Archive for the ‘nerds’ Tag

My Brain, and Other Curiosities

Saturday, May 11th, 2013

Hello to all cats, valiantly attempting to find the newly sprouted bean plants and eat them, slippers on floors, and harmonicas in the key of C.

Part of the reason I haven’t been blogging much lately is because I got this video game called Skyrim, became desperately obsessed with it, sucked up all the internet time, and then lay shivering in a corner from Skyrim-withdrawal. It was a dark time. Also, it’s spring, and I’ve been enjoying the springiness. I’m going to start softball on Wednesday, and boy am I nervous– last night I had one of my super-realistic anxiety-ridden dreams about it. I went to some sort of tryout in a large abandoned parking lot in Montreal, where I had to wait in line all day for various skill assessments and never got a turn, and then there was a giant squid that ate everyone except me and the coach, who blamed it on me and killed me with a softball made of fire.
I figure Wednesday won’t be QUITE that bad.
Anyway, spring is nice– it feels more like summer than anything, though. Spring no longer exists in this part of Ontario– it’s been burned away by global warming, is what I figure. It’s nice to be out and about, though, and tomorrow my friends and I are going to Comiccon to be nerdy and stuff. Wil Wheaton from Big Bang Theory (and Star Trek TNG) is going to be there and I’m going to try and get his autograph, possibly on my hat. I’ve got another hat that was signed by Brett Spiner last year. I am so cool, man. I’m going to take pictures, too. I won’t even be embarrassed by the fact that my entourage is three nerdy teenage boys, two with braces, all in shorts and sandals. One possibly in shorts and sandals with socks. I love my friends.

I’ve been feeling good lately. The world seems promising to me. Everything seems funnier, too– I could fill up a whole volume with funny things I’ve noticed, which I guess is sort of what this blog is, but I swear– there’s funny coming out of my nose lately. I can’t keep it in. There’s way too much funny. And most of it isn’t even funny, it just is in my brain, but the minute I say it out loud I realize how non-funny it really is, and then everyone looks at me and politely doesn’t say anything. Up there in my brain, it’s like a never-ending, not entirely well-directed B movie.
In fact, if you took a diagram of my brain, it would probably look a bit like this:
my brain

I forgot stuff like for instance “family” and “friends” and “good-heartedness” but let’s say they take up the other side. This side that you see is the left hemisphere or something.
So I’ll see ya later, Blog-Reader. I’ll probably put some pictures up from Nerdfest tomorrow, and who knows, maybe you’ll even get a post about how Wednesday will go. If there’s giant squids…
… I promise I’ll tell you about it.
Yours truly, the most truest of them all, ~Onceabasementdog


If I Was A Cave-Person, It’d Be All Right

Thursday, April 19th, 2012

Hello to all long-forgotten jars of pickles at the very back of basement refrigerators, excellent stop-motion animation shorts set to The Shins music, violas, tulips, and quarters.

The other day, I left the Inside World for a while to go to the Outside World. Only because my friend came over and I like him a little bit. So I biked all the way into the southern reaches of town, (and by the way just two days before I set a record for barfing thirteen times in one night due to a *BLEH* rotten chicken sausage, so maybe it wasn’t the best idea in the world), but I wanted to go out. Anyway, I was enjoying myself greatly for a while, until we saw a little blue egg on the lawn. George Harrison picked it up, and determined maybe it was best to put it down again, and then in a startling show of genius I picked it up, was in the middle of saying,  ‘You know, it kind of looks like one of those plastic–‘ When it broke under my fingers and splattered egg juice all over me.

Some of it got on my face. After I spit a few times and washed my hands I laughed about it. Do you know how pleasant it is to still feel sick after a food poisoning epidemic and then spatter bird all over yourself? Not very. Just writing about it now makes my stomach hurt again.

It occurred to me I might’ve killed the bird, but I don’t think so, since it was on the ground and must’ve dropped from somewhere. But there’s no robin’s nest in George Harrison’s tree, so he thinks it was probably his evil little sister who carried it over from somewhere. Anyway, if I was a cave-man, that would be all right, that I broke a bird’s egg– I imagine they probably ate lots of raw eggs, and didn’t even feel sorry about it. But then again, they also lived to be eighteen and didn’t have computers and blogs.

