Archive for August, 2012

I Really Can’t Think Of A Title For This One

Wednesday, August 29th, 2012

Hello to all… cows on farms… and… … leprechauns… and…

It’s been too long. I can’t do the quirky opening anymore.

Um, anyway. There’s been a long gap between this blog entry and the last one, and for that I apologize. The simple explanation is I’ve been so out of the writey-bloggey mood lately. A less simple explanation might be, I was attacked by mutant frogs, drugged and stuffed into the cargo hold of an airplane bound for the Himalayas, and woke up on a truck driving along a mountain road, just when it went over the edge and plummeted off into the air– miraculously, I survived, spent several weeks in a small village, stole a llama and rode to England, where I took a boat to New York, hopped a train and traded tales with a hobo on the way back home, and am now secure back in my basement and ready for more blogging. Except that explanation isn’t true.

I don’t feel all full of substance and meaning tonight.  If it’s theories on the origin of the universe you want, look elsewhere. But if it’s comical conversations on Youtube you want, look here! (Note that this conversation has been edited by the blogeress.)

sometimesbutrarely: Can you see the dislike bar? No, I can’t either.

Fetusgi (in reply to sometimesbutrarely): I can.

chuntusmac (in reply to Fetusgi): shut the *polite bleeping noise* up you *politer bleeping noise*

Fetusgi (in reply to chuntusmac): That’s just rude. He asked a question and I answered it. As it was a metaphor for him liking the song, you could say my answer was a metaphor for not really fancying it.

chuntusmac (in reply to Fetusgi): im sorry, ill take you out for a burrito sometime

Fetusgi (in reply to chuntusmac): Thanks. I look forward to it.

What a nice guy! Offering to take Mr. Fetusgi out for a burrito.

Anyway, I’m almost finished reading a pretty funny book. It’s called ‘The Prince of Neither Here Nor There’ by Sean Cullen. I was surprised by how witty the author is. It’s not often you find such excellent content on the shelves of the public library. I have a dark suspicion that either all the good books are conspiring to hide from me or there just aren’t any good books at all. In the last month the books I’ve taken out include: a story about a video game that kills people, a story about a vampire boy (oooh, how original) and the ‘lost years’ of Morgana La Fey, and I still don’t know what that one was supposed to be about. In the last two years I’ve read exactly two books that I thoroughly enjoyed from the library: a Kenneth Oppel one and a weird, fairly disturbing horror story about things that live in people’s bodies and make them do frightening stuff. But counting Sean Cullen’s book, I’ve now enjoyed three novels from the terrible teen section. Not to say my faith in the library has been restored; it’s still full of ridiculously awful little novels, among which are about three billion copies of Twilight, something called ‘I Will Walk A Thousand Hills For You’ or whatever it is, endless realistic fiction about a girl and her RELATIONSHIPS, OOOOOO, THAT SOUNDS FUN, and not to mention all the generic fantasy and spy thrillers and what have you.

I also took out ‘The Mob’, something about crows, and a Philip Pullman book. I hope neither of them are as awful as the story about the video game that kills people.


So, what else? I feel dangerously rambly today. I could go on forever about just about anything in my current frame of mind– I think it’s one of those nights where the only thing to do is run up and down the stairs a bunch of times to get the craziness out.

To wrap it all up for the day… I have no faith in public libraries, and I must go run up and down the stairs now. Also, it’s the Karate Master’s birthday tomorrow. I wanted to organize a parade to go by his house… but perhaps that’s too ambitious… and a touch insane. My new plan is to call him tomorrow and see if I can go over and play chess with him. The Karate Master is quite good at chess– I’ve only beaten him twice, and we’ve probably played five or six times. Also he has an awesome Super Mario Brothers chess set and I like it.

Yours as ever, mysteriously untruly only at the best of times, (figure that one out, why don’t you?) ~Onceabasementdog.


I Am On the Hunchback’s Team

Wednesday, August 15th, 2012

Hello to all bottles of vitamin water, empty bowls of ginger chicken, microphones on floors, and hydrangeas.

I have something to admit. It’s horrible. It really is. Take your children from the room. Don’t led them read it.


There I said it.

It’s true. I am ashamed. Cassandra Clare is a popular teen writer, and her books are pretty good, (by teen fantasy standards, anyway). The first book in the series holds a coveted position beside my pillow, and sometimes when I really can’t sleep I read my favorite parts out loud in the darkness and it’s funny, but that calms me right down. I love that first book and the second one isn’t bad, too. Now, the third book is coming out in April, (tell me how I survive until then, Blog-Reader, tell me), and I must admit I’m looking forward to it. I want that book. I want to take off the book jacket, smell those freshly-printed pages, smell them, smell them, smell them, and dive into the first chapter as I would dive into a sea of Jell-o. Now what’s sad about this whole picture isn’t that I’m comparing reading a book to diving into a sea of Jell-o, or even that next to actually reading it, smelling it is my favorite part– no, the sad thing is that I love those two characters so much. Those two, agreeably tortured, pretty,  pretty characters. They must be real, or how else would I continue living?

I was nosing around on the series’s Facebook page, and my eye caught a disturbing comment someone had posted. Apparently, they were ‘on team Jem.’ This is something you never, ever want to see. Because what does it mean? It means hordes of silly teenage girls fighting over which character is more desirable, has more power to make people build shrines in their closets and market embarrassing t-shirts. I scrolled down the page, and discovered it just went on and on. Everybody had an opinion. Who is better, Will or Jem? The general census, to my surprise, was that Jem is better. But he is not. Jem has a terrible sickness that will claim his life if a cure isn’t found, and therefore he is pitiable and vulnerable– but Will is strong-minded and suffering on a whole other, emotional level. Not to say I don’t like Jem, too. Just not as much.

Wait, it’s not like I’m picking a team! I refuse to even consider the idea. I refuse to join in on the whole subject of having teamsWhy do male antagonists need teams? They don’t! And when you think about it, do female protagonists have teams? They do not. Do hunchbacks have teams? Of course not! They’re not handsome and desirable!

Ah. Now there’s a good t-shirt. Team Hunchback. I’m on that team.

I guess there’s nothing wrong with people making ‘teams’ of the characters in books. It just seems unbearably corny and embarrassing. Why can’t you just read the book without making note of which character is the best? And even if you do, why profess your love for him all over the internet? Please, don’t profess your love at all– keep it in the shrine.

I’m not one to talk, really. While looking over those comments I was thinking, Oh, you idiots, Will’s the best. You’re all wrong. I still love those characters, I just don’t really want a t-shirt proclaiming the fact that I do.

Yours sincerely, (next time I’ll talk about politics. I swear), ~Onceabasementdog.


Just A Poem

Sunday, August 5th, 2012

Hello to all bloggers taking a break from the sardonic and funny.

I found this poem by Emily Dickinson while I was nosing around the internet looking for a fitting poem to put at the start of a book I’m writing:

Success is counted sweetest

By those who ne’er succeed.

To comprehend a nectar

Requires sorest need.

Not one of all the purple host

Who took the flag to-day

Can tell the definition,

So clear, of victory,

As he, defeated, dying,

On whose forbidden ear,

The distant strains of triumph

Break, agonized and clear.

Before I found out that she wrote like, a gazillion poems about stuff and they are all awesome, I just liked that one called In Vain. But it turns out In Vain wasn’t just her only gem– everything she wrote was fantastic. This poem hit me deeper than the others. There’s something simple about it– simply conveying these deep, deep ideas. Isn’t it true that those who haven’t known success find it sweeter when they finally get it than those who know it all their lives? And I feel bad for that guy, defeated, dying, feeling the pangs of being on the other side of success, all too clearly. So I wonder if success means more when someone has never had it before, and means less when someone is used to it. I think so.

Hats off to you, Emily Dickinson! You’re awesome. Yours as ever sincerely, ~Onceabasementdog.

The Best Dream Ever and Mr. Rochester’s Mustache

Sunday, August 5th, 2012

Hello to all people on unicycles crashing into fences, pears in baskets, railings, and curtain designers.

This morning I had the best. Dream. Ever.

I was substituting for the lead singer of Arcade Fire. We were playing in front of this enormous crowd– and the first song was Month of May, and I was totally killing it. It was the epic-est dream I’ve ever had– usually my dreams are just downright depressing, like for instance, that one I had a few years ago where a giant squid-woman was scooping people up and eating them, or maybe the one where I rescued a colony of mice living in a jail and then they ran out and fell off a cliff. The Arcade Fire dream was absolutely fantastic, in any case, and it would’ve went on longer if the Mother hadn’t walked in… just then… as I was having the most incredible dream of my existence… and woke me up.

(Here I twitch a few times.)

In other news, yesterday I watched the 1980-something version of Jane Eyre. It wasn’t good, nor was it especially bad– and I’m sure I would’ve enjoyed it more if MR. ROCHESTER HADN’T HAD A MUSTACHE.

The actor was annoying enough to begin with– he didn’t capture his character at all, at least in my opinion– but he would’ve been fine, bearable even, if he just didn’t have that fr-icking mustache. I realize it was the eighties, and everyone had a mustache and bad hair, but in Mr. Rochester’s case it just made him look like a loser! A mustache-bearing loooooooser! I tried to picture him without it, or to just ignore it, but it was impossible. Every time there was a shot of his face ALL I SAW WAS THE MUSTACHE. I mean, the lady playing Jane was absolutely perfect– but the mustache just ruined everything. Everything.

Now my view of Jane Eyre is colored by the mustache. If I ever read the book again every time Mr. Rochester says something all I’m going to think about is that thing on his face, that horrible thing on his face. I have to see the newest version, and cleanse my mind of the mustache– hopefully that Mr. Rochester doesn’t have one. If he does I might have to take matters into my own hands and make a version of Jane Eyre myself, where Mr. Rochester is clean shaven, God help me.

Anyway. It’s another stupidly hot day in Onceabasementdogville, and I do fear I shall melt into a puddle of gloop. It’s really just ridiculous out there. Things will start spontaneously bursting into flame soon.

In other words, there is no possibility of taking a walk today. Yours as untruly as never, (did I use that one already?), ~Onceabasementdog.

‘On Seeing Mr. Rochester’s Mustache’

‘Twas a day in the middle of a hot, lonely summer,

And all things considered, my life was a bummer.

We rented Jane Eyre, assuming it would be fair,

But all was then ruined by the thing on his face

That was hair.

The girl playing Jane was fine, I exclaim!

But the mustache was torturing me with intense mental pain.

I must needs discover who casted this man,

And then went on to suggest a mustache was an excellent plan.

Charlotte Bronte frowns down on the mustache,

And… I send my regards to my dear friend… Eustache.

(Well? You go ahead and tell me what rhymes with mustache.)


Adventures of the Walking Girl

Thursday, August 2nd, 2012

Hello to all quarters on tables, headphones that don’t work anymore possibly because I wore them out in the rain, cats meowing at doors, and flowers in jars.

So, what do you do when you can’t bike? You walk! The same distances that you biked. Which is not necessarily a good idea, because biking is much faster than walking, and much easier, too… and that’s why I was an hour away from home sitting on a bench eating trail mix thinking, I’m going to die before I get back. 

While on my walk, the one I managed not to die on, I took lots and lots of pictures. Later I realized they could be put into a blog entry as a sort of humorous progression following my adventures. My adventures which aren’t nearly as adventurous as you’re hoping. Anyway, it was a mindlessly hot Tuesday, and I went limping out the door…

ImageAnd I took a picture of this thing.

And then I went in the general direction of the river, where I came upon my favorite house in the south end, this lovely building here:

ImageIf I was evil, I’d ring their doorbell and say, “I’m very sorry to tell you this sir but there’s an eons-old monster living in your basement…”

(And then the house would be mine.)

ImageI really like these chairs. I want these chairs.

ImageThis is a really cool car.


This is a really cool car, too.

ImageThe original purpose of my walk was to go down to the river– ahem, right there, actually– and eat the trail mix, Pepsi, and crab apple I’d prepared for lunch. But when I got to the place under the bridge I was going to sit at, there were these PEOPLE there. Fishing. It’s not a very good picture of them (I had to take it quickly while examining the river as if I wasn’t taking a picture of them) but anyway, there they are. Fishing in my lunch spot.

ImageWhile on the search for a new place to eat, I saw this boat. See what it says? How mysterious.


So instead of my under-the-bridge lunch area I found a place under a tree, instead. There were many dog walkers and joggers going by and twice a dog came down to sniff at me and my lunch, thereby scaring the crap out of me twice. Do you know what it’s like, sitting listening to your iPod examining the view and then there’s this FURRY THING next to you? Well, it’s kind of scary. I let them lick my hand anyway. And that’s my lunch, by the way: trail mix, Pepsi, crab apple. I had twenty dollars to buy anything I wanted… and this is what I was eating, for SOME reason…

ImageThis is the book I was reading as I sat there. Never trust a thirteen-year-old-vampire-boy-deals-with-the-troubles-of-adolescence book. Just, really. Don’t. You’ll regret it.


And then I had to leave because the ants were moving in. See the little devil? Grr.


On my way to my picnic table destination, (which was occupied by two ladies, and I wanted to take a picture of them, too, but I didn’t know how it was possible to do so discreetly unless I hid in the bushes or something) a stick threw itself at my shin. I was just walking, and then there’s this stick jabbing into my leg. Note the bandage above it. Why don’t I just throw myself into an airplane propeller and call it a day?

I was going to put in the last picture but it seems impossible. It’s been ‘uploading’ for far too Imagewhat impeccable timing, there it is. I swear I didn’t plan that. Anyway, this is a picture  my iPod took of itself as I was walking. That nicely rounds out my adventures on Tuesday, so I think I’ll sign off now.

Yours truly, (hey! There’s a weird mermaid up there), ~Onceabasementdog.