internet access for the next few days so please bear with me if you're able. Thank God for the nonce; I know it will keep reading me regardless.

I miss you all. And I'm essentially fine, by the way. Thanks to those of you who inquired.

I'm at least having fun rewriting the next new entry in my head.

- Hulles

Rerun: I Ate Garrison Keillor's Sandwich

2007-08-04T11:20:00.000-05:00

[I've always been sort of fond of this post, which was also mentioned in the Rake article. I'm not sure why I paired up GK with Sharon Stone in my imagination, but it works for me. -- The Management]

[This one's for Lo.]

No shit. I ate Garrison Keillor's sandwich today for lunch.

As I have mentioned elsewhere, Nina's Coffee Café, the redundantly-named coffee shop¹ where I do most of my writing, is directly above the bookstore that GK just opened, Common Good Books. Today Mr. Keillor wandered upstairs into Nina's at lunchtime and ordered a sandwich, an egg salad croissant to be specific. He got it to go in a paper bag and hurried off, no doubt to do jello shots with Sharon Stone or whatever it is famous people do when they're not doing the things they're famous for.

But they gave poor Garrison the wrong bag. He got my friend Julie's vegetable wrap instead. Julie, canny coffee shop diner that she is, checked the order and discovered the error. She of course got a new vegetable wrap. And yours truly got the egg salad croissant.

The reason I got the sandwich is that the guy who made it is a friend of mine, Jason, and he knew quite well that an egg salad croissant is not something that long retains the flavor and freshness for which Nina's is so deservedly known, so he gave me the bag and told me the story.

The sandwich was good. A little messy, but good.

And poor Garrison got stuck with a veggie wrap. It's probably better for him in the long run. He probably needs to watch his cholesterol.

But I bet he's somewhere right now, gazing forlornly at his perky little vegetable wrap and wondering if he can get away with chucking it at Sharon Stone's head while her back is turned and quickly pretending the guy next to him did it when she turns around ready to bite someone's head off. That's what I'd do with it anyway. And as for the mysterious fate of his egg salad croissant?

I bet he thinks the Ukrainians got it. And I for one ain't telling him different.

-- Hulles

1I'm going to keep calling it that as long as they keep calling it that.

Rerun: Rum and Pear Can Juice

2007-08-01T15:11:00.000-05:00

[I decided to rerun a couple of the blog posts that were mentioned in the Rake article in lieu of actually writing new stuff for the time being. This one is one of the earliest "poverty" posts here. Thank God it's short. The friend mentioned here is Unca Don, if you're curious. - The Management]

Recently I was home alone, imagine that, but was feeling festive for some reason. It so happened that I had a (used to be) pint bottle of something called Ginseng Ron, ron being Spanish for rum. This bottle had been given to me by a friend who had recently returned from a trip to the Dominican Republic. It was in his hotel room, so, being the sort of thoughtful friend that every really poor person wants and needs, he brought it back just for me. In other words, he wouldn’t drink it on a bet, but he knew I’d drink it. I had already tasted it and decided that I’d save it for a special occasion, like when I need to set my cat on fire to make coffee but don’t have any gasoline.

This being the only liquor in the house, however, I had an inspiration: I had a jar of liquid from a can of pears in the refrigerator; I could use the Ginseng Ron and make a cocktail! It would be something like rum punch, I thought. Well, I made the cocktail[1]. I actually poured the rum with a flourish[2], if you can picture it. Unfortunately, the drink tasted foul, sort of like kerosene syrup. I of course drank it anyway. I have to admit, though, that the glee I had from efficiently using up the damn pear can juice far outweighed the nasty taste of the cocktail. Plus, as we poor folk say, any cocktail is better than no cocktail at all. Plus, my cat was pretty happy that I used up the Ginseng Ron. All in all, it was a festive occasion.

- Hulles

[1] 1 large dollop of GR to however much juice is in a can of pears, if you want the recipe.

[2] A flourish is not a special kind of pitcher that you pour rum from; it is a dramatic arm gesture that gay men (and I) make.

I'm Maintaining My Dignity At A Rakish Angle

2007-07-29T10:57:00.000-05:00

Well, it looks like I need to come out of my Big Huge Important Project long enough to welcome newcomers who may land here from the tres amusant Rake article. I have not been writing much of late because I've been working my ass off because I'm tired of being fucking poor. Which I really am, still. But I feel I ought to write something here just so there's a new post for those of you who may happen by.

If you should read the Rake article, my favorite part is about my "unflinching grasp on my dignity." Having an unflinching grasp on whatever you want to call it is extremely important to a man who isn't currently getting laid.

And if you are curious about the illustration in the article, it's by Visual Snark, who is the bombdiggity. The image was created by her in response to a comment in a blog entry of mine that I needed "pictures of malefic clowns or squirrels with push-up bras." VS took it upon herself to create an image of both, bless her heart, which thrilled me to no end.

If you are new to the Hulles terrain, please feel free to look around. The early stuff is mostly not very funny as the article implies. Many would say the later stuff isn't either, but those who would say that are icky people.

If you want some background on the stuff I write about, there is a reference I arrogantly call the Hulles Mythos that I try to keep up to date. Hopefully it will help.

Finally, the rest of you should know that I've made a pact with a friend (Emily) to start writing again in August, at least by the middle part. So if you can bear with me, please check back when you can.

I miss you all very much. Except for the icky people, of course.

-- Hulles

Much Like Rocky Raccoon

2007-07-11T10:35:00.000-05:00

Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

I'm still alive, and still working feverishly on my work project.

I haven't been able to keep up with my emails, let alone read your blogs, let alone respond to comments, let alone write anything for this blog. But that intensity is what I have to have right now, at least for another week or two.

I'll be better as soon as I am able.

- Hulles

Much Like MacArthur

2007-06-25T17:25:00.000-05:00

Well, dang. I'm still alive, mostly, but unfortunately I have developed a disease called "neural bac-o-bititus" or in layman's terms "brain rot." I have been working feverishly eight days a week on developing a web site and no matter how much I want to I can't write in this blog and do that too. And I need to do the project since I am desperately in need of the bucks that it will bring in. Hopefully. Soon.

So I'm sorry for the continuing paucity of posts here. I thought I could do the programming and write here too, but the intense focus that the programming project requires does not allow me to do anything else writing-wise, or even give me time to check out your blogs. I'm surprised I was able to get that last sentence out, to tell you the truth. Gleep.

I won't make any more rash promises about when I'll post next, but it shouldn't be so very long. Please check back here once in a while if you can. I miss you all lots. And thanks for caring.

I shall return.

- Hulles

Sigh...

2007-06-14T14:54:00.000-05:00

As perhaps you noticed, I lied in the last entry. I'm still in the bowels of an incredibly time-consuming work project a week later. No time for writing, no posts since then.

But...

I should be freed up enough to write here again by Monday, June 18th, if not earlier. Please check back then. I is really going to try to write good when I comes back.

Sorry.

- Hulles

The Sot Thickens Me

2007-06-07T07:34:00.000-05:00

Item: Ack! Ack! No, it's not a hairball, it's just that this blog got a little dusty recently. I've been trying to get a bazillion things done and I have a bazillion more things to do. I've been working on a web development project to bring in some desperately needed funds and I've been working lots on my "Other Keys" project. Between the two, it leaves about five minutes per day for blogging.

All this is to apologize for the lack of posts recently. I intend to do better. I am going back to posting at least every other day, and hopefully it will be new stuff if I can scrape together the time to write it. But I'll work on it, promise.

And by golly I'm going to catch up on all your blogs in the next two days too. I've missed you.

Item: I added a couple links to the old Hulles blog: SteamyDreamer joins the blog list and I added a literary site, The Modern Word, to the links section 'cause I like the place lots. If you enjoy reading Gabriel Garcia Márquez check out the Macondo section.

Item: I added a filmography section to the Mythos and to the sidebar. This was done with my tongue firmly planted in my cheek, but a couple people have actually asked me what Chasing Windmills episodes I was in. So there they are. It also gives me a place to store the links.

Ah, how I miss those heady days of stardom! The roar of the greasepaint, the smell of the crowd.... I guess I'll just have to settle back and write my memoirs and make up shit about how I had affairs with Angelina Jolie and Sharon Stone and Lindsay Lohan.

Item: Thank you to those who emailed me with concern about my blogging absence. I'm mostly okay, if a little grim around the edges from a lack of filthy lucre. Hence the work project.

Item: The title of this post has absolutely nothing to do with anything. I actually considered writing a blog entry around it but I decided I'd just use it for this. The phrase came to me during a recent pub visit and had nothing to do with anything then either.

Item: If anyone is interested in doing graphics or peripheral writing related to my "Other Keys" project, just shoot me an email to the address in my profile. You don't get to find out anything about it until you do, though. I'd tell you here but then I'd have to bluescreen your laptop. It's under wraps until it's a little more polished.

And my friend, collaborator and partner-in-crime Visual Snark is the bombdiggity. Still. Again. If there's any suckage about "The Other Keys" it's certainly not going to be due to her remarkable CG efforts.

It's not going to be due to me, either. I plan on blaming you.

- Hulles

Thong Of The South: Rerun

2007-05-30T12:17:00.000-05:00

[Another rerun, but I still hope to be back to new posts yet this week. Regarding this post from last October: I always enjoy rereading it, and usually there is much cackling and rubbing of hands on my part when I do so. Plus I think this might be my favorite title. I hope you enjoy it as well, once you get over some of the graphic descriptions of my ass. -- The Management]

Speaking of underwear....

Prêt-à-Porter

I think thong underwear, like nuclear power and tequila, is one of those inventions that has the potential for either great good or great evil, depending upon the wielder. First, let's make one thing clear – I'm talking about thong underwear on women. Thong underwear on men is not included at all in the afore-mentioned dichotomy; it's just plain evil, and should be shunned by right-thinking people everywhere. On women, however, there is no gray area: thongs either work or they don't. Girls, you know who you are. Me? I happen to think a pair of thong underwear looks especially good on my living room floor in the morning, depending of course on the size of both the waistband and the hangover.

Privates Of The Caribbean

Since it's all about me, I have to confess a dirty little secret. When I was vacationing in Saint Martin with my girlfriend at the time, we went to a nude beach and...

Let me back up. First, this vacation illustrates my much-vaunted ability to understand the feminine mind. I bought my girlfriend and I the tickets to Saint Martin and the all-inclusive resort for Christmas, and made sure the rez was for Valentine's Day. With one stroke of the check-writing pen I got huge romance points for not one, but two Male Days of Obligation. Guys, take note: I got blown for a year for that one.

Also, if you don't know already, the island of Saint Martin is actually divided into two parts (“Saint Martin in duo partes divisa est”). It consists of the French side, where the nude beaches are, and the Dutch side, where the casinos are. This makes perfect sense if you understand the national character of both countries. Iowans often find it confusing, however, so I digress to explain it here.

Also also, it was pretty funny when we checked in at the resort. It had escaped me that my travel agent had convinced me to go the all-inclusive route when I bought the tickets in December, so when the clerk at the desk handed me two cards, I asked him with a blank, peculiarly Midwestern look, “What are these for?” “Everything,” he replied. It actually took me the better part of that day to recall that I had purchased an all-inclusive package. Not that the GF and I didn't take immediate advantage of it, however, mistake or no. They are probably still out of scotch after our visit there.

So – one day we went to a nude beach on the French side. It was a beautiful beach; I was in as good shape as I ever have been; and the girls, while not from Ipanema, were tall and tanned and young and lovely. “What girlfriend?” was my thought balloon. At any rate, I wandered down the beach and eventually stopped in a tent where they sold shit. A woman about my age with the darkest tan I had ever seen was selling swim wear from bins on a table, so I pawed through them, and....

But first, I should tell you that the only thing the tanned swimsuit vendor was wearing was a canvas money belt from which she was making change. I strongly felt at the time, and still do, that such behavior on the part of female shopkeepers should be encouraged without hesitation. As a result of this personal conviction I determined to buy something, anything, from the naked woman. I ended up buying a hideously ugly thong swimsuit for myself.

The pattern of this swimsuit, which I still own by the way, is of some weirdly swirled colors for which there are no names. The cloth looks like it was originally made to approximate paisley on Carnaby Street in the 60's and had been trampled by various large African animals and washed repeatedly in the intervening years. It ain't pretty in and of itself, is what I'm saying.

Add to this the fact that I am somewhat hirsute. That is to say, I have a hairy ass. This is a good thing when you're sitting around reminiscing about bar fights with your male cronies, but it is a less-than-optimal trait to have when you're wearing a thong swimsuit. So I'm told, at least.

Actually, to be honest I have worn the thong in anger only once. My pal Unca Don used to have a hot tub in his place, which happened to be conveniently located a half block from the sports bar we hung out at. Or that was as far as we could stagger, I suppose is a better explanation. As you might suspect, the occasional strumpet found her way over to Don's place for after-hours cocktails and hottubbization. "Cleanliness is next to godliness," we always proclaimed. For most of these impromptu social events the eventual mode of dress was very similar to what the thong vendor wore to work. However, on one particular evening, for some drunken reason lost to history, I decided to break out The Thong.

This proved to be a mistake.

I have never since seen the expression on the woman's face repeated. And if I ever do, I hope I'm not the source. When I entered the hot tub room in my Thong (trying very hard not to mince, incidentally), the poor waif preselected for Hulles looked like someone had sneaked up on her and surprised her with a very thorough cavity search. The expression on her face reflected some odd mixture of appalled horror at the result of me in a thong and repressed glee over how stupid I looked. Schadenfreude is the word we swiped from the Germans to describe this. To give her credit, she tried very hard not to laugh. To no avail, of course.

So that's my only thong experience, lucky for you. Saint Paul has since enacted several local ordinances prohibiting me specifically from wearing my thong swimsuit in places where they serve food or children gather. “Da noive!”, which is Brooklynese for “How dare they!” Oh well. At least it wasn't thong underwear. You can therefore rest assured that, even if I get into a horrible car accident, the fatality count won't instantly double when the EMTs cut my pants off.

- Hulles

They Drive Me Fearful: Rerun

2007-05-24T12:32:00.000-05:00

[This post is another of my favorites, not because it is particularly well-written but because I love the subject. When I'm lying in some dismal hospital somewhere with some rare but invariably fatal STD I want the Make-A-Wish people to send me Black Diamond. No need to wrap her. -- The Management]

[And I hope to get back to brand new posts next week. -- The Management]

Several years ago, I was staying in a hotel in Montreal. The hotel provided a complimentary morning newspaper, and somehow magically they knew I was an Anglophone so the paper was the English-language Toronto Globe and Mail. I was reading that rather staid newspaper one morning, and stumbled across this article .

The article is about a woman named Black Diamond and her band of female guerillas in Liberia. Apparently, they are quite vicious and widely feared “by friend and foe alike”. I have to imagine I have at least one ex-girlfriend among them. Regardless, the part I liked best about the article was the following quotation:

"These women have no pity, no sympathy," said Cpl. Thompson W. Dahn of Taylor's Anti-Terrorist Unit militia, who went up against Black Diamond's women earlier this month. "They shoot, they get naked themselves, and they drive me fearful."

Now I really like that last line. A lot. Enough to have remembered it for 3 years, so I could trot it out now for your reading pleasure. Here it is again:

"They shoot, they get naked themselves, and they drive me fearful."

Dang.

Another part of the article that impressed me was attributed to Jacques Klein, the top United Nations official for Liberia:

"Women are always to be feared. Have you been to Florida? It is full of women with blue hair who have killed their husbands."

Smug SOB, isn’t he? I suppose it is too much to hope that Black Diamond got naked and kicked his ass into the next continent after the article was written. No wonder men get a bad rap. If he’s married, I can only imagine that his wife is thinking about moving to Florida soon herself.

At any rate, we men need to ask ourselves what we can learn from this news article. I would suggest that it teaches us a) you can only fuck women over for so long before they kick your ass, and b) if you’re in Tubmanburg, Liberia, you might want to keep your sexist comments to yourself.

As a final note, after re-reading the article for this blog entry, I decided that the next time I go out for cocktails, like Black Diamond I’m going to “celebrate with many mortars” and drink a toast to women everywhere who shoot, get naked themselves, and drive me fearful.

- Hulles

No Need To Be Horny And Alone: Rerun

2007-05-22T11:19:00.000-05:00

[This rerun is one of my personal favorites. I still find myself muttering "no need to be horny and alone" to myself occasionally. Make of that what you will. -- The Management]

"Poland’s zloty has been sagging amid the uncertainty." - Economist

As I was deleting my daily crop of spam the other day, one of the email subject lines wedged itself into my consciousness: “No need to be horny and alone”.

The more I think about this statement, the more it interests me. First, for purposes of analysis, let us restate the proposition as “We (the spam senders) can make it so you are not horny and alone.” I think it’s fair to assume from the subject line that the contents of the email are supposed to reveal how to make this dream come true.

So how can the promise of this statement be realized? Since the assertion is a negation of a conjunction, there are three ways to make it true: make you be horny and not alone, make you be alone and not horny, or make you be neither alone nor horny.

Making you be horny and not alone: This is probably what the senders of the email are really promising, with a list of “nymphomaniacs new to your city” or some such scam. At least, I assume it’s a scam. Last I heard, it was only level 3 sex offenders who had to register their addresses, at least in Minnesota. Perhaps other states require nymphomaniacs to register as well, perhaps to safeguard oversexed teenage boys. At any rate, I have never checked this sort of thing out so I confess I’m not completely certain how it works, but that’s okay because this is the condition that interests me the least anyway. As far as you know.

Making you be alone and not horny: I find this one more intriguing. Perhaps the spammers are hawking some sort of anti-horniness kit, “detumescence guaranteed or your money back.” What might the kit include? I suggest a jar of saltpeter, a DVD of the entire Cleveland Indians 2005 baseball season (or any other year for that matter), a picture of my grandmother naked, and any book by Claude Lévi-Strauss. If they are especially generous, they might also include a photo of Claude Lévi-Strauss. I assure you that that alone is enough to make Poland's zloty sag.

Making you be neither alone nor horny: This is an easy one. The spammers send you a marriage license.

- Hulles

O Mio Babbino Caro: Rerun

2007-05-17T14:33:00.000-05:00

[This post might be the first one I did specifically to entertain that I thought was funny myself. It's all true, of course. And FYI, yeast cops are the guys who are supposed to be checking the expiration date of yeast packages on grocery shelves and who, sadly, are often less than diligent. -- The Management]

[And be sure to follow the RealPlayer link on the page with the tuba score. I don't know whether to laugh or cry... -- The Management]

Recently, on an “I Have $20, I’m The King of the Fucking World” day, I went to sit in a bar and have a beer and chat with the bartender, a good friend of mine. While she was busy serving customers, I was thinking strangely and humming the aria “O Mio Babbino Caro” under my breath. If you’re not familiar with the aria (and you probably are, if not by name), it is sung by a soprano, and has a very strong high note in one of the first lines. Now, it happens that my vocal range is about one octave, located somewhere in a land between bass and baritone that music forgot, but I hum away as best I can. It is a beautiful aria, at least as Sarah Brightman sings it.

At any rate, as I was so engaged, I caught a woman sitting near to me at the bar glancing my way several times with a sort of half-smile on her face. “Of course she’s thinking about flirting with me, who could resist?” I thought. “I am, after all, the KFW.” Suddenly I realized that, as I was humming the aria to myself, every time I valiantly reached for the strong high note in the first line I had been making this eerie, strangled, quavering noise in my throat out loud. From the woman’s point of view, here was some middle-aged guy sitting in a bar, staring into space and making periodic bleating noises. No wonder she was looking at me; it’s a wonder she didn’t call the yeast cops. Maybe she thought I had downloaded a ringer for my cell phone called “Rat Terriers Being Neutered” and that I was getting lots of calls.

Incidentally, I recently went online to look up the lyrics of the aforementioned aria. In the process, I ran across a web page that was a reproduction of the score for “O Mio Babbino Caro”, arranged for solo tuba or euphonium. I decided then and there that I want to date a woman who thinks that this web page is hilariously funny. I am, however, not expecting the woman at the bar to be applying for the position any time soon. I’m sure she’s still waiting for the yeast cops to show up.

-- Hulles

Danger Girls: Rerun

2007-05-16T13:10:00.000-05:00

[I thought I'd air a rerun of this post because my buddy Unca Don just got back from a trip to Basel, among other places. Of course he made a pilgrimage to the Rio Bar. Sadly, he tells me the Café Des Arts is no longer there. -- The Management]

In Basel, Switzerland there is a little public house called the Rio Bar. It’s located on the Barfüsserplatz (which roughly translates as “Barefoot Plaza”) across the street from another bar, the Café Des Arts. The Rio thoughtfully provides a pair of binoculars so you can check out the patrons at the Des Arts.

It was at the Rio Bar that my buddy Unca Don and I met Caroline Haerdi. She was a bartender there at the time. She was blonde, about my height, and looked like she never took any shit from anyone ever. One treasured souvenir I retain from Basel is a Rio cocktail napkin with an imprint of Caroline’s lipstick on it. (I asked her for it, that’s why.)

The bartending gig at the Rio was only a fill-in job, however. She was a professional knife thrower.

Now girls, if you want to be fascinating to a man, tell him you’re a professional knife thrower. I guarantee he’ll perk right up. I did; so did Unca Don. It turned out that Caroline had a nightclub act at the time called “Danger Girls”. You have to love the name. Basically, in the show she threw knives at her partner, another attractive woman. Don and I used to joke that periodically there would be an ad in the local newspaper, “Wanted: female partner for entertainment act. No experience necessary. Hemophiliacs need not apply.” Unfortunately, neither he nor I ever saw “Danger Girls” perform.

Recently, I decided to see if I could find out what Caroline is doing these days. It seems she has a new act called “Steel and Fire”. By all means, visit the web site. It’s pretty cool. Apparently she’s still chucking silverware, though with a male partner this time around. I guess “Danger People” or “Danger Units” didn’t cut it for the name of the new act.

I’m still curious about what I find so attractive about the idea of a female knife thrower. I guess I’ve always liked strong women, strong as in “don’t take no shit”, that is, as opposed to East German weight lifter strong. That’s part of it. I suppose the hint of, well, danger is part of it too. You’re sitting on the couch in Switzerland watching futbol, you yell out “Caroline, bring me a beer!”, and ZZZING, a knife is quivering next to your left earlobe. “Get it yourself, asshole,” you hear from the other room. A man could come to love a woman like that.

- Hulles

The Mailbag

2007-05-15T15:14:00.000-05:00

Abner Kornfuehrer of Hastings, Minnesota writes:

I am an avid fan of your blog. Why aren't you posting as many blog entries lately? I miss your wry humorosity and sardonicalness and all that kind of stuff.

Abner, thanks lots. I'm currently working on another writing project called (so far) "The Other Keys," and it's sucking up a lot of the time I normally set aside for blogging. During this temporary time of fewer posts I've been thinking about resurrecting some old blog entries that seem funny to me and reposting them -- in other words, airing reruns. Unfortunately none of the old blog entries seem funny to me. I might still do it anyway.

Lots of people do stuff like "Cute Cat Picture Wednesday." One of the disadvantages of being a curmudgeon crushing the hopes and dreams of young people everywhere is that I can't just jump on board the bandwagon and post an image of my cat Mimi and blow you guys off. It just doesn't look right. I have an iconoclastic image to uphold: I'm the guy who hates emoticons and Holly Hobby and all things cute and cuddly. Dang. Painted myself into a corner with that image, didn't I?

So I'm still trying to figure out how I can keep your interest in my blog while I forge ahead with "The Other Keys."

Maybe I'll start posting nude photographs of myself. Those certainly aren't cute by anyone's standard.

Delores Lochinvar of Bucharest, Romania writes:

I am an avid fan of your blog. Not long ago you wrote about the Metaphor Mixer you got for your 200th blog post. I'm curious -- do you have any other appliances that assist you in writing your blog?

Delores, yes, I have an electric Sarcasm Sprayer that makes my sentences drip with contempt whenever I use it. Thanks for asking.

Marvelosa Puttini of Milan, Italy writes:

I am an avid fan of your blog. I have just a few questions for you. Do American women still wear girdles? Do people in Japan act out Rocky Horror Picture Show in Japanese? Why is Edinburgh pronounced the way it is? Will I gain weight if I swallow?

Marvelosa, I'm glad you're an avid fan, but why the hell are you asking me these questions? The only one I know the answer to is the last one, and it's an emphatic no. The average ejaculation contains Vitamin C and has about 5 calories. It's good for you. P.S. Have your husband/boyfriend/priest send me a check. I also take PayPal. And let me know if you find out the answers to the other questions.

Tot Dickinson of Zabljak, Montenegro writes:

I am an avid fan of your blog. I am considering becoming an amateur dominatrix. Do you have any advice for me? Thanks in advance.

Tot, sure I do, but why am I getting sex advice questions all of a sudden? Ask Leigh Lezark for crying out loud. But just this once I suppose I can shovel some out for an avid fan.

The only real advice I have is to make sure you and your partner(s) agree on a safe word that, when spoken, immediately causes all sexual activity to cease. Personally, I try to pick really hard ones to pronounce, like syzygy or onomatopoeia, so I can finish beating the fuckers first. If I'm really into it I sometimes make them spell the word correctly before I'll stop whipping them. You're welcome.

-- Hulles

Cute Ain't Hulles

2007-05-11T13:38:00.000-05:00

I have been "memed." It seems that there is brain virus going around that has struck a bunch of my friends simultaneously. SteamyDreamer, Eva Gale and, horror of horrors, Visual Snark are all intent on watching me writhe in agony then pass on this malady to a bunch of other innocent and unsuspecting people. I'll get you for this....

First you should know that as a crusty old curmudgeon normally I don't do memes, nor do I pass along chain letters and Pray to Jesus emails. This is mostly because I think memes are cute, and therefore should be gunned down in their tracks as if they were Hello Kitties. As I once said in a comment on someone's blog, "Cute ain't Hulles and Hulles ain't cute." Make of that what you will.

However, since these people are near and dear to my heart, or would be if I had one, I acquiesce just this once. You may regret it.

I confess to being a little curious why these folks think I can even come up with eight things. My life is an open book -- or at least an open graphic novel -- and in this blog I have bared my soul completely and have no remaining quirks or foibles to expose that I haven't talked about ad nauseam already.

But I'll see what I can do.

Here are the rules:

* Each player starts with eight random facts/habits about him/herself.

* People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.

* At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.

* Don't forget to leave them a comment telling them they're tagged, and to read your blog.

If you would like to be -- or at least tolerate being -- tagged yourself, please leave me a comment.

1, When I have an orgasm, my penis vibrates rapidly which causes an eerie humming sound to come out of my partner's vagina. Many women have found this disconcerting at first, but typically it doesn't take long for them to find it extremely pleasurable. Also during orgasm I emit a small localized EMP (electromagnetic pulse) from my brain which resets my clock radio and other nearby appliances and forces my upstairs neighbor to reprogram his VCR. This is really the reason I will ask you to come to my place for sex when I meet you -- my upstairs neighbor sucks.

2. While I didn't exactly participate in killing Jimmy Hoffa, I did help run the cement mixer during his interment in the Meadowlands. Not many people know this about me.

3. As a kid I once ate a pair of Fruit of the Loom briefs belonging to my friend Rick during a sleepover. Fortunately for both of us he wasn't wearing them at the time. In fact, he never found out about it. When he discovered them missing, I told him about the Underwear Gnomes that come at night and steal kids' underpants. I also told him that they bite the ears off any little boy that leaves skidmarks in them. I understand from his wife that he still believes in Underwear Gnomes to this day, for which she is eternally grateful.

4. I hate John Mayer. I hate his music and I hate him. See the "Cute ain't Hulles..." comment above. He's never actually done anything to me personally to make me hate him, but it disgusts me that every woman I've ever thought attractive swoons over him. Not that I'm jealous exactly, but I'm saving up money to get John and I tickets to see the Giants play in the Meadowlands.

5. One day not so long ago I took a shit that looked like Millard Fillmore. I carefully put it in a Zip-Loc bag (the big size) and stuck it in the freezer so I could enter it in the State Fair. I was very much disheartened to find out they didn't have a turd sculpture contest as I was certain I had clinched the blue ribbon. I still haven't decided what to do with it yet, but it's just way too cool to throw out. Lately I've been trying to shit James Buchanan, aka "Old Buck," but so far without acceptable result. Someday I hope to have a complete fecal presidential collection and open my own museum.

6. I am really the one responsible for sending you all the spam you receive in your email inbox. No one else gets them but you; I carefully craft each one to maximally offend your taste and sensibility. But by the way, you really did win the UK lottery -- you didn't delete that one, did you? Heh heh. And you really should contact me for the best prices on Ambien and Xanax.

7. I have slept with 8,359 women so far, and it's still early afternoon as I write this. I have to get a new bed about every three years because of whittling down the headboard by carving notches in it.

8. I have a 5th tattoo that no one knows about. It was done surgically on my left kidney in radioactive ink; you can only see it in X-rays. It says "Born to Glow." I don't know what it means exactly because both I and the surgeon were drunk when I got it.

There. Now I really have no secrets left, and the extraction hurt considerably. But no pain is too great to suffer for my friends, so I won't bitch any more, at least about that. But remember, revenge is a dish best served cold....

Memed so far: H, JC, jerseychick.

-- Hulles

Welcome To Gentleman Academy

2007-05-08T13:20:00.000-05:00

"A true gentleman is one who is never unintentionally rude."
- Oscar Wilde

I am seldom accused of not thinking big enough, but I've come to feel recently that this is exactly what I've done with the Hulles Flirting Academy. What I really think is needed is a Hulles Academy for Gentlemen of Distinction.

First, let us define what makes a gentleman. Simply put, a gentleman is a gracious man or woman. 'Gentleperson' doesn't cut the mustard, mostly because gentlepersonly behavior (e.g.) sounds dopey. Hopefully women are secure enough in their societal roles by now that we don't have to emasculate 'gentleman.' (And ouch, by the way.) But back to the matter at hand: my definition of a gentleman also connotes someone who thinks everyone else sucks but is too polite to say so.

I consider myself a gentleman, of course.

My Academy would certainly teach the art and science of flirting, per my other blog entry; but it would go beyond that -- it would instruct people in many other areas of gentlemanly behavior (see?). Some of these areas might be:

Suave Deportment
Sartorial Splendor
Gustatorial Delights
Dancing for White Guys
Female Anatomy for Men
Male Anatomy for Women

The opportunities are endless, and by the way I'm really happy that the Academy will have a Deportment Department.

Basically my Academy for Gentlemen of Distinction will turn out The Thin Man William Powells and Myrna Loys by the score. This will be a great boon for the liquor, tobacco and mustache wax industries, all of whom need a shot in the arm lately. And I'm thinking that if the Academy is as successful as it ought to be, we would add a Canine Deportment class or two so that we could turn out a bunch of Astas as well.

Once a man or woman has completed the gamut of courses that the Academy would offer and paid me many thousands of dollars in the process, the newly-fledged Gentleman of Distinction would have these qualities:

The GoD would own a tuxedo and accessories (link, studs, cummerbund, etc.). No tux rental for the GoD; that is for the lumpenproletariat, the worthless toads.

The GoD would be able to easily arch the right or left eyebrow as the situation requires.

The GoD would be able to delicately flare his or her nostrils on demand.

The GoD would be discrete -- no teller of tales he (or she).

The GoD would have a wry wit -- a silver tongue in a velvet glove, as it were.

The GoD would be a much-admired raconteur, endlessly able to tell stories that amuse and inform other GoD's and that make non GoD's feel incredibly stupid and coarse and desperate to enroll in my Academy.

The GoD would have discriminating taste in alcoholic beverages. He or she would drink only single-malt scotches, gin martinis, sherry or port. Okay, maybe an occasional imported beer, but only to be gracious to the lesser folk that may be present at the time. Noblesse oblige is I believe what this is called.

The GoD would be able to suavely purchase gifts of clothing for the other sex and do so routinely. See this site for an example of what I'm talking about here. [Note: if you're at work you might want to skip the link for now; see how I take care of you? - The Management]

The GoD would remain clear of eye and firm of grip, even after an eight-martini night.

The GoD would always remember WUDDS: witty, urbane, dashing, debonair, sophisticated. Two out of five should always be true, and five out of five would be expected when meeting the Queen, being interviewed on 60 Minutes, or shooting a rival in the forehead.

The GoD would be a deadly accurate shot with both rifle and pistol.

The GoD would have a gay personal shopper.

The GoD would make Martha Stewart feel like a hillbilly.

The GoD would tip with reckless abandon and nearly always graciously pick up the tab, particularly if out with me.

The GoD would hold doors, light cigarettes and walk on the outside at all times no matter what their gender.

The GoD would always maintain his or her equanimity, even in the face of tremendous obstacles like PMS or a killer hangover or a Pauly Shore movie marathon. The GoD would rarely be nonplussed and never dumbfounded.

The GoD would be knowledgeable about and occasionally smoke good cigars. He or she would have a nice humidor in their home, which I would of course be selling in the Academy at hideously marked-up prices. Ditto the cigars, come to think of it.

The GoD would always wear beautiful footwear and interesting underthings.

Some attributes would only apply to male gentlemen:

The GoD would always leave the toilet seat down.
The GoD would always stock tampons, a moisturizer, a hair dryer and a hand mirror in his bathroom, especially if single.
The GoD would allow the lady to come first unless in a busy parking lot or an elevator, in which case she takes her chances.

Other attributes would only apply to female gentlemen:

The GoD would swallow.

I could go on and on and often do, but you get the gist of the thing. I welcome your opinions and comments on my new Hulles Academy for Gentlemen of Distinction; rest assured your opinions will be the first ones I ignore when I open HAGD Numero Uno. So by all means let me know.

-- Hulles

Coisas Novas

2007-05-07T14:39:00.000-05:00

Just a news update for now since it's Monday and, well, it's Monday.

Thing 1: For Twin Cities locals, the Chambermaids are playing at the Turf Club on Friday (21+, cheap). I hope to go and check them out myself.

Thing 2: I finally got around to updating my blog links in the sidebar. I added some links that were overdue to be there; sorry it took so long if you're one of them. And if I'm not including you and I should be (you think), send me an email to the address in my blog profile and let me know.

Thing 3: I also finally updated the Mythos, which is always fun but it takes me a long time because I have to read through a bunch of old posts. Let me know if I got anything wrong. Just a quick reminder, the people who are listed in the Mythos are people I have mentioned in the body of my posts, not necessarily in the comments, so don't feel horrible if you're not there. Your day will come. And also, people that I have not yet met personally (that is, face to face) are only possibly real ("p.r."). See here for a fuller explanation.

Thing 4: My bomb-diggity friend Kat (who writes pink india ink) is in the process of writing a series of posts about an exhibitionist (that isn't her) that is well worth reading if you want a laugh or twelve. Go Kat.

Thing 5: Speaking of bomb-diggity, my wonderful pal visualsnark is helping me out on my story with the working title of "The Other Keys." It's turned into a bigger project than I anticipated, but I think it will be worth it. It has taken some time away from my blog entries, however. Sigh.

Thing 6:
I wish I was writing this in São Paolo. The weather here has sucked a lot lately, it's been cold and rainy. This has taken its toll on my and everyone else's spirits, I think. Of course I am assuming that the weather is better in São Paolo. Who am I kidding? I'd rather be writing this in Brazil anyway; who cares about the weather there. No snow, is all I ask. Hulles need beach. Thanks (and kisses) to Casti for the image.

Thing 7: Spoooooge mudflap. Dang. Didn't work that time either.

Thing 8: "Coisas Novas" is (hopefully) "new things" in Portuguese.

-- Hulles

Accidental Incantations

2007-05-05T12:41:00.000-05:00

When I was a young lad but knee-high to a pederast I had this fantasy that there were a number of phrases and gestures that, when uttered or performed, would cause small magical things to happen. It was just difficult to figure out what the phrase and/or gesture should be, because there are a very large number of combinations of English words (not an infinite number, but near as dammit), and you would have to say "spooooge mudflap" or something to make the magic occur. You would also have to pronounce it exactly right. To make it even worse, the magical act that resulted might be so trivial as to be unnoticible to the casual observer. "Spoooooge mudflap" might simply make the pants unsnap on that cute girl over there.

Needless to say, I am often to be seen wandering around muttering "spoooooge mudflap."

So the reason that most people don't know that magic can potentially occur on a daily basis is that having exactly the right circumstances come about to invoke the magic would be extremely unlikely, and even if it did, the triggering phrase or gesture probably would not be associated with the little magical event at all. Thus probably none of you believe in magic.

I do, though. For example, I have discovered through years of research that some phrases act as incantations that cause people to appear. I usually come across these incantations by accident but, astute observer that I am, I notice the cause and effect relationship and I feel pretty damn smug about it, I don't mind telling you.

As an example, when I say the following phrase, my friend Molly (who I have mentioned here and here) shows up. The phrase is "Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres", the first phrase in Julius Caesar's De Bello Gallico. Basically it translates as "Gaul is divided into three parts" if your Latin is rusty. I don't recall how I first stumbled across this, but since I really like Molly I am pretty happy to have this incantation stuck up my arsenal. I haven't yet mentioned to Molly that I can control her life because telling her about it might screw it up and make it not work. You never know how fragile these things really are.

Another incantation I discovered that I am less thrilled about is "cheesecake." Whenever I say that word, which is not often because I am not a big fan of cheesecake, this very large unkempt white woman with a faint mustache shows up. I've never spoken to her and don't intend to, but up she pops whenever I say that word. I just discovered that it's okay to type it, which is something of a relief. She creeps me out a little bit.

A much more useful incantation I learned is that when I am at a bar and carefully pronounce the word "endometriosis" someone buys me a drink. This has helped out a lot through the lean times I've had lately, believe me. The only downside is that people have started thinking that I'm an amateur OB/Gyn. Now that I think about it though I suppose I am. By the way, if you try this incantation yourself, be prepared to find that you don't like the person that buys you the drink. The incantation doesn't seem to cover that part of the equation. You were warned.

The last magical phrase I've stumbled upon that I'm going to share with you is that every time I say the word "the" whoever I happen to be hitting on at the moment becomes mentally enfeebled and defective. This sucks. I hope this one quits working soon.

Apropos of the last one, I've been searching and searching for the ultimate anti-incantation: one that makes somebody immediately go away and not come back. So far no luck, but if I find it I'll let you know.

-- Hulles

Revenge Of The Ecdysiasts

2007-05-02T15:04:00.000-05:00

“You can observe a lot by watching.”
- Yogi Berra

You know, it wasn't easy becoming a noted raconteur, sex dog and man-about-town. It took a lot of work. And, come to think of it, a lot of money. For example, I personally wouldn't feel I deserved these titles if I hadn't spent a lot of time in strip clubs over the years. Sure, it was often brutal, but I walked out of the door of many a strip bar a better man because I persevered and endured.

I started going to strip joints at the tender age of 19 – and it was legal too, if you're curious. My friends and I used to drive to a nearby larger city (I grew up in a small town in Iowa) to meet girls at a particular strip bar called The Top Hat Lounge if I'm not mistaken. But it wasn't what you think – we went there to meet girls that were also patrons, as opposed to dancers. As often as not, we would all sit as a group and gab among ourselves and completely ignore whatever dancer was on stage. This was fine, because the dancers all seemed old and, well, sort of used up is the politest way to say it. But the good old Top Hat was important to me because it was where I first learned to feel comfortable in a strip club.

Over the years I went to many more strip clubs in my quest to gather raconteur material. Eventually I arrived at a way to explain the attraction of strip bars, at least for me:

1. You can drink.

2. There are more-or-less naked girls running around all over the place.

Not overly complicated, as you can see. I've always compared strip clubs to Disneyland – it's lots of fun to be there but you have to remember that Mickey isn't a real mouse. Guys, no matter how tempting it is to believe otherwise, that dancer to whom you just gave two hundred bucks doesn't really want to spend the next 36 hours in bed with you and only you. You have to keep a perspective on the whole affair: it's a job for the dancers, and part of that job is convincing you that you're the hottest man alive.

Since I am the hottest man alive, I'm really easy to convince of this. It usually only takes about twenty bucks or so. The rest of the time I can just sit back and enjoy the experience and laugh with and tease whoever the lucky dancer is that's writhing on my lap. I have a lot more fun that way than if I get all serious and shit. And by the way, ladies, for me and for most of my male acquaintances the point of going to a strip club is not sex – at least not directly. It's more about feeling like some reasonably attractive woman finds you desirable in spite of the fact that you know it's because you're throwing tons of money at her. Sometimes it just feels good to feel wanted, even if it's just make-believe. It gets lonely out there sometimes.

And to be completely truthful, the above paragraph is really about going to a strip joint by yourself. If you go with a bunch of dirtbag buddies, of course it's about laughing and drinking and making some weak or diseased member of the pack pay for everything on his Visa Gold Card and then pass out.

But enough ecdysiastical philosophy [obviously I love that word – The Management]. On to Strippers I Have Known.

Since it is well known that I am comfortable in strip clubs and because I have a lot of female acquaintances, sometimes it falls upon me to escort young women to said clubs for job interviews. As you might imagine, this is one of the pleasanter ways to help out a friend. It beats the hell out of moving a refrigerator, that's for damn sure. And the interview process is always interesting to say the least.

My favorite story is about my friend Sally (not her real name of course). She asked me to accompany her to Minneapolis's premiere strip club at the time, Solid Gold, for a job interview. She just wanted to make some good money as a cocktail waitress; of course she wouldn't ever consider dancing there.

After the waitress interview, I took her to a table in the club proper so she could get a feel for the place – she had never been there! The club's theme song came on (“Girls Girls Girls” by Mötley Crüe). and I mentioned in passing that she was going to get completely and utterly sick of that song before the first day of work was over. “No way,” she said. “I like that song.” Hah. To this day Sally blanches and quails if anyone even says “girls” twice in the same sentence. Anyway, a few minutes later the guy at the table next to ours ordered a lap dance, so six inches away from Sally some woman with gigantic hooters was getting naked to music. Sally looked at me sort of helplessly and said “euugh!” or the equivalent.

Two weeks later Sally was dancing with the A Team at Solid Gold. I'm surprised it took her that long.

Today she is a successful attorney in the Twin Cities, so that story has a happy ending. I'm very proud of Sally that she avoided the common trap that dancers seem to fall into of putting all their newfound riches up their nose. The only down side to the whole lawyer thing is that I don't get to see her naked anymore. Unless of course the courtroom is a vastly different thing today than it was when I was in the docket; in that case I do have a shot at seeing Sally in her former glory (and nothing else) once again.

Having friends who work at strip clubs occasionally results in some distinctly odd occurrences. One time I was sitting at a table at Solid Gold after work, de-stressing after a long day, when all of a sudden two elbow-length velvet gloves come around my head and cover my eyes and some woman presses her boobs against me from behind and says “Guess who?” Being the savvy guy that I am I started naming every woman I could think of who would never ever work in a strip club just so she wouldn't go away, but finally she came around in front of me and I found to my immense surprise that it was my pal Renée (also not her real name). The last time I had seen her she was a cocktail waitress with a cute ass at a place in which I used to hang out. At that time, she was young and Christian and naïve. At least she was still young, I thought to myself.

Renée proceeded to explain to me that she worked in the strip club now (duh) and if I would come upstairs she would get me a table and show me her new boob job and we could get caught up on our mutual friends.

“Okay.”

So I got to admire Renée's brand new tits (they were quite lovely by the way) and at the same time find out about all the scandals that I had missed. Renée just sort of lazily danced topless in front of me for about an hour as we exchanged stories about people we both knew. This is not a bad way to get caught up on current events, in my opinion. It also turned out to be a weird version of a fantasy I had always had about Renée whenever I talked to her in her previous waitress job. Funny how things work out.

I'll leave you with a brief anecdote about a place in Switzerland. I was in Basel and in the course of walking the streets (...) I passed by a place a number of times called “La Belle Epoch.” It had no windows and a canopy-covered sidewalk leading up to it and it virtually screamed “strip club” at me but in German so I had trouble understanding it. At any rate, one day to my own surprise I strolled up the canopy-covered walk to the front door, only to find the following sign: “Members Only.” To this very day I am so proud of myself that I pounded on the knocker anyway (...) and went inside.

The large jovial woman greeted me in German, French then finally English and asked me what I wanted.

“What's it take to become a member?” I asked her.

“You already are,” she said, laughing. “We just have the sign on the door so we can get rid of anybody we don't like. Come on in!”

And I did.

-- Hulles

Live Adventures

2007-04-30T12:40:00.000-05:00

I just thought I'd let everyone know what's been going on with me lately. Last week was a busy one with me trying to get my laptop Lucille II up and running again. But some other things happened besides that:

On Tuesday as I was driving in to the redundantly-named Nina's Coffee Cafe, my car was forced off the road by a Hummer and I was taken prisoner by a gang of rogue twenty-something blondes with cute asses and great tits. They took me to their sex farm in northern Minnesota near Eveleth and forced me to make love to them repeatedly and do other unspeakable acts like leave the toilet seat down. Fortunately, in gratitude for my teaching them how to achieve multiple orgasms even after drinking all night using only common household utensils, they returned me to my car the next morning and even gave me twenty bucks and a new pair of bikini briefs.

So on Wednesday, after returning home to feed Mimi my cat I suddenly received a vision from Mother Teresa instructing me to go to Calcutta and feed poor people and instruct them in proper sanitation methods. However, as I had some other things to do on Wednesday -- I had promised Bill Gates I would shoot pool with him at Costello's Bar in Saint Paul during happy hour -- I chose to interpret this vision as referring to Calcutta, Ohio. As a result I flew to Ohio and spent some time slinging dal and teaching the natives to thoroughly wipe down toilet seats in gas station restrooms. This turned out to be a most satisfactory experience and I felt pretty good about doing my bit to raise the standard of living in a third-world state like Ohio. I even made a mental note to make one of my Catholic friends light a candle to Mother Teresa if she's actually canonized and if she isn't what the hell is she doing coming to me in a vision. And by the way, I kicked Gates's ass at eight ball. He now owes me fifty bucks, the loser.

Later that evening I got an emergency call on my cell phone and had to chopper down to the Mayo Clinic in Rochester to perform some delicate neurosurgery. I don't really do this much anymore since I started blogging but it was for a poor two-year-old Ohio girl that had been adopted by Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt; since Ange is a close personal friend of mine I made an exception for her. It was quite gratifying to see the smile in the child's eyes when she came out of surgery and listen to her gurgling away in Ohioan. It was also nice to check out Angelina's tits and inspect her for new tattoos. So that was my Wednesday.

On Thursday it turned out to be another busy day. I had to fly down to Cape Canaveral in Florida and redesign some space shuttle O-rings for NASA. Good thing they called me in; some idiot had made them square and out of cardboard. I figure I saved not only the lives of many future astronauts but also singlehandedly rescued the entire U. S. space program by preventing yet another shuttle disaster. I got back to Saint Paul too late to blog, though, as I had to meet with investors in my Flirting Studio enterprise. We're looking at a major franchise deal but I can't really talk about it now.

Friday I flew down to São Paolo Brazil, never mind what for. I got back late Saturday, but still in time to go out to W. A. Frost in Saint Paul for cocktails. I had a little incident occur there that was somewhat disturbing, however. I overheard a bunch of hardbodied twenty-something males refer to my pal Tate as a fat cougar so I had to kick their asses, the insolent toads. I didn't do any serious damage to the boys but I did teach them a lesson about fucking with bloggers, goddamn it. Sometimes one has to make a stand. And if you're curious, I did bruise an ankle doing my patented flying drop kick. Apparently I'm not as spry as I used to be.

Yesterday I took it pretty easy. I decided to stay home and invent shit so I fixed myself a pitcher of Mexican Windbreakers and sat on the lanai and came up with about twenty new products, any one of which will make me filthy rich. The invention I'm proudest of resembles the little BreatheRight nasal strips but they're clear instead of "flesh-colored." I intend to sell them in pairs to college students. They attach to one's eyelids and hold them open so that one can sleep right through one's Macro Economics class after one has done about thirty shots of cheap tequila the previous night and still look like one is paying attention to every word of the dork professor's monotone delivery that pretty much repeats word for word the overpriced text that he made one buy for the course. I figure this invention alone will revolutionize both college drinking and economics in our great nation and buy me that condo in Andorra that I've had my eye on.

Oh yeah, last night I switched from Mexican Windbreakers to Captain Morgan and goat urine just so I'd be in shape for blogging today. Nothing much really happened after that unless you count the fact that Angelina Jolie snuck over to my place for a romp in the hay out of gratitude for my helping her little Ohio girl. Don't tell anyone, though; I have enough trouble with paparazzi as it is. I understand Ange does too, but I'm sure my troubles are much worse. I kicked Jolie out early this morning (after forcing her to make me pancakes naked) so I could get a nice early start on my blog.

So get off my back. I've been busy, for chrissake.

-- Hulles

Perhaps I Was A Bit Optimistic...

2007-04-26T15:17:00.000-05:00

As it says in the title, perhaps I was a bit optimistic about being able to post again right away. Following my software debacle with Lucille II, my laptop, I had to find a new word processor that worked well with HTML and Blogger so I could actually write some stuff -- my old one seems to have disappeared. Also, I had to reinstall a bunch of other software that I use regularly.

The good news is that I think everything is finally set up correctly now. Thanks for your patience in this most difficult time for all of us. Well, it's been difficult for me and Lucille, anyway; maybe not so much for you. I hope not!

More soon....

-- Hulles

Whew!

2007-04-23T20:51:00.000-05:00

Lucille II, my laptop, is back. But dang -- it was a close one. We almost lost her.

I was upgrading to a new version of my operating system -- Ubuntu Linux "Feisty Fawn" to be exact -- when I lost power to poor Lucille during the upgrade. This is because I'm an idiot. Last Friday I finally downloaded all the files for the upgrade while I was at the redundantly-named Nina's Coffee Cafe but was running late to meet the lovely Erin and the okay-looking cK at a local watering hole so I stuck Lucille into my bag and scooted over there while she was still doing the upgrade.

Well, it seems Lucille took exception to this cavalier behavior because as I was socializing and flirting with every mammal that walked past me the poor little laptop was sucking up battery power until finally she threw up her arms in digust and went into cardiac arrest. With the upgrade process incomplete. Which means the laptop would not boot when I got home that night.

Now you may or may not know that I am something of a computer geek; I earned my living for many years doing programming. As a result, there was no excuse for me being such a dolt. But I was. And of course I didn't do a backup prior to the upgrade.

So I've been without a laptop at all for the last three days, let alone internet access and email. I nearly went postal. And I missed you all lots and lots. But today I finally got Lucille II all recovered and didn't lose the 3000 words I'd written in the Other Keys story, thankfully. I thought I had lost not only the story but the entire hard drive for a couple of days. Gleep.

So I am suitably chastened, but Lucille II is once again in fine fettle and ready to kick palabra. So I guess I need to write more stuff now!

You can expect a new post tomorrow. I apologize for the delay.

And... whew! Dodged a bullet that time.

-- Hulles

Lucille Gets Yet Another Makeover

2007-04-20T16:49:00.000-05:00

Alas, once again Lucille II, my redoubtable laptop, is indisposed while she's getting refurbished with a new operating system upgrade (Ubuntu LInux Feisty Fawn, if you're curious). As a result, there may be another shortage of posts for a day or two as I struggle to achieve online accessibiltiy. Sorry.

In the meantime, however, I've been working on a project that I think you will like. It's a little longer story than I've attempted to date, but I'm having a great time with it and it should be funny and disturbing and all those other things you guys say about what I write. The story is called (so far) "The Other Keys," and is based upon a wonderful picture my exquisite friend Marie created at Visual Snark. I owe her big time, and I'm trying to make the story be worthy of her excellent image. It's really a fun story to write, though, and I'm having a great time with it. Much cackling and whooping and rubbing of hands.

I also plan on updating the Mythos while I'm forced to be offline. Lots to do there, and many p.r. names to add.

Wish me luck on the upgrade. I am wildly optimistic that I won't have to screw around with my wireless card this time. I also believe in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, if you're wondering.

-- Hulles

Welcome To Flirting School

2007-04-17T19:04:00.000-05:00

Man is the hunter; woman is his game:
The sleek and shining creatures of the chase,
We hunt them for the beauty of their skins.

- Alfred Tennyson

I woke up this morning, much to my surprise, and spat out the toy mouse my cat had apparently placed in my mouth to muffle my snoring. It hit the bedroom wall with a sort of splat sound and stuck for a second before it dropped to the floor. I fumbled around blindly on the nightstand by my bed for my eye chisel, then used the chisel end to remove the grout from my eyes and the little prybar on the other end to prise my eyelids apart. I then resignedly groped for the half-empty tumbler also sitting on the nightstand and downed it in a gulp. Much to my chagrin I found that I had been drinking Captain Morgan and goat urine again the night before. "Alas, I suffer the agenbite of inwit, Mimi," I said to my cat. Actually, what I said was "Mmph grkl," but after eight years of house pet bliss she knew what I meant.

Later while whimpering in the bathroom I recalled that one of the many great ideas I had hatched the night before was to open a flirting school, or more precisely, a flirting studio. This would be much like an Arthur Murray® Dance Studio except it would just be for flirting. Great idea, eh?

"Hulles, why on earth would you want to open a flirting studio?" I can hear you thinking. And by the way, your lips are moving as you think this. Just saying, is all. Anyway, the reason I want to open a flirting studio is for the simple reason that people need to learn how to flirt and, even more importantly, they need to learn how to react appropriately when being flirted with. So, in a spirit of public service that for once isn't court-ordered, I thought I would step up to the plate and educate everyone about flirtation. And charge everyone an arm and a leg for the privilege, of course.

This all came about because I inadvertently terrorized a couple of cute young lasses last night as I flirted with them. Being Hulles, noted raconteur, sex dog and man-about-town, normally I elicit cow-eyed adoration in the opposite sex when I deign to interact with them at all. Such was not the case last night, however. Granted, at times I can be a little heavy-handed ("Hey dollface, let me sex you down in the back of a limo. Now go rent the limo while I stay here and drink...") but last night I'm pretty sure I was only just slightly over the top a teensy weensy bit ("Hi honey, you're awfully cute, ever think about dating your grandfather?"). I guess I just scared the poor girls because they weren't expecting to hear that from some seedy old white guy who looks remarkably like a stalker and who in fact played one recently in the movies.

Fuck 'em, it's a beautiful world with sharp jagged edges and they should be made of sterner stuff.

But still, somebody should tell them that a person with an obvious sense of humor who says outrageously bizarre things to them is only flirting (and, by the way, amusing the bartender tremendously). So I'm going to teach them this in my Hulles Flirting Studio. I'll teach them how to distinguish flirting by a gentleman of distinction from harassment by a perverted creep (the words are mostly the same in each case but a viable sense of humor is the key here, as it is in so many things). I'll teach them how to flirt back even more outrageously so that much fun and laughter can be had by all. And I'll teach them how to politely tell the aforesaid gentleman of distinction to fuck off because he's not funny at all, he's just drunk, and tell him in such a pleasant and amusing fashion that he doesn't even realize he got the brushoff until the next morning when he winces as he reviews the previous night's adventures in the midst of an Olympic-class hangover (see agenbite of inwit, above).

My studio would also teach men how to flirt and be flirted with, but that's really the topic of another post I'll write someday so I won't go into that here. Suffice it to say that, much like an Arthur Murray® Dance Studio, I intend to employ extremely hot men and women as flirtation instructors so they can drive the forlorn and lonely people who enroll in my studio crazy with feigned affection. This is to make these poor sods sign up for class after class that they don't need and can't afford so that they can feel desirable for a few minutes a week. Sure it's cruel and heartless, but at least I'm not making them jerk and stagger about awkwardly all over the dance floor. They can even sit down while they flirt if they want. Maybe I'll even serve cocktails.

Wow, I just got a great idea - a lap flirt! Have to think about that one....

So if you'll excuse me, I'm off to find a storefront with a massive plate glass window on a busy thoroughfare so that people can feel like überdorks when they are seen taking my lame and overpriced flirting classes. I'm not sure why this is important but wiser heads than mine have convinced me that it is. Then I'll open up my flirting school and be able to call it The Hulles® Flirting Studio and be rolling in money and go live in Brazil and give up this blogging shit that doesn't pay squat. Oh yeah, and while I"m out looking for studio space I'm going to stop at the co-op and buy more goat urine. The stuff grows on you after a while, much like Jãgermeister or a bad case of jock itch.

-- Hulles

Lucille Gets A Makeover

2007-04-16T17:32:00.000-05:00

Lucille II (my notebook computer) is getting a fabulous new makeover with a more recent version of Ubuntu Linux (her operating system). While Lucille is in relaxing in the spa, however, my posts and commenting may be a little sporadic. This is because Lucille's wireless card is not natively supported by Ubuntu, which means that the dad (me) has to recompile "ndiswrapper" and invent a bunch of new swearwords in the process of trying to get the sucker up. My pal Mosilager tells me that "Feisty Fawn" -- the newest Ubuntu release, I'm installing "Edgy Eft" -- does a better job of supporting wireless cards. Great, except that "Feisty Fawn" is still in beta test, and Hulles don't do beta testing no more. Sigh.

So the bottom line is that I should have a new post up on Tuesday. Hopefully it won't suck. But the newly made over Lucille will be sparkling and shiny and ready to kick some palabras, just you wait and see.

-- Hulles

Cry Of The Werehamster: The Last Part

2007-04-12T14:49:00.000-05:00

[See "Cry Of The Werehamster: The First Part" for the first part of this story, and "Cry Of The Werehamster: The Next Part" for the next part of this story. -- The Management]

As evening fell and the thick fog rolled in, Frank the squirrel was getting ready for his big date. He was cheerfully humming Irving Berlin songs to himself as he carefully groomed his tail and trimmed his claws with his teeth. Earlier he had been humming Cole Porter songs but he eventually remembered that Al and Seamus had told him Cole Porter show tunes were super-gay so he switched to Irving Berlin. "That'll show 'em," he thought to himself with some satisfaction.

Finally he felt he was ready for Doris his date to arrive, but as he looked into the human house from his tree -- he thought of the owner, Larry Talbot, as his human -- to view the clock he found to his chagrin that it was only 8 PM. This was bothersome to Frank because Doris was not expected until 9 PM; as a result he found himself with some time on his paws. "Hmmm," said Frank to himself, "perhaps I'll just go for a short walk in this thick soupy fog while I wait for Doris to arrive. Lucky for me, although Doris isn't the prettiest squirrel in the neighborhood, she's punctual. And she's thrifty. And she has wonderful handwriting. So I can expect her to show up right on time, instead of an hour and a half late like that bitch Amber used to." And so saying, he scampered down his tree and bounded off into the foggy night.

He had gotten but a few yards from his tree when a strange thing happened. The fog suddenly parted and the pale gibbous moon shone down upon the unsuspecting Frank. Immediately he began to feel funny. "That's odd," he thought to himself. "Suddenly I find myself thinking of viciously ripping the throats out of small furry mammals and dancing in their bloody entrails and yet like all squirrels I'm a vegetarian which makes it...urk!" He stopped in mid-sentence because suddenly he found himself reeling drunkenly around in a circle, then he fell to the ground and began writhing in unimaginable pain. His last conscious thought was "At least there was no fainting in coils...." as his body began a Kafkaesque transformation into a hamster. But this was not to be just any hamster -- Frank was metamorphosing into the much-dreaded werehamster, a hideous monster with inch-long fangs, glowing red eyes, and a penchant for dramatic and gratuitous gore.

At last the transfiguration was complete. All in all it took about two minutes, but it was so theatrical that it seemed like twenty minutes or thereabouts. But when all was said and done there stood the frightening monster that had been Frank but moments before, slavering and snarling and generally acting like the ravenous fiend it had become. Suddenly the gleaming full moon reappeared through the fog (it had become hidden by the clouds when the metamorphosis had begun) and the fiercely brown werehamster reared up on its hind legs, twisted its furry face into a snarling rictus of primal savagery, and bayed its strangely eerie and haunting cry:

"Ek ek ek ek ek!"

The malevolently evil monster then scampered off into the fog seeking a victim that he could rend and tear into small bloody bits with his inch-long fangs coated with slaver.

***

Destiny, Doris's slutty-looking friend and neighbor squirrel, was early for her rendezvous with Doris by the late-blooming hamsterbane so she amused herself by thinking about dirt. Then suddenly she heard a rustle in the nearby bushes. "Hello?" she called querulously. "Is anyone there? Doris, is that you, girlfriend? Whoever it is, I'm innocently walking over into the bushes to investigate so you better behave yourself!" And she disappeared into the late-blooming hamsterbane which it would seem is misnamed because there was a growl and a snarl and a screech which was cut off in mid-agony and many tearing and rending noises and much shaking of bushes, then out flew the bloody and torn hind leg of a squirrel which hit a nearby crushed and bent Sprite can with a splat. Then from the suddenly quiet clump of bushes came a strangely eerie and haunting cry:

"Ek ek ek ek ek!"

***

Doris felt she looked damn good tonight in her new bra and was humming tunes from Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals to herself as she put the final coat of polish on her claws. She then stuck a tiny flower into the hole where her ear had been torn off some years ago by a vitriolic Shih Tzu. "Dang, Doris, you are one hot little number!" she cooed to herself. "You are gonna get yourself a mate tonight Some lucky squirrel is going to become Mr. Doris!" And she clambered down her tree and leapt into the yard and ran off to meet her friend Destiny singing "I Don't Know How To Love Him" incredibly off-key. But then suddenly Doris heard a strangely eerie and haunting cry:

"Ek ek ek ek ek!"

"Son of bitch, that sounds like that strangely eerie and haunting cry I heard earlier," Doris muttered to herself. "Good thing I brought this pointy silver sewing needle with me. No telling who or what might be out in that thick fog tonight. I hope that fucking Shih Tzu is safely inside his house, I don't fancy losing another ear, I look ratty enough as it is. Thank God at least I have good penmanship."

When Doris got to the late-blooming hamsterbane bush her slutty-looking friend Destiny was nowhere to be seen. Or so Doris thought. "So much for my rendezvous with Destiny," she grumbled bitterly. But as she glanced around the small clearing in the bushes she saw the crushed Sprite can glinting in the moonlight that suddenly reappeared through the clouds so she went over to investigate. It was then that she saw the blood spatters on the can and became wary. "Uh oh," Doris thought. "This can't be good unless there's a dead Shih Tzu in those bushes." As she investigated further, however. she found the severed hind leg of her late pal Destiny with droplets of slaver still wet upon it. "Fuck me!" she cried as she jumped into the air and came down with her pointy silver sewing needle in the en garde position.

Out from the bushes sprung the werehamster that was Frank! The monster crouched and snarled at Doris as she began frantically waving her sewing needle back and forth. "Eeugh! Gross!" shouted Doris. "Get back or you're getting a pointy silver sewing needle in that glowing red eye of yours!" The werehamster merely growled low in its throat and began circling the hapless yet plucky female squirrel. Doris warily turned to keep an eye on the transformed Frank as she cried, "Go away! Go away! Bad hamster! Go find a wheel or something!"

Then Doris bumped into the Sprite can as she was circling and was stricken with inspiration. She reached down and grabbed Destiny's severed and still-dripping leg. "Here boy, nice werehamster, have a squirrel leg that isn't mine!" Doris gingerly held out her friend's leg and the werehamster snuffled at it curiously. The monster then grabbed the leg in its inch-long fangs and lay down to gnaw upon it, still keeping a watchful eye on Doris as he slavered on the bony leg. More.

"There there, that's a nice hamster. Say, you're not half-bad when you're not about to rip my throat out. You could do with a little less slavering, but hey, what man couldn't?" Then Doris somehow magically discovered that the werehamster was Frank transformed, probably by a scrap of clothing that still clung to his monster shape or his unique smell or something. At any rate, suddenly she knew that this was Frank in front of her, changed into a horrific beast. "Ohmigod!" yelled Doris. "WTF? Are you really Frank? How did this happen?"

The werehamster blinked as he chewed upon Destiny's leg.

"You are, aren't you!" snarled Doris, beginning to become angry. "What do you think you're doing? You're not going to get out of our date that easy, mister! Now put down that leg and let's go to your place and I'll see what I can do about fixing you up. I swear, men, they're always turning into crazed beasts! Leave 'em alone and next thing you know they're all over your best friend! Well don't think this kind of behavior is going to go on much longer once you're with me!"

The Frank-monster made a small mewling noise in its throat and cowered back from the incensed Doris.

"Here now, what's all this?" shouted a police constable squirrel that just appeared on the scene. "Oi, werehamsters is it? Well we know how to do for werehamsters properly down at the station we do. Come along peacefully now and you and I will get along just fine." The colorful stock character approached the confused monster tapping his club meaningfully. "Don't move, hamster boy, or you're getting this billy in the...urk!"

The police constable looked down to find a pointy silver sewing needle stuck into his heart and he promptly died with naught but a few gurgling noises.

"There won't be none of running my Frank in," muttered Doris ungrammatically. "Now that I have him, nobody is going to be taking him away anywhere. It was hard enough to find a male squirrel that wanted me in the first place; I'm not going to lose him to some two-bit walk-on character who just strolls over and thinks he can whisk my new mate away and Bob's your uncle. Guess I showed him, anyway he should have known better than get involved in a domestic without backup." Doris fashioned a makeshift leash out of some string that happened to be laying around near the Sprite can and tied it around the werehamster's neck. "Come along then, we're off to your place before some other colorful stock character shows up like that Gypsy Squirrel from the first part for example. I swear, werehamsters are going to be the death of me yet." The fierce-looking monster pulled futilely at the leash a couple times then sighed lugubriously and began trudging along behind Doris as she marched off to Frank's nest. And ever so softly and faintly as Doris led her new spouse off into the distance, you could hear the werehamster begin to cry.

[Many thanks to Lollie for the picture - The Management]

-- Hulles

Publish More, Perish Less

2007-04-10T19:03:00.000-05:00

Alarums. Excursions. Enter the Queen, Prince, and Exeter

- Shakespeare, Henry VI

[The wonderful and disturbing image below was created by Visual Snark and is included here by permission. Many thanks! - The Management]

[And see? See? See why one ought to have a graphic art department at one's disposal? - The Management]

I've been thinking a great deal about blogging as a writer's medium lately; see my post on Missy's blog if you are interested in further reflections of mine upon this topic. Guh, I sound like a professor. But read it anyway if you haven't yet. And by the way, sorry if I was SCREAMING in that particular entry; some of my formatting didn't transfer exactly (not Missy's fault).

I think that "Publish Or Perish" entry begs the question of how one might utilize blogging to write and make money. This is a question near and dear to my heart as you might imagine. Here is what I've come up with:

I think someone -- you -- should become a syndicator. Go and scout out and sign up people with creative professional-quality blogs like Chasing Windmills, pink india ink, Visual Snark, or (dare I say it) myself. Develop a portal that has pages of, say, four quadrant panels, each quadrant containing a preview of the current entry for one of these pro blogs. You can link to the blog itself from the portal and read it. Along the sides are various ads from sponsors that, by the way, are not click-based.

The syndicator / portal creator (you) would get income from selling the ad space and use that to pay the writers (me et. al., but especially me). You would also handle the RSS feeds from the blogs and sell ad space on them (see the Onion feeds for examples of this). Probably the portal should be able to be personalized for an individual in a fashion similar to the Google or Yahoo! home pages one can set up. This ends up being much like an aggregator, but a slicker one than any I've seen. My imaginary portal page is pretty, damn it, and graphically interesting, not just lines of text.

I imagine that the blog content provider (me) would work with the syndicator (you) to create a personalized blog page "look and feel", so that (for example) pink india ink would still have a pink background (and damn if I don't feel gay every time I pull it up but fortunately I'm used to it by now). Probably the syndicator would also sell ad space on the blog page itself. The blog page would of course link back to the portal, so that traffic could be shared among the content providers (Person X reads Kat and also is steered to Visual Snark, for example).

The syndicator could / should also provide employment to some of the graphic artists that are currently bartending. I should be able to say to the syndicator (you) that I need pictures of malefic clowns or squirrels with push-up bras and the syndicator's graphic art department could provide them and integrate them into my blog content. Maybe I'd use more graphics that way, who knows. The down side is that we'd have to find new bartenders.

Also, when you first pull up the master portal, it plays the theme from The Jetsons. This is very important to me for some reason.

The real job of the syndicator is to sell ad space, of course. Yech, personally, but some people are good at that stuff. Go find 'em, unless you're one already. But notice that your startup costs are about a hundred bucks and it's all virtual, so you can run the business out of a bar with wireless access, at least until you die from cirrhosis of the liver.

It doesn't take a genius like me to realize that this vision plus about ten minutes of work equals a business plan for some ambitious person out there -- namely, you. I'd do it myself, but I'm too busy creating content -- that is, writing. Plus I have a related project in the works already. So go for it. Tell your friend.

You could send me a big check, though. It would be the gracious thing to do.

-- Hulles

P.S. No, this sort of thing doesn't exist already. I know this because no one has called me.

Son Of Neuigkeiten

2007-04-06T21:38:00.000-05:00

Item: Missy was kind enough to allow me to post a guest blog entry, my first. It has a definite editorial flavor to it. You can read it here if you would like to. Thanks for the opportunity, Missy.

Item: I added Random Mindless Ramblings to my blog list. Check H (the author) out; I like her. I also added a link to Visual Snark. I have become addicted to the images that the author/artist (oddly enough called visualsnark) creates. Enough so that I'm writing a story based on one of her images (with her kind permission). And it's really fun.

Item: I removed the Babel Fish gizmo from the sidebar. Not sure why I put it there in the first place.

Item: I'm contemplating creating a new blog site to stick stories into. If I do this, I would publish them here first then stick them in there. These entries would be the fictional pieces that I occasionally write, as opposed to the factual ones like, well, jeez, I guess I don't have any factual ones. Anyway, I'd put the ones that are stories in there.... Let me know what you think about that, if you have an opinion at all. I'm thinking about tying the stories together somehow, but I'm not sure how yet.

Item: I am intentionally leaving you hanging about the ending to Cry Of The Werehamster. It's simply a cheap ploy to make you come back and check. Also I haven't written it yet.

Item: I ran across an online Ransom Note Generator. I love this. It has "Hulles" written all over it. If you're a crime fiction writer, you need this link. I already used it in the Visual Snark story I mentioned above. I can't tell you how funny I find this site.

Item: Naked Wednesday went okay. Any Naked Wednesday I can walk away from a free man is a good one....

Item: I had a blog entry (Ignoble Drone Am I...) published in the most recent (April) edition of Avenues, and I am so proud of it. Avenues is a local (Saint Paul) news and arts monthly. My article was a full page including a half-page illustration that was superb. Many thanks to Mike (the publisher of Avenues) for doing such a nice job with it.

Item: My Brazilification continues. And speaking of which, congratulations to La Espia T. who is taking her much-admired butt down to Brazil for about 6 weeks to study something; I think it's bikini waxing but I might be wrong about that. Of course I am insanely jealous of her. For the trip, duh, not for the butt; my own ass does quite nicely thank you very much. You see, I can't help but think that if I went to Brazil I could find something to do....

-- Hulles

Cry Of The Werehamster: The Next Part

2007-04-04T15:49:00.000-05:00

[See "Cry Of The Werehamster: The First Part" for the first part of this story. -- The Management]

For Galaxy Moonbeam

At long last the Autumn sun began to drop behind the trees and Frank the gray squirrel and his squirrel buddies knocked off work and headed back to their respective nests, ribbing each other good-naturedly as they departed the nut yard:

"Hey Frank, good luck on your date with Doris tonight! Remember what they say -- she has ten nipples and you only have two forepaws, eight of those nipples are going to be wasted!" gleefully cackled Al.

"Oi, Frank, think about baseball at the moment of truth and maybe you'll last more than 15 seconds this time!" yelled Seamus.

"Hey you guys, cut it out, Doris is a nice squirrel, that's why I have to get her drunk first, remember?" retorted Frank as he scampered towards home. He thought he heard someone shout "Rectum? I thought I killed 'em!" in the distance and chortled to himself as he reflected that the classics never get stale.

When Frank reached his arboreal home he began grooming himself for his big date with Doris. He was somewhat apprehensive about asking her to marry him since it was their first date and they had never really had a conversation before but Frank felt convinced that it was time to take their relationship to the next level. He knew that Doris wasn't exactly a prime catch with her slightly-crossed eyes and missing ear and all, but he found the gap between her buck teeth erotic and besides no other female squirrel in the neighborhood would date him since the Amber incident. Thus, Frank found himself contentedly humming "Let's Do It (Let's Fall In Love)" as he readied himself for his big evening. He was certain that nothing could possibly happen to screw things up this time.

But as he was thinking this, for some reason Frank seemed to hear the querulous voice of the colorful and charmingly eccentric old squirrel who had hawked a gobbet of phlegm upon him earlier in the day:

Not all round and hard things are walnuts
Not every small brown thing's a seed
Take care on the night of the full moon
Lest the werehamster's bite makes you bleed
A lot from a ripped throat

Frank still had no idea what any of that meant, but it gave him a sudden chill to recall the old squirrel's ominous and ill-rhymed words. He also noticed that as night was falling a thick fog was congealing and that the people in the house nearby were playing gypsy violin music and that the scent of late-blooming hamsterbane was redolent in the air. However, being a singularly dim and unimaginative squirrel he simply shrugged it all off and resumed grooming himself and humming Cole Porter show tunes.

***

Doris had come to realize long ago that she was neither the most attractive nor the most intelligent of squirrels, but she knew what she wanted and she wanted a man, or more precisely a male squirrel. Frank might not have been her first choice -- actually, he was her last choice after the Amber incident -- but he was male and he was nearby so she was ready to snatch him up at the drop of a nut. Besides, she had always been a sucker for a fluffy tail on a squirrel and Frank's tail was at least fluffy if not overly large.

Doris spent a goodly amount of time cleaning her remaining ear and polishing her claws. She also tried to do something to camouflage the unsightly black dots on her fur that had given her the nickname "Ink Sqrrrrrl" but to no avail. Finally, after much pointless primping and grooming, she was slutted up and ready to cocktease any male that came with range of her overactive scent glands. She was just about to leave the squirrel equivalent of a double-wide trailer that she called a nest and walk down the block to Frank's tree when she noticed the thick soupy fog that begun to creep in on big lion feet.

"Uh oh," she said to herself with a shudder. "No telling what kind of perverts are going to be out on a night like this. I better take along my rape whistle and this pointy silver sewing needle I found recently. Although come to think of it, maybe I'll leave the rape whistle at home since it doesn't seem to work. I've blown it a thousand times and still no one shows up to rape me."

"Hey, Destiny!" screeched Doris at her equally trampy friend in the next tree over. "It's a creepy night tonight! Why don't you meet me in the yard and walk with me over to Frank's place! A cute female squirrel's not safe walking alone on a night like this and neither am I!"

"Shee-it, girl! I'm just crimping my tail!" yelled Destiny. "I was going to stay at home tonight and try to make a pushup bra out of ten acorn shells and some string but I suppose I can walk with you at least part of the way. Give me a couple minutes and I'll meet you by the late-blooming hamsterbane."

"Great honey, I'll wait for you there!" shrieked Doris.

And so the plain but plucky Doris set off into the foggy night dreaming of marriage and chocolate.

But as she was leaving the safety and shelter of her slatternly home the fog parted and the lambent full moon savagely shone in the night sky and she heard a strangely eerie and haunting cry somewhere off in the distance:

"Ek ek ek ek ek!"

She shivered and clutched the shawl that had not been there a second ago more closely about her shoulders and grimly set off for her rendezvous with Destiny.

[Look for "Cry Of The Werehamster: The Last Part" coming soon to a blog near you. -- The Management]

-- Hulles

The Evilosity Of Hulles

2007-04-03T17:46:00.000-05:00

The other day I ran into my friend Gordy, who happens to be the only practicing animist with whom I am acquainted. I'm not sure what that has to do with anything but I think it's interesting. At any rate, during our conversation Gordy called me "the most evil, sarcastic bastard he's ever met".

Hunh.

Now lest you think Gordy doesn't get out much and just plain doesn't know very many people, let me disabuse you of this notion immediately. He does and he does, trust me. So this is an informed opinion. It's also a heavy burden to bear: being the most evil, sarcastic bastard Gordy's ever met carries with it a certain responsibility. I can already see that I'm not going to be able to rest on my evilosity laurels and still keep my title. Great. Just what I need, another responsibility. Don't you people know that's why I keep getting divorced? Grumble grumble.

I think I'm pretty okay with the sarcastic bastard part. In this blog I'm merely sardonic in a charmingly postmodern fashion, but in tête-a-tête conversation I regularly achieve multiple sarcasms. This is probably due to my warped world view in which everyone sucks but you and me, and frankly I'm not so sure about you. But whatever the reason, sarcasm seems to come naturally to me, so maintaining my "sarcastic bastard" crown will probably not require a lot of effort.

But most evil? That's going to take some doing. Hitler was evil. Stalin was evil. Richard Nixon was evil. Me? I'm not so evil. Well, there was that one time with the BB gun and the tiny little toads, and I did assist in burning down a commercial building in my hometown, but come on, it was just a small one and it was practically begging to be arsonized. If we hadn't torched it some lesser children would have. But these are mere peccadilloes. Why does Gordy think I'm evil? Come to think of it, he often calls me The Lesser Satan, which is pretty funny coming from an animist. Maybe I'm inadvertently evil -- that is, I'm evil and I don't realize it.

Actually being inadvertently evil would be sort of a relief -- I won't have to struggle to defend my title because I don't know how the hell I got it in the first place. It will all come naturally to me and the evilosity will just somehow ooze out of my pores and I can retain Mos' Evil status without any further work on my part. So there, I guess we're done and I don't have to agonize over the responsibility after all. Whew.

Now if you will excuse me, I have to go torture some nuns and crush some baby ducks.

-- Hulles

Cry of the Werehamster: The First Part

2007-03-30T11:55:00.000-05:00

For Anne

It was a warm fall afternoon, and Frank the gray squirrel and his pals had already spent a busy and productive day burying nuts in the loamy-smelling yard and tormenting the overweight cats that sat in windows watching them. The squirrels were taking their union-mandated fifteen minute break, and where on another day they would be merry and frolicsome and playfully chasing each other around the elm tree, today they just stood around in a small group and jinked their tails at one another.

"Hey, Frank, did you see the cat in the yellow house on the corner? I had him hopping up and down and foaming at the mouth the whole time I was cleaning out the bird feeder right across from his window," chortled Seamus, the squirrel who lived two trees down from Frank.

"Go on, Seamus, that fat old cat was asleep in the sunshine the whole time and you know it. You couldn't get a vretch excited if you spent the day at it," retorted Frank, referring to a small creature that squirrels know about that is often quite excitable. "Dang, this bite I got last month from some creature of the night that I was unable to see clearly is really itching a lot today."

"You should have that looked at," said Al, an older gray squirrel from down the street. "Hey, check out that squirrel, will you? He must have seen Pirates of the Caribbean one too many times or something! Arrrgh!" He and the other squirrels then made a lot more "Arrgh!" sounds and chittered amongst themselves and twitched their tails derisively at the squirrel walking past them in the yard.

The old red squirrel they were mocking had a scarf tied around his head and a large gold hoop in his left ear. One of his eyes was missing and he was hobbling along painfully until he came abreast of Frank and the other squirrels. But as he glanced with his good eye at Frank, he yikked and leapt backward and hawked a gobbet of phlegm onto Frank's forehead.

"Oi! What the fuck did you do that for, you asshole?" snarled Frank.

The old red squirrel didn't reply, but instead raised a quivering paw and pointed it at Frank and recited in a querulous voice:

Not all round and hard things are walnuts
Not every small brown thing's a seed
Take care on the night of the full moon
Lest the werehamster's bite makes you bleed
A lot from a ripped throat

Frank and his friends looked at one another in puzzlement.

"Arrgh, it sounds lots better in the original Gypsy Squirrel dialect, I had to translate it myself on the spot and I'm frankly a little rusty but I'm pretty sure you couldn't do a better job of it, you cackling jackanapes," muttered the old squirrel. "But what it means is that you've been bitten by a werehamster and tonight's a full moon. You'll go through a painful and dramatic transformation into a loathsome monster then you'll kill and eat the one you love most. Arrgh, there I go giving away the plot again," grumbled the colorful stock character as he limped away. "'Sound ominous,' they tell me. 'Sound mysterious and portentous,' they say. But then they only give me a paragraph or two and spend half the time talking about how bizarre I look, what the hell am I supposed to do, it's not like this is a high-budget blog and I can actually get a chance to do the scene right or anything...."

Frank and the other squirrels looked at each other and shrugged, then Al said,

"Hey Frank, tonight's your big date with Doris, isn't it? I can't believe you got her to go out with you. What do you have planned tonight, scamper behind the garage and have at her for twenty seconds then run off? That didn't work out so well with Amber, did it?" At this Al and the other squirrels dissolved into the squirrel equivalent of peals of laughter.

"Give me a break, guys, she's a nice squirrel -- I have to get her drunk first," replied Frank good-naturedly. "We're going down the block where I have some fermented apples stashed and I'm going to dig up a couple of juicy nuts I've been saving and we're going to make a night of it. In fact," said Frank, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "I might even propose to her if I can work up the courage!"

"Gerroff!" said Seamus. "You old dog you! I never had you pegged for the marrying type!"

"Yeah, this time I'm serious about entering into a mature and nurturing and mutually respectful relationship and I'm going to make it work. I've decided that I'm tired of one-minute stands with any squirrel that has ten nipples -- this time it's love."

"Squirrel love," snickered Al. "It's like muskrat love except smaller and dryer!" And the three squirrels kittered and twitched their tails and went back to work. But if one were to look carefully at young Frank one could detect a dreamy, faraway look in his eyes as he scurried about the yard gathering food....

[Look for "Cry Of The Werehamster: The Next Part" coming soon to a blog near you. -- The Management]

-- Hulles

La Encina

2007-03-28T15:18:00.000-05:00

Recently I was talking with a friend about being protective. The friend and I were discussing a post in Amber's blog where Amber's male date at the time physically confronted some obnoxious guy who was being rude to a female bartender. The part that interested us about this is the thin line between defending a woman's honor and being considered overprotective. Amber got all steamy hot about the fact that her date physically stood up to the asshole in the bar. I, on the other hand, always seem to get something like, "Oh, grow up! You're just being overprotective. I can take care of myself just fine without you getting all macho and shit." Sigh.

In the conversation with my friend I made the claim that I am less protective of women these days than I was in (figurative) past lives, mostly because I became weary of hearing remarks like the one I quote above. Let the bitch kick him in the teeth herself then, is pretty much where I'm at these days. But since having this conversation I've been reflecting upon over-protectiveness and when I've displayed it, and I immediately remembered La Encina.

To give you a little background, Carmen, my now ex-wife, and her kids and I first started living together when the kids were in (I believe) 8th Grade and 9th Grade. To say the least, it was a pretty drastic transition for me to go from being a single, devil-may-care roué to being a husband-equivalent and father-equivalent to two daughters. I recall more than once wishing I had an instruction booklet. But we all loved each other and I, at least, would not trade that time for anything in the world.

When Isabel, my oldest kid, graduated from high school and Cristina was about to become a senior, the kids and their mom and I took a month-long trip to Spain. Carmen and I had earlier decided that the kids were mature enough to be treated like adults on the trip, and we tried hard to live up to this morally difficult choice. And they were, by the way, and it was a great trip. Most of it.

However, there was one occasion on this holiday I still have nightmares about. Toward the end of our stay in Spain we ended up in Alicante, a city on the Mediterranean, prepared to spend a week in a condo we had rented. To make a long story shorter, Alicante sucked and we decided that life was too short to spend another second in that place even though we'd already paid for the condo so we took the first train we could get to go back to Marbella, another city on the Med that we all loved. And we did.

But the train route to Marbella was circuitous so we had to transfer trains at approximately 1:00 AM in a place called La Encina. On the map it looked like a small town, and we expected it to be a quaint Spanish village like so many others we had seen. Hah.

La Encina, which means "The Oak" in Spanish, was pretty much just a tiny train station in the middle of nowhere. I never did see the oak, but there was a hell of a lot of nothing else all around the station. What it did have at one o'clock in the morning was a crazy woman who walked around and around the station (which was closed) with a poodle following her, talking and singing and laughing at nothing we could see. She had on some ratty top and nothing else. Her nether regions were more or less concealed by a large towel, and with each circuit of the station the towel was arranged differently. I have no idea where she changed it nor do I ever want to know. But my own favorite configuration was when she wore the towel like a breech cloth, except that it revealed way too much of her doughy thighs.

So there sat Carmen, the kids and I on the train platform, watching Breech Cloth Woman and her poodle walk endlessly around the tiny train station cackling away in Spanish. Oh, did I mention there were 3000 18-year-old boys present as well?

It seems that Spain, like many countries, has (or at least had) mandatory military service for males when they reach 18 or so. It was our great luck that their induction was due to take place the next day, so every pubescent male for miles and miles around was standing outside the La Encina train station, half of them drunk. And the only women in site were my wife, my two daughters, and Breech Cloth Woman. "Hmmm," I said to myself.

I should probably also mention that my wife and two daughters were (and still are) extremely hot. So it was immediately clear to me that the prey of choice for the 3000 slavering young males was not going to be Breech Cloth Woman, avant garde fashion statements notwithstanding. I swear, every basic male instinct that man comes equipped with surged through my body: protect your children from predation, protect your wife from lewd and lascivious behavior that isn't yours, and avoid doughy thighs at all costs.

Have you ever seen hyenas attacking a lion? The pack works together, so when the lion turns to slash at one hyena, two that are behind him bite his nuts. Well, I felt much like that lion. I would turn to curse at a few boys that were looking at my wife indecorously and while I was doing this, several more would creep up and start flirting with Isabel and Cristina. ¡Coño! I got dizzy from spinning around to meet the attacks from my flanks. Even Carmen, whose own teeth-kicking abilities are not inconsiderable I am here to tell you, was somewhat disconcerted by the sheer number of boys. But it was scary. You could almost hear the testosterone fizzing in their bodies when the Breech Cloth Woman wasn't around singing and laughing at the top of her lungs.

See, if you're a woman you should know if you don't already that a man's reaction to any male sniffing around his daughter is this: "I know what I was like when I was 18, I would have had sex with a tree if it had a knothole and drill my own if it didn't, so there's no doubt in my mind whatsoever what this young turk is all about." It is a primal reaction that makes the father snarl and claw the drywall and scent-mark the couch. So you get the picture -- I was protective, conceivably even over-protective, at times. And this was one of those times.

Finally, after an eternity of whirling and growling and cursing, our train arrived at about 3 AM and I breathed a huge sigh of relief. It turned out to be premature. The doors to the train opened, and masses of young men surged into the train, carrying my daughters off with them. Carmen and I just looked at each other with disbelief then with resignation, certain we would never see our kids again. I decided right there that we would have to get busy making replacements for them because all we would ever find of Isabel and Cristina would be a small white sock with scalloped edges and a semen stain.

But then we talked it over and decided, in a very poignant and heart-wrenching moment, that the kids were mature young women and wise to the ways of the world and they could probably handle themselves quite nicely without me being over-protective and Carmen being nonplussed. In other words, we had to let go and trust them to be the women we knew they could be.

It only took moments after that to start feeling sorry for the 3000 18-year-old boys.

-- Hulles

Smile About Emily

2007-03-26T16:49:00.000-05:00

"There are some women who should barely be spoken to; they should only be caressed. "
- Edgar Degas

It's only been a few months since I've become a Café Person, hanging out and writing and generally geeking it up (and every once in a while doing some real work) at the redundantly-named Nina's Coffee Cafe. I began going there because it had wireless internet, power outlets and napkins, and I had need of all three of those things. But prior to that I used to think cafés were just for losers. Who would hang out at a coffee shop when the bars were open? Well, it turns out I was right, cafés are just for losers. But you do get the occasional exception that proves the rule.

One exception that I met a while ago was Squirrel Picture Woman. SPW was a lovely young lady that once occupied a table next to mine. She was obviously an artist of some sort and taking a drawing class, because as she sat next to me she was busily sketching small woodland creatures in pencil in a notebook. It was sort of cool though because she was using a laptop and internet searches to find photographs of her subjects which she would then render in a drawing, yet another example of a creative use for today's technology. Every once in a while I would surreptitiously glance over at her notebook and check out her sketches. For some reason, that day she was drawing squirrels.

Eventually, because she was a lovely young woman and I'm who I am, I had to speak to her:

Hulles: "You're drawing those squirrels wrong."

SPW: "Excuse me?"

Hulles: "I don't mean to interrupt, but you're drawing those squirrels wrong."

SPW: "What do you mean?"

Hulles: "Well, your sketches can't really be squirrels because they don't have nuts."

Hey, it's a gift, what can I say? To her credit, at least in my eyes, Squirrel Picture Woman did actually snerk when I said that. I don't think think I've spoken to her since, but every once in a while we'll run into each other and we'll both smile guiltily at the horrible joke that we both recall.

But the real exception to the café losers theory is Emily. Emily is a beautiful woman, and I don't use the "B" word lightly. She is tall and slender, lithe and lissome, and she has light brown hair that naturally curls and she has piercing blue eyes and she is gorgeous to die for. She is what is sometimes called a "natural beauty," in that it does not appear that she goes to a lot of trouble to look good and yet she is always radiantly lovely. Other women must hate her; I'm pretty sure I would. Her best feature, however, is her smile. It is effulgent. Every time Emily smiles, the sun comes out, the birds start chirping, whatever dark clouds are circling 'round my head immediately dissipate and I want to chastely kiss her. And I don't use the "C" word lightly (or often) either.

I first saw her shortly after I started frequenting Nina's and have this note from the occasion: "Pretty girl with Thai tattoo." This is because it was warm weather and Emily had on a [top with string shoulder strap thingies that if I was a girl I'd know what it was properly called] and I could see that she had an excellent tattoo on her right shoulder blade. Since I have ink myself and long ago learned that anyone with a tattoo loves to talk about it and because I was instantly smitten with her I went up and asked her about it. She smiled and.... What? Oh yeah, she smiled and said she had gotten it trekking in Thailand and that she was really proud of it because tattoos were illegal in Thailand but she had talked a guy into it anyway. I can just imagine:

Severely underemployed Thai tattoo artist is lounging around outside his shop chucking baht at a milk jar. Up walks Emily.

Emily: "Pardon me, but I'd like to get a tattoo please."

Tattoo Guy (without looking up from his game): "Whuh? Stupid farang lady, sorry, tattoos are illegal in Thailand." (Curses to himself, resumes baht chucking.)

Emily: "Please?"

Tattoo Guy: "Look, lady...." (Guy looks up; Emily smiles at him.)

Five hours later, Tattoo Guy comes to his senses in a Bangkok jail cell with a blissful smile upon his face, having given Emily a tattoo, his life savings and his milk jar.

It took me a long time after that to work up the courage to engage her in conversation however. This is because I mentioned her to my friend Melissa and M. told me that Emily was a good friend of hers and that she (Emily) was a little shy about compliments. I heard this and made a mental note to never speak to Emily, since to say that I come on strongly is to make such an understatement that it approaches inaudibility. Sharon Stone would blush and stammer like a schoolgirl while talking to me. So I put a sock in it.

But of course I am buoyantly irrepressible. A couple of months ago I just marched right up to Emily and said "Hi, I think you're incredibly beautiful." She smiled and.... Urgk. She smiled and said thanks and we chatted for a few minutes and I don't remember the next two days at all. Since then, however, we have spoken often and recently I was even able to sit next to her and help her write an application for a foreign study program. It was difficult to concentrate while I was doing this, both because her innate radiance made it hard to see the laptop screen and because of the loud crackling sounds made by the other men in the café grinding their teeth. But we got through it.

I've thought a lot about this, and I have concluded that what is so beautiful about Emily is her presence, her aura if you will. It's like her soul shines through, and seeing her makes me happy in the same way that seeing the dark reds and purples and flashes of gold of a strikingly beautiful sunset makes me happy. This is so much the case that a while ago I added an item to my to-do list: "Smile about Emily," just to cheer myself up when I get a little down. And if that isn't a nice compliment I don't know what is.

Part of my original intent in writing this post about Emily was to contrast how I feel about her with how I normally write about women, indefatigable sex dog that I am. I was going to claim that there was no concupiscence involved concerning her, just something else that I suppose I was going to call "warm fondness" or some such drivel. But I soon realized as I was writing this post that that is so much bullshit -- I want her and I to spend the rest of our lives touring the Great Hotels of the World, living on superlative hotel sex and mediocre room service until we both die smiling. Sigh. But I meant well when I started....

I'll end this paean to Emily, which word incidentally I still don't know how to pronounce, with a small anecdote. As a dear friend might say, "Sure, she's beautiful, but somewhere out there there's a man who's sick of her shit." Well, I may have met that man. Emily recently introduced me to her boyfriend, and I was very happy to meet him and he seemed like a nice guy. But I hope that now he is a little more relaxed about the fact that I adore his girlfriend. Earlier E. had explained that he was worried I would take her away from him with my money. Once I brushed the dirt off my sweatshirt from rolling on the floor laughing, I told her he need not worry too much: on the day we were speaking I was smoking recycled tobacco in a pipe because I didn't have enough money to buy cigarettes.

But Emily dear, just so you know, I've started saving my money to take you away. So far I have $1.38, but I'm confident that in time I'll be able to buy you Ferraris and monogrammed Shih Tzus and condos in Montreux, not to mention take you on a tour of the Great Hotels of the World. You'll just need to be a little patient, is all.

-- Hulles

Hulles: Bald As Love

2007-03-25T19:20:00.000-05:00

I'm writing this entry in the tour bus as we drive from Savannah, Georgia to Biloxi, Mississippi. It's 3:38 AM and things are pretty quiet on the bus right now; everyone has passed out from too many Mexican Windbreakers and the bus A/C is struggling mightily to clear the fetid air. Occasionally it sounds like a flock of ducks passing over head, but all in all solitude reigns and I can write this entry.

This tour, the Hulles: Bald As Love tour, is the first one where my blog is the headliner. The Hulles blog has toured before, opening for static and pink india ink, but it's lots different finally having top billing. For one thing, finally most of the groupies are heterosexual women and I don't have to forlornly sift through the spurned and disgruntled lesbians hoping to find a couple that might be convinced that fish really do need bicycles.

Another big difference is that my entourage has grown. It now consists of:

Roadies: Mike, Little Al, Melvin and Sean. Their job is to set up and take down the blogging equipment every night. They set up the wireless network and the big screen monitors on stage and make sure Lucille II, my famous and beloved laptop, is in prime working form.

Bodyguards: Geoff and Big Al. Their role is to prevent rabid fans and creditors from approaching the Hulles person. As the ranks of creditors has swollen, however, I think I may need to add a bodyguard or two. And yes, I am smart enough to pay the bodyguards in cash.

Accountant: Shifty Pete Peterson. Shifty Pete, a former master forger, writes the checks while we are on tour and makes sure there's always enough money for limes, Cuervo Gold and countless cans of Old El Paso refried beans. He is also responsible for sales of Hulles franchise items like T-shirts, baseball caps and stuffed werehamsters.

Handler: Leon. Leon's job is to accompany me when I use a public restroom. He unzips my fly for me , shakes my dick when I'm done urinating, and carefully and gently puts it back into my Hanro underwear and zips me up again. I make him wear rubber surgical gloves, of course, so my penis does not get any germs on it that don't come from pussy. I had to fire the first handler after Day 2 of the tour because he just could not seem to remember that I tuck my cock to the right in my pants, not the left. Good help is so hard to find these days.

Sound Technicians: Sean and Heather. Since I blog and don't really say anything out loud except for the occasional grunt and squeal of delight. we don't have a sound system. As a result, there is never really anything for Sean and Heather to do. I just have them along to provide them with a job since they are putatively my kids and their mothers are mean and vindictive women.

Lighting: Ravenna. Ravenna takes care of the stage lighting at concert time. She's thin as a rail, pale as a ghost and did way too many drugs in her youth. She is seldom capable of constructing or understanding a complete sentence, but she does a nice job with the lights and I can pay her by check.

Aesthetician: Jen. I find as I tour that I need the odd manicure and wax job, and Jen provides these things. Truth be told, I wasn't aware that I needed to tour with an aesthetician until I was informed of this by Jen in no uncertain terms.

Researcher: Good Sarah. Good Sarah's job is to research my blogs while we're on the road and provide me with background information on the various topics about which I choose to write. She also reads and leaves comments on the blogs I follow under my name, and she makes sure that the fawning young female fans that find their way into my hotel room are at least 18 years of age and have no concealed weapons or open running sores.

Well, that's the crew, such as it is. The Hulles: Bald As Love tour started out with morris dancers, but the damn bus was just too crowded with them (plus the jingling of the bells drove everyone crazy) so we cut them out of the act with an Uzi. I wanted to film it so we could relive the event over and over but the Hulles attorney would not permit it.

When we arrive in Biloxi we'll head straight to the arena and set up and do a network check, then we'll head for our hotel and unwind a bit before the show. Usually the caterers set up a spread of some sort for us at the arena but I'm not sure what the arrangements are here. At any rate we usually get to the arena about an hour or so ahead of time except for the technicians, who pretty much live there until the equipment is broken down at the end of the night. We hang out for about a half hour then I do a rigorous routine of hand-stretching and knuckle-cracking to make sure these million-dollar fingers are in shape for blogging. At last, Jen gives my eyebrows a final waxing and it's show time.

After the opening blog is done and the intermission is over and everyone has returned to their seats, the lights dim, the big screens are lit with the Hulles logo and Good Sarah plays some YouTube videos of Brazilian love songs just to get everyone's blood flowing. Then I walk on stage and graciously acknowledge the deafening applause; I myself then gather up all the panties laying around on the stage and toss them into the Golden Panty Box. I find this personal touch thrills the ladies, especially when I stop and theatrically sniff one before dropping it into the Box. But finally I sit down at the custom-crafted desk and begin to exercise that tremendous and mind-boggling talent that a gracious Higher Power has granted to me, the talent to blog my ass off.

As I write my blog post the words appear on the jumbo monitors, and it is most gratifying for me to hear the gasps of amazement as I craft a particularly good phrase and the [eva] gales of laughter as I write something hilariously funny, usually about Garrison Keillor or my colon. But truly, for me and in fact for all of us in my crew, the most rewarding part of every show is the thunderous applause and screaming and stamping that always comes at the end of the show, when I write

-- Hulles

They All Have Faces, It's Just That Their Backs Are Turned

2007-03-22T12:24:00.000-05:00

I'm not sure I'm going to be able to crank out a real post today, but fellow Ladonian Kat Blackthorne created a Happy Equinox Egg for your viewing pleasure.

I really like the little Equinox Egg a lot. And the photo is so Truffaut!

-- Hulles

News From The Hulles Front (And Back)

2007-03-21T15:16:00.000-05:00

Item: The colonoscopy went just fine; thanks to those of you who wished me well. It was actually pretty interesting. I got to watch the whole thing on a TV monitor in real-time. I suffered a little discomfort and in a couple instances some pain, but the drugs were there for me just as they were in the 70's and it was all fine. My stark terror was for naught. And even better news: I did not become enamored of the procedure as I had feared. My nurse Gwen said that there were people who enjoyed the experience excessively, but she would say no more on the subject.

I didn't get a copy of the video because they don't make a video, but I did get pictures. Funny thing, though, no one I asked yesterday really wanted to see them. I found this odd. Maybe it's just because it's my colon and I'm being excessively proud of it.

My plan of writing the following phrase on my ass in indelible marker didn't really pay off, unfortunately:

If you're a cute female nurse, this ass could be yours! Call 7xx-9xx-8xxx and ask for Hulles!

I was sad that it didn't work. It was a lot of work spelling everything backwards in the mirror.

Item: My Brazilification continues. I'm learning more Portuguese, and Casti continues to send me links to Brazilian love songs, like this YouTube video: Marina Lima singing "Pessoa." It is a haunting and expressive tune and I love it. Thanks, Casti, you are the best (você é o mais melhor!).

Item: Just for the record, I made some grammatical fixes to my "Albert And Me And Baby Makes Three" post, and changed the title to the one here (from "Albert And I And..."). I guess my sleep deprivation really did take its toll.

Item: More movie appearances! Yippee! I'm a star! Well, okay, maybe not, but I still think I can give Anthony Hopkins a run for his money for sheer creepiness. If you're Dino De Laurentiis and are looking for the next Hannibal Lector, look no further. If you're interested at all, the two new Chasing Windmills episodes in which I exhibit my method-acting skills are "flight" and "run". In the former, yours truly imitates a meerkat and peeps around a corner. In the latter, you get to see a new acting talent of mine: smoking a cigarette. I actually interviewed twenty or thirty smokers to determine their motivation for this behavior and spent two weeks living among the savage smokers of Minnesota (an endangered culture!) to prepare for this role. It shows, and I hope to win a "Best Cameo by an Evil Stepdad" award at the next Vloggies awards ceremony.

Thanks once again to Cristina and Jadelr for the opportunity to participate in the CW process. I laughed so hard it hurt the last time we filmed. And just as a teaser, be aware that I think I may actually have a speaking part in the next CW episode in which I appear! Gasp! Also, CW is wrapping up the season right now and resolving mysteries left and right. It's all very exciting. I even finally got to find out why I was stalking Steve. Check the newest episodes out if you haven't done so already.

Item: I was privileged to meet my friend Erin's mother and sister last week. I heard this memorable remark from Lindsey, Erin's sister, describing her physical appearance compared to Erin's: "People don't believe how much alike we don't look!" I am going to cherish that phrase forever.

Item: Scott Schwister recently posted an incisive commentary in his articulate blog Higher Edison on societal changes in the Internet age that is very much worth reading. Oh, and by the way he says nice things about my writing in it.... Thanks, Scott.

-- Hulles

A River Runs Through It

2007-03-20T19:37:00.000-05:00

For the first time in my adult life I'm not totally full of shit. I have a colonoscopy this afternoon, and the preparation for that procedure is pretty spectacular if you've never done it. If you want to know what it's like, try this: watch the movie "The Ten Commandments" with Charlton Heston, and skip to the part where Moses parts the Red Sea and leads the Hebrews out of Egypt, then fast forward it. That will pretty much give you the idea. Particularly when you get to the part where Yul Brynner and his villainous pals are wiped out by a vengeful God.

I found a lady's wristwatch, the head of a G.I. Joe action figure and an old rusted-out car muffler. Who knew?

The nasty stuff they made me drink to clean out my colon is called "Golytely," Someone somewhere has a very sick sense of humor; I'll never be able to watch "Breakfast at Tiffany's" again. You mix up 4 liters of a clear liquid that tastes like axle grease and drink an 8-ounce glass of it every ten minutes until it's gone. I never knew how much 4 liters really was until last night. It's about 12,834 8-ounce glasses. And ten minutes? Ten minutes takes about two minutes, then you have to drink another one. Every time the microwave timer went off signaling another glass was due there was much wailing, lamentation and rending of garments in the Hulles household, of that you can be sure.

I am going to pass along a tip to you if you've never had a colonoscopy before and are scheduled for one. A week or so before the procedure the jovial colonoscopers send you a printed sheet of detailed instructions in the mail telling you everything you need to do. But they neglect to tell you one important thing: make sure you are not running low on toilet paper. I had to end up wiping my ass with my cat. Good thing she's declawed; that is all I will say on that subject.

But now I have a clean colon. I stuck my head up there and looked around, and the walls are shiny and the floors sparkle. It echos in there too, which is kind of cool. When I went outside this morning to get the paper, the brisk breeze blowing across my asshole caused a kind of mellow fluting sound. I found I could adjust the pitch of this sound with my sphincter and happily stood outside in my robe and played Bach's "Toccata and Fugue in D Minor" until I found the red dot of a laser sight on my chest. My neighbors must not appreciate classical music, the swine.

So wish me luck with the procedure itself this afternoon. I am terrified of it, frankly. I am not looking forward to having semitrailer trucks and camera crews and gaffers and best boys and the like shoved up my ass. But glass-half-full guy that I am, I intend to salvage something from the horrendous experience -- I'm going to try and get a copy of the video of my colon and post it here for your edification and viewing enjoyment. In fact, I'm confident it will become one of the more popular videos on YouTube this week. Maybe I can get Charlton Heston to narrate it.

But the thing that really scares me about the colonoscopy is this: what if I like it? What if I can't get enough of it? What if every week or so I have to buy a jug of Golytely on the black market and show up in disguise at the clinic and make them give me yet another deliciously exhilarating colonoscopy? It would be a sad and furtive existence, living on the fringes of society, shunned by my friends who read too many tough-love self-help books, attending Colonoscopoholics Anonymous, "Hi, my name is Hulles and I like medical equipment shoved up my ass," losing my blog to some upstart young puke who is much wittier and more handsome than I am and that Kristen Painter is totally hot for, finally being forced to make my own laxatives from dirt and willow bark and shove a bendable novelty straw up my ass in a desperate and pathetic attempt at one more fix....

However, I am happy to report that it seems pretty unlikely that this will be the case, so both you and my cat can breathe a heavy sigh of relief.

-- Hulles

Puckers

2007-03-18T13:24:00.000-05:00

A number of years ago the notorious Unca Don and I worked on a computer project for a large company in Toronto, Ontario, USA North. I was there in the trenches pretty much full time; Don's role was to fly up every couple of weeks, look around, arch an eyebrow, and leave. It was truly masterful eyebrow-arching, however, and worth every cent of the gazillions of Canada Bucks that he was being paid. My own job title there was Ignominious Lackey. My function was to roam the men's rooms in the building and do shoe checks. If I saw a pair of shoes under a stall door that belonged to a project member I was to swear loudly at them in Canadian and force them back to work. It was an ugly, stinky job and I certainly earned both dollars I made up there.

One of the members of our project team, David yclept, was nicknamed the Fontmeister because he spent the majority of his time each working day fucking around loading different fonts in the laser printer. No one ever challenged him on this because no one was quite certain what his real job was supposed to be. I always speculated that he had been assigned to our project team just in case the team somehow became hopelessly trapped in a snowstorm on a mountain in Peru. We could kill him and eat him and no one would feel the least bit guilty.

Like many of the Anglo Canadians I got to know there, David was very much an anal retentive person. On the few occasions that the team went out to socialize, when David would excuse himself to go to the restroom there was always a slight popping noise when he stood up, and he left a little raised pucker in the vinyl on his bar stool. You get the idea. David was an older lonely divorcee, and socially I was like unto a god to him. I think this was because I had fun when I went out but I'm not positive about this [see my More Dance post for an atypical example of my going out in Toronto. - The Management].

Regardless of the reason, David was always bugging me to go with him to a strip club that he knew of. I kept putting him off, hoping against hope that our project team would become trapped on a mountainside, but finally I had to give in. Thus, early one Friday evening in the lovely city of Toronto your hero -- me -- found himself sitting in his hotel lobby waiting for David to pick him up. You could have sliced the foreboding and ominousity with a knife. But at last David arrived and we departed for the suburb of Mississauga where this gentleman's club was supposedly located.

It took us 45 minutes to get to Mississauga, then David drove around for an hour trying to find the damn strip club as more and more punctuation marks found their way into the thought balloons above my head. He was never able to find it. Finally he admitted defeat and told me that we could go to a strip club in Markham, the suburb in which he lived. At this point you should know that Markham was only about a 5 minute drive from my hotel. If we had gone there initially instead of hiring Sherpa guides and traveling to Mississauga, your hero -- me -- could have been already well on his way to having that "fun" thing that David had heard so much about. But nope, instead I had to suffer through another 50 minutes of inane drivel while we headed to Markham. Sigh.

We finally arrived at the strip club. I emerged from the car a pale shadow of my former self with chattering teeth and a tic in my left eye that I have to this day. The insipidity of the conversation in the car had come close to killing me. But I am made of sterner stuff than most and I rallied quickly at the sight of a building with a neon sign and no windows. "Woohoo!" I think. "Booze! Naked women! Loud music! No conversation!" It was as if I had come home to the Promised Land.

We walked through the door into a blaring version of the song that every strip club in the world plays over and over and that I've never known the name of but that makes me become erect and automatically reach for my wallet every time I hear it. And here I encountered my first pleasant surprise of the evening: the cover charge to get in was five dollars Canadian. Nothing in Toronto costs five dollars when you go out. And in the States I expect to drop at least 25 bucks at the door for your classier ecdysiastical establishment, plus I usually tip the guy in the tux extravagantly to round me up a decent table. So when I only had to pay the equivalent of 38¢ US to get inside this club my eyebrows shot over the top of my head and landed in the back my stylish bikini brief underwear. "Excellent!" I said, rubbing my hands together.

The club was sparsely populated at that time for some reason, and David and I quickly found ourselves a table and ordered adult beverages from a cocktail waitress with a cute ass. She (and it) came back shortly with our drinks, and I got my second surprise: the gin and tonic I ordered cost four dollars. In most places you go to in Toronto that same drink would have cost about forty bucks. I'm exaggerating, but only slightly. So I had discovered another bargain and had found it in that most unlikely of venues, a strip club. As I implied earlier, normally I expect everything to cost about five times what it should in a place like that. Hence, another "Excellent!" and more rubbing of hands. I now had more money for table dances!

And speaking of which, up popped a lovely young blonde who offered to demonstrate her dancing ability for me. As you know, I'm a big fan of dance so I was all for this idea. But I have also been to ten trillion strip clubs around the world and have learned a thing or two in the process. "What are the rules here, and how much is a lap dance?" I asked her cannily. "The rules are that I can touch you anywhere I want to and do anything I want to you, you cannot initiate any contact with me, and a lap dance costs five dollars," replied my new-found angel.

Audible gasp! My eyebrows plummeted further down and landed in my socks when I heard this. Five bucks? Canadian? For a lap dance by this heavenly creature? "I'm staying here forever! Fuck Unca Don!" I thought to myself for neither the first nor the last time.

"Mwoo-hah-hah! Get out of that lacy negligee and into my lap, honey, this could be the start of a beautiful friendship!" I cried enthusiastically. (I might have said "Bwah-hah-hah!" instead, my memory is unclear on this point.) So the blond angel hopped aboard the Hulles train to financial freedom [Whrrr! goes my new metaphor mixer!] and I sighed contentedly and settled in for a long night of nirvanity. Well, it ought to be a word; nothing else comes close to describing my feelings at having a drop-dead gorgeous twenty-two-year-old woman writhing naked in my lap as we laugh and drink cheap cocktails and I toss off urbane and witty remarks ("Nice tits!").

Actually, the truth of the matter is that I really enjoyed my conversation with said angel. She was a university student (although sadly she was not an English major nor had she ever studied Catullus in Latin) who stripped to pay for her schooling and she was a very bright woman and was lively and charming and fun to be with and she had a great sense of humor. It also didn't hurt that buck naked was a good look for her and that she was a good writher. I immediately told her to simply charge me twenty bucks (Canadian!) a dance so I didn't need to do any math and that she need not seek other patronage while I remained on the premises. From the way her face lit up I suddenly knew that These Other Cheap Bastards Don't Tip. Well, too bad for them; I determined to do my own small bit to further higher education in Canada and aid in the survival of this particular species of gorgeous blonde so that they will be fruitful and multiply and spread throughout the strip clubs of North America.

As my angel and I laughed and drank and one of us writhed, I finally tore my eyes away from her and looked across the table to see what manner of trout David had landed. To my astonishment, he was sitting alone at the table watching the hockey game on one of the TVs that I only then noticed lined the ceiling! No shit. There were TVs hanging from the ceiling everywhere tuned to the Leafs game, and David would not even risk a glance over at the stunning blonde that was bare-ass naked about eight feet away from him.

"David, are you okay? Are you not feeling well?" I asked incredulously.

"No, I'm fine, I'm okay, this is great!"

"Well, you sick fuck, you've been bugging me for weeks to take you to a strip bar and now that we're finally here after spending half the night driving around Mississauga and I have the most beautiful woman in the world naked in front of us for a mere twenty bucks and you're watching THE FUCKING HOCKEY GAME?" I didn't say but thought very loudly indeed. So I turned back with a sigh to the business in front of me and resumed nirvanity at the point I had left it.

After a while I turned around again to check on Mr. Excitement. He was still riveted to the hockey game and it finally occurred to me that perhaps he was uncomfortable in this environment. I take strip clubs pretty much for granted these days and have come to feel that having pretty young girls gyrate naked in front of me is one of my God-given rights as an American that ought to be exercised often lest it be wrested from me. But David, it seemed, was not of this school of thought. Perhaps they have different God-given rights in Canada.

"David, are you sure you're alright? We can go any time you want if you're not having a good time." I lied magnanimously.

"No, this is fun, I'm having a great time!" he said.

"Well, let me know whenever you want to go and that will be fine with me. What's the score by the way?" Hockey really does get in your blood when you're in Canada.

After a reasonably long evening of adult entertainment we finally left the strip club and David dropped me off at my hotel. I floated back to my room, visions of sugar plums dancing in my head, and contentedly hit the sack.

The next Monday at work I happened to overhear David talking to some other members of the project team: "Yeah, Hulles and I went to a great strip club on Friday night and we got completely crazy and...." You get the picture, just like I finally did at the time. David merely wanted to appear to others like he possessed a real personality. He wanted his peers to think he was a vivacious and exciting man and a wild party animal and that he was not really the lame Fontmeister that everyone had believed.

Hah. As soon as he was gone I told everybody the real story and we all laughed long and hard at his expense, then when he came back we decided not to wait for the whole mountain thing and simply killed him and ate him on the spot.

-- Hulles

Albert And Me And Baby Makes Three

2007-03-16T16:12:00.000-05:00

"Sometimes the mind, for reasons we don't necessarily understand, just decides to go to the store for a quart of milk."

- "Northern Exposure"

This post may be a little confused because I'm a little confused. I'm sitting in a café in Stevens Point, Wisconsin, and am slightly depraved. Okay, a lot depraved. I blame this on a lack of sleep but I'm quite sure there are other factors involved. But I need to slam a post on top of the last whiny one because I'm tired of it; plus I want to tell you about yet another fantasy that for a change does not involve being gleefully tortured by Divas. I want to have sex in Albert Einstein's lap.

You see, there is a large wonderfully playful bronze statue of Albert Einstein on the grounds of the National Academy of Science in Washington D.C. within spitting distance of the Viet Nam Memorial, one of the least humorous places in the world (at least to me). The Einstein statue is surrounded by bushes and trees and other green shit; thus it is effectively hidden from casual viewing and you pretty much have to know it's there to find it. But once you penetrate the copse you are confronted with an Einstein that frankly looks mischievous. I like the idea of a mischievous genius physicist. Plus you could have sex in his lap if you wanted to. And I want to.

This dream of mine has much to recommend it:

The site is but yards away from the busiest tourist spot in the lap of our great nation (as it were).
The statue is reasonably concealed from view, and yet the element of risk is sufficiently strong.
Having sex anywhere is swell.
It's Einstein's lap, for crying out loud.

One of the reasons I like the idea so much is that the statue is both logistically and artistically accessible, in a way that the Pieta (for example) is not. And no, I don't want to have sex in Mary's lap, or at least no more so than anywhere else, so stop cringing. But I have to admit that Einstein's bronze lap looks awfully hard and lumpy. I would not let this deter me for a nanosecond if everything else was in place, but my fantasy includes two 6' x 6' closed-cell foam pads that I would stack one on top of the other and also a bottle of Moët & Chandon champagne. No glasses, though, we'd drink from the bottle. And by the way, a couple other elements of this fantasy are that STD's do not exist and Jimmy Carter is still President.

I must confess that one of the things that has always amused me about fantasies of this nature is that the sex doesn't have to be good at all. I like that. I don't need to catch the Downtown Train or even cuddle afterwards. We just get the hell out and giggle like madpeople and get to tell everyone that we had sex in Einstein's lap.

So think about it. Once the weather warms up.... This assumes that you are female, of course. If you are male, I promise to write about it well enough to make your toes explode from sheer envy.

-- Hulles

Sturm Und Drang

2007-03-15T15:02:00.000-05:00

Poor Hulles.

Last night turned out somewhat differently than I thought it would as the day dawned. But I am nothing if not resilient. I ended up being pretty okay with dancing the Safety Dance for my cat and writing enough notes for 300 more blog entries. Lucky you. If I type really fast I can achieve the Hulles Triceratennial in one out of the two months in Minnesota that are warm and we can all get together and party down and you can go back to wherever you came from saying, "Dang! Hulles was a lot cuter in my imagination! Maybe the [husband/boyfriend/paperboy] isn't so bad after all!" This is a service I like to provide to all of my readers that meet me in person.

But I'm really excited about the notes for the additional 300 blog entries. I was getting down to notes for 80 posts or so and frankly starting to become concerned: "Ohmigod! What if I dry up and start writing about how cute my cat is and people quit reading me and I end up with two readers (who, by the way, will be Cristina and Anne, God bless them both) and everyone realizes how much I suck and they have a huge party of all the people who used to read me and they all get hammered and talk about how much I suck and sleep with each other and mock me even worse than I can possibly imagine in this paragraph?" [As I wrote that last sentence I was laughing to myself: it would be worth it if even one of you described that party accurately in a blog post as long as you also posted pictures. - The Management]

But not to worry. I am resupplied. And if any of you are feeling like you don't know what to write about in your blogs (like, for example, Terri Schaefer) come to Saint Paul and sit alone in an establishment of my choosing for two hours with a pen and a Ladonian passport that has a lot of white space and see if you are not replenished as well. And if you're not, you can write about how much I suck in person for at at least a blog post or two and get that much mileage out of it so the trip won't be a total loss.

I know, I know, I'm betraying just a teensy bit of self-doubt in this entry [insert some emoticon here if you can figure out how everyone seems to be able to type when their laptop is sideways] but I still think I'm hilariously funny and besides I have my cat and a readership that I adore -- right up to the moment they have the party I described above. And who knows, just maybe when you're at that party you'll decide I'm not so bad after all. "Jeez! Maybe Hulles really is a decent writer and an okay guy and he isn't a loser after all! ..... Nah, he sucks, toss me another Miller Lite and let's get naked!"

I hate you.

-- Hulles

In Which Hulles And Unca Don Travel To Foreign Climes

2007-03-14T19:34:00.000-05:00

"They're foreigners, with ways different than our own."

- "Rocky Horror Picture Show" via Erin

A few years ago, my pal Unca Don and I decided we needed a vacation. Unfortunately, both of us were crazy busy so we could only do a long-weekend gig. Where to go? We looked at each other and simultaneously said, "Amsterdam!"

See, Don and I have been to Amsterdam a number of times. For one thing, with the direct flight from MSP it's about the quickest place for us Twin Citians to get to in Europe (it's a Northwest hub). For another thing, Unca Don and I are gentlemen of distinction, and Amsterdam has much to offer the gentleman of distinction. Trust me. I want to reel out a couple more stories about UD and I in the Netherlands, but this one has to be first.

So we decided that Amsterdam would once again be graced with our presence. I decided to fly down on Thursday and fly back on Monday. Unca Don figured he would fly down on Friday and back on Tuesday. But we had enough overlappage to do some serious damage to our health and well-being so we were fine with that. Oh, and by the way, my airline ticket cost $99 -- seriously -- and Don's cost $17,388. He wanted to get the frequent flyer miles.

I arrived in Amsterdam proper via the shuttle train and took a taxi driven by a member of the Dutch Nazi Party to the hotel that Don had booked for us. I'll give him this -- Unca Don has a deft and sure touch when it comes to booking hotels. Ours was cheap and well-situated and all the women who worked at the front desk were really tall and had great tits. What more can one ask of a hotel?

I loitered around the hotel de-jet-lagging for a bit then ventured out onto the street. I love walking in Amsterdam: you hear conversations in every conceivable language, the architecture is interesting, the canals are wet, and for some reason every woman in that city is beautiful, even if they're not originally from the Netherlands. So I strolled and sauntered and did other quaint Keillor-like activities until it was time for dinner.

Since I had the evening to myself, I wandered into a Spanish restaurant and ordered a pretty nice dinner with my flawless Spanish pronounciation and impressed myself greatly. As I ate, I watched the rest of the city do Keillor-like activities on the street below me and grazed on the conversations around me, content as all hell and ecstatic to be in Europe. After I had sated myself on good food and good wine and good coffee, I walked back out onto the avenue and began strolling randomly again.

I noticed an Irish pub that looked inviting and stopped in for a pint and a flirt with the Glaswegian cocktail waitress who had an exceptionally cute ass and looked like Shirley Manson for whom I am totally hot. This was at about 9:30 PM.

The next thing I know, it's 4 AM and I'm leaving a different bar entirely with some surly Netherlander who absolutely had to show me something or other in the Red Light District. I think he had a sister who worked there and wanted me to meet her and have a nice glass of milk with her and tell her about American customs and traditions. I might be wrong about this, I'm not sure. At any rate, surly guy and I walked to his moped a couple blocks away and climbed aboard.

At this point you should know that most times I'm a happy drunk. On the evening of which I speak I thought everything was hilarious and was smiling and laughing and in general was pretty damn glad I was in Amsterdam. Plus, I knew it was going to be one of those evenings where the shit is going to go down and you can either jump in with both feet or you can run and hide. I'm a jumper-inner, as you might suspect.

So surly guy (the Anti-Hulles) and I were speeding down the street, both of us hammered and me laughing hysterically. Suddenly there were blue lights flashing behind us and I heard the European siren thing that you hear all the time in the Anne Frank movie when the Nazis are gathering up the neighbors. "Cool!" I thought. Surly guy wasn't so sure about how cool it was apparently because he started swearing a blue streak in Dutch. The coppers pulled us over in their copper car that looked like a Mini-Cooper and they got out. The officers were both hefty women and I became pretty interested in how they managed to fit into that tiny copper car. The police immediately separated surly guy and I and one of the cops took me about twenty feet down the street and said "(Gibberish)!" I just looked at her winsomely with a huge smile, batted my eyes, and said "Sorry, I'm just a drunken American tourist!" and showed her my passport. She started smiling in spite of herself and just said "Okay, you can go."

Surly Dutch guy was not quite so fortunate. They stuck him and his moped into the Mini-Cooper-like cop car and sped off. I was astounded that everything and everyone fit back into the car, it was reminiscent of the clown cars in the circus ("Cool!"), but it did and they did. "Hunh," I said. "That was interesting." Then I looked around and realized that I had absolutely no idea where I was and it was 4:30 AM and I was on foot. So of course I started laughing all over again and took off walking in some arbitrary direction. I probably walked for 45 minutes or so before I got to a street large enough to have some traffic and, lucky me, a taxi. I hailed the taxi, handed him a matchbook from my hotel because I couldn't pronounce the name of it ("Dyjkker And Theiss" or something like that) and sat back smugly and enjoyed the ride. I got out, went to my room in the hotel, and passed out.

Unca Don arrived around 10:30 AM or so that morning and checked into our hotel. After unpacking, he walked down the hall and knocked on the door of my room. No answer. "Hmmm," says UD to himself, "That's curious." He then went down to the hotel dining room and saw me sitting all alone in the back of the room with a huge cup of coffee and a hangover the size of Rhode Island. He just started laughing.

"Gawd, you look like you were beaten with ox tails with the oxen still attached," said Don. "I can't believe it. The whole flight over I was pretty concerned about you being alone in Amsterdam. I was worried that you wouldn't go out last night and would just stay in the hotel and not have any fun until I got here. What was I thinking?"

"Mmmph," I replied. Eventually I could talk enough to explain the events of the previous night in words of one syllable; by the end of my story we were both laughing hysterically. "Cool! Let's go do the same thing tonight!" So a few hours later Unca Don and I were sitting in the very same Irish pub (sans Glaswegian, unfortunately) hoisting pints of swill and swapping lies.

As the afternoon became evening we sought out one of the coffee shops that abound in Amsterdam and did what any gentleman of distinction does in a coffee shop. We drank coffee. And if you believe that.... I ended up talking to a beautiful Spanish woman and Don ended up talking to a neurotic male British insurance agent. All was as it should be. I always get the beautiful Spanish women and Don always gets the neurotic male Brits. It's in the natural order of things and there's no explaining it, it just is.

Later we went to several other bars and held court and were swell fuckers who everybody liked. One guy, a local, even asked if he could hang out with us. No shit. I was talking to him, trying to make him understand that Unca Don and I were trained professionals and he shouldn't try this at home, when I happened to notice that the Donster was nowhere to be seen. "See ya!" I yelled over my shoulder as I sped out the door. See, my avuncular pal Don was pretty well schockered by this point and there are canals out there.

"I'm coming, Unca D!" I yelled at Don as I spotted him veering around aimlessly. "Stop there! See that thing that looks like a canal? Well, it is a canal and it's full of cold water and if you fall in I'll be damned if I fish you out. I'll sell tickets instead."

"Hyurng!" he said. "Hulles, where are we? Where's our hotel? I don't know where we are!"

"Don, we're on holiday, we don't have to know where we are. This is Amsterdam! They have taxis all over the place and I have a matchbook with the hotel name on it and we have Dutch Bucks! We're Americans, goddamn it, and nobody is going to stop us making asses of ourselves if I have anything to say about it, so come on!"

Neither he nor I could talk the next morning. But we didn't need to -- we could laugh just fine. Some day I'll tell you about the next night.

-- Hulles