I wish I had more to say, but I don’t. Hm… did you see Lind’s homerun the other night? You know I scored 5,498,930 on computer pinball?

I bet YOU didn’t score 5,498,930 on computer pinball. Yours forever so, so insincerely, Onceabasementdog.

Old Computer Games, Lonely Spring Break

Wednesday, March 14th, 2012

Hello to all empty bowls of chocolate-raspberry ice cream, dusty, kind of  sticky trading cards found under old piles of papers, and Rocky Balboa posters on basement walls.

I went for a bike ride today, since spring has finally managed to crawl out from the stupid nine-month-long Canadian winter. I journeyed to look at all the pretty houses between our neighborhood and the lake, under a grey March sky. Crows kept flying over me for some reason. I don’t know how to take that. In several movies I know of, crows are evil people in disguise, and I’ve heard they’re also bringers of death, omens of some sort. I also almost ran over a squirrel. I almost expected some guy in a dark cloak to appear and ask me if I would like to consider the dark side. It was a strange outing.

Anyway, it’s spring break– or at least, I assume it is, but since every day is a ‘break’ for me, it wouldn’t change anything anyway. All my immediate friends are away on various trips: the Star Wars aficionado is off to Chicago, that or he’s going to perform in Chicago, but I think the former’s more likely.  The karate master is away, and George Harrison is somewhere. I keep having to remind myself calling your friend once every minute is kind of strange, and I don’t want them to find ‘Three thousand and fifty two missed calls’ on their phone when they get back from wherever they are. So I just called him twice and let it go at that. And then tomorrow I’ll call him the rest of the three thousand and fifty times so it’ll be nice and spaced out and not seem so weird.

But anyway, without friends things are kind of boring. I’m usually bored, anyway, but being bored when I have a chance not to be bored is quite different. So, I’ve given myself over to the world of King’s Quest! What is King’s Quest, you ask? Why, it’s only the most incredible series of Sierra games ever made. Nobody born in the last ten years knows it exists, but I’m the exception, I guess. Anyway, that’s how the past day has been spent, happily roaming the countryside of Llewdor, or whatever it is– turning into birds, poisoning evil wizards, and escaping from inside a whale. You would be surprised if I told you how much fun there is in 16-color computer games that came out on floppy disks and Commodore 64s.

Before I sign out and get back to my wizard-poisoning, I should add that the title of this blog reminded me weirdly and rather disturbingly of a Harlequin romance novel my aunt got my mom a few years ago, ‘Willful Wife, Passionate Greek’. I don’t exactly remember what it was, but it was something like that. It’s not like I ever looked at it or anything.

Enjoy your spring break, blog-reader– remember to spread the word of Onceabasementdog any and every way you can– if you know a friend who has one of those airplanes that can make letters in the sky, ask him to do that–  a nice, big, easy-to-read WWW.ONCEABASEMENTDOG.WORDPRESS.COM, and then if you have time, make t-shirts and sell them, and give the money to charity– then, get together all your friends– all thirty four of them– and paint big red letters on your chests at the next football or baseball game you attend. If you happen to know Elton John or Aretha Franklin– or hey, both– ask them if they could write a song about my blog. Then, walk around your nearest big city with a megaphone. You get the idea.

Yours truly sincerely untruly, Onceabasementdog.

Irrational Fears: Great For Winning Marathons

Sunday, March 11th, 2012

Hello to all bread-and-butterflies, bog monsters taking residence in bogs, melting snow and ragtag bands of people traveling through a medieval world questing for orbs.

Today I write to you on a sunny, blue, melty-and-springy March afternoon. I think it’s Sunday, but I’m not totally sure. I’m kind of out of the loop of generally society. Ah, that’s what I want to talk about. Society. People. Cramped restaurants where you have to sit next to living creatures. I’ll try to make light of this as absolutely as I can– okay. Let me try. It’s so much FUN to have these irrational fears! It’s not weird at all to skateboard to your friend’s house three blocks away when there’s still snow and lots of ice on the ground just so you can speed past any people and not have to exchange looks with them– and when you get to this friend’s house, your skateboard is wet and maybe somewhat ruined, but at least you didn’t have to walk on the sidewalks like those regular people.

And then, I had this thought.

I’m not much of a runner. I don’t like running. I can skate for much longer than I can run, being a hockey player and all, but running is not something I’m very fond of. However– if I had to participate in a marathon, even a full 42k one, I am very sure I would blow all their doors off and win. I’d even beat the crazy Kenyans who always win two hours ahead of everyone else. Why? Well, my inability to run next to all those living people would propel me into a glorious flat-out sprint until I was past all of them and at the finish line. Then at the finish line I’d grab my medal, take my skateboard, and skate out of there as quickly as possible. But anyway– that’s good, isn’t it? I can make use of my irrational fears somehow. If I was at sea and the ship crashed and tipped right over, and I was trapped in a dark closet with a bunch of terrified peopleI wouldn’t probably last five minutes, so I’d be able to– harnessing all the powers of anxiety– find some way for us to escape, either by tipping the ship back upright, kicking a hole through a metal wall, etc. I could give you lots of other instances. Say the world was ending– great fiery cracks were opening up, ash choked the sky, and so on– and I was in charge of the last group of human survivors, post-apocalypse. I wouldn’t be able to live among them, and that would drive me to be able to venture out and find food and water while everyone cowered in our underground bunker. I’d be very helpful there. Also, my irrational fears would give me some serious lone-ranger cred in the Old West; I would live aside from the towns, and there’d be legends about that mysterious girl riding away into the distance. Legends I say.

I’m not proud of these irrational fears of people, but I just thought I may as well get it out there.

Sometimes, I think the world would be a much better place if it was only me and my cat, and Cudgel. But then I might point out to myself that without people, there isn’t a WordPress; without WordPress, there is no blog, and without blog, there is no Onceabasementdog. Herein lies the problem.

Yours terrr-uly, Onceabasementdog.

The Eternal Torture of A Cold Basement

Wednesday, March 7th, 2012

Hello to all retired movie critics, Belgian clocks that have never worked, pipe-cleaner fanatics, and taxi drivers marooned on desert islands.

I’ve been in Solitary Confinement for about two months now. (See earlier blog entries.) Not actual solitary confinement– how would that be possible? They wouldn’t give me a computer and it’d be hard to type in a straitjacket. Anyways, having nothing to do all day, from the long time it takes to drag myself out of bed to the long time it takes to fall asleep, trying to calm my stir-crazy nerves with thoughts of David Eddings books, for some reason, I have fallen into a kind of circle of torture that involves a cold basement, a heater, and a baseball game on my PS2. Let me explain. I’ll play for awhile on the baseball game, doing ‘career-mode’, which involves my seven foot tall pitcher I’ve named Gwendolyn Hersprig, and when I’m tired of resetting every time I let in a run, I’ll migrate to the basement to stare at word files and wait for the little orange ‘1’ to appear at the top of the screen, which means somebody has commented/followed/liked my blog. But my basement is usually very cold. It’s a delicate balance to remain not too hot and not too cold down there– wearing a sweater means I get way too hot with the heater blowing under my feet, but not wearing a sweater means the top half of me is cold while the bottom half is in severe danger of catching fire. By the time a few hours have slipped away and my eye has begun twitching from staring at the computer, and my socks have reached the temperature of a well-cooked turkey, (I rest my feet on the heater as I sit there), the circle of torture has been completed: I have tired of video games, my eyes have turned the unhealthy, glazed-red of a hungry vampire, and my feet have long passed toasty and moved into an oven-feeling. When the circle is completed, it’s time to lug the heater back up the stairs and play video games again.

On the outside, miraculously, the effects of the circle of torture don’t show. It’s all on the inside. I imagine twenty years from now I’ll have moments where my eyes glaze and I murmur to nothing about ‘Gwendolyn Hersprig and cooking socks and I’ve been staring too long at the computer oh my’.

No need to worry, though. I’m still reasonably sane. I’m actually sort of happy in my little circle– I get blogging done, I get some writing done, and my career pitcher in MLB 07 is on his way to getting twenty wins this season. However, a part of me wishes I still had that ‘outside world’ part of my life, where there are human beings and such. I’ve still got my friends and the Knights, at least, and my army of talking robots. Heh, I’m kidding.

Anyway, sigh. Where has all the light-heartedness gone? It’ll be back, eventually I suppose. For now, I hope you enjoy the moody half-mocking narratives of Onceabasementdog… which is me, of course. Imagine if my parents had actually named me that? Wow, I’d  have some words for them. Maybe I’d go by Once, or B-Dog, or something, if that was the case. Yo, it’s B-Dog. No, I don’t think I’d get away with that, not the white girl in the Big Bang Theory t-shirt… Once would be cool, though. I’ll let my talking robots know that I want to be called that from now on.

Yours sincerely insincerely, Onceabasementdog.

When One Is Faced With Hardship, One… Giggles?

Saturday, March 3rd, 2012

Hello to all flamboyant truck drivers along the east coast, cut-out coupons from newspapers, dusty moccasins, and bloggers blogging under cement trucks.

I write to you on a windy, grey Saturday; the cat is meowing at the door, the sad painting is on the wall, etc., as the sayings go. I wonder if you’ve ever found yourself sitting somewhere, and, because of some funny little quirk of awareness, start to notice what’s around you. For instance, around me now is one dollar, a gel-pen with blue ink, plastic flowers in a vase, a cat sitting on an orange footstool, a decrepit hockey bag that looks like City of Mice and Other Unpleasant Things One Doesn’t Want to Find In One’s Hockey Bag, a little orange plastic contraption on the windowsill that probably makes a bird-sound if you put water in it, a Chinese calendar cut in half, a pair of 3D glasses from the theater, a disembodied cardboard hand, two cylindrical candle-holders with origami birds in them, and etc. That’s what I see right now. I think it’s interesting how we look over these things so often, but they’re always there– the world is full of little details, but we see only one detail at a time. Where are you right now, my friend Blog-Reader? Are you sitting on a mountaintop with a computer on your lap waiting to be rescued by a helicopter? If you are, that’s terrible, and you should leave me a comment saying which mountain it is and if I have to contact the Tibetan police.

Anyway. The point of this blog entry still needs to be discussed– excuse me for my tirade. I’ve been reading an awesomely funny series of short stories by a blogger called Michael, and he, as am I, is a big fan of Monty Python-esque humor, and that kind of thing, and I like the tirades he goes into in his stories. (It’s called The Catrina Chronicles.) Tirades are fun, because they’re supposed to be long and silly and not always sane. (See: Best Tirade Ever, Monty Python and the Holy Grail, concerning a duck, a piece of wood, and a witch. And a newt.)

Anyway, what’s that about hardship and giggles? Well, let me educate you! I’ve been through minor hardships in my life, as I guess everyone mostly has, and I’ve noticed people have different ways of dealing with difficult situations. Some might take it calmly and be level-headed and quick to act, but heh, that’s not me. Some might fall into fits of rage, emotion, or distress; but me, I giggle.

In grade seven or eight, (can’t remember, middle school kind of melded together into one long, annoying, I’m Once Again The Weird One blur), there was a parade that went past our school. It was in honor of a police officer who’d been killed. I was just as serious and solemn-faced as everyone else, until I had to stand in silence by the side of the road watching ranks of officers stamp past in utter quiet seriousness.


But I couldn’t! Oh, dear lord, it was painful. I had to stuff my mitten in my mouth and drive thoughts of road-flattened animals and human rights violations into my head so I wouldn’t burst out in a mad fit of giggling.

I got past it. Thank God. The police forces of most of the province didn’t see one crazy girl giggling as their procession went past.


Why is that I giggle in bad situations? I don’t know, but it’s weird. Sometimes, when I’m past my utter breaking point, like say I’ve been through a really rough day or had an explosive argument with one of the family members, I’ll lie down with my face stuffed into my pillow and giggle with distress.

My mom has it worse than me, however. When I told her of my strange little giggling quirk, she told me the story of her dog. Her dog had been put down when she was a kid, and when she was told she started to giggle. She couldn’t stop giggling. Said the others: ‘He’s dead. Why are you giggling?’ To that, she continued to giggle.

Once, I broke my little toe on a footstool, and sunk to the floor gasping– but I had also just called my friend, the four-foot-tall karate master, and so I had to suck down the pain and talk to him while my toe throbbed and I tried not to scream at him. My mom, nearby, started to laugh. Thanks, mom, that’s real nice. By the time the conversation was over, I was almost crying, but she started to giggle, and so did I. I was doing some sort of twisted giggle-cry while my toe flamed with pain.

I’m sure there’s other instances, but maybe those are enough to get the picture. Anyway, I wish I could handle things like that in a normal way, but apparently I can’t. Apparently nothing’s as it should be with me. I am, after all, insane.

I would end this blog on that lighthearted, optimistic note, but I’m sorry, I can’t; there needs to be a Monty Python-esque scene at the end. Prepare yourselves for the obscure! While you read, find a shrubbery!

‘I’m afraid I am going to have to commit suicide.’

‘But what about tea-time?’

‘I won’t be there, I will be committing suicide. If I commit suicide I’ll have to miss out on tea.’

‘All right– but– after you’re done with that, can you come for tea?’

‘No. I will have committed suicide, and I will be dead.’

‘Yes, yes, but tea? After you commit suicide–,’

‘After I commit suicide I cannot join you for tea, that’s just the way it is.’

‘But I’ve gotten peppermint tea.’

‘I won’t be interested in peppermint tea. I’ll be dead.’

‘Yes, but– after you’re done being dead– you can’t come for tea?’

‘No, I can’t.’

‘Are you sure? If it only takes fifteen or so minutes–,’

‘No, it will take longer than that. It will take forever.’

‘Forever is how long? If you take about ten minutes with it, I can wait for you to start–,’

‘No, I’ll be dead.’

‘But after you’re done–,’

‘No, I’ll be dead.’

‘But the dog likes you–,’

‘No, I’ll be dead.’

‘I’ll call your auntie, she likes you too–,’

‘And I’ll be dead.’

‘We can buy a cake, and drink peppermint tea, and I’ll call your uncle, he likes you a bit too–,’

‘I’ll be dead.’

‘But you like tea, and I’ll even wait for you to be done–,’

‘I won’t be done. I’ll be dead.’

‘I’ll pick up some groceries–,’

‘You don’t have to. I’ll be dead.’

‘And there’s a shirt I need tailored–,’

‘There’s no need. I will be dead.’

‘But I can at least give you an hour or so, there’s nothing to do on Sunday–,’

‘No, there isn’t; I’ll be dead.’


Yours non-truly, and it’s only a flesh wound, and ‘Find the tallest tree in the forest, and cut it down– with this herring!’ ~ Onceabasementdog

Social Flaws, But Ironically, They Don’t Even Matter

Wednesday, February 29th, 2012

Hello to all wheat fields, crash cymbals, forgotten pencil-crayons under old jazz organs, and the number four. Today, as I sit in my basement cut off from all human life, I want to talk about Social Things.
Social Things is a general category: basically, I mean, ‘anything and everything I don’t want to face that involves people.’ This could mean the girl at the Starbucks, or the guy at the Rogers store, or the man with the mustache that I don’t like for some reason at the Pizza Hut. Basically, I’m afraid of every single person on this earth, with the exception of friends and family– and my cat. And my dead bamboo plant. I wasn’t afraid of him– in fact, he was my best friend– and then he died.
So anyway. You could say that ‘Oh, a lot of people are awkward in social situations.’ You’d be right, but you wouldn’t be at the heart of the matter– which is I am awkward in ALL social situations, and more than just a little awkward, a LOT awkward. Sometimes, rarely, I manage to get through a scene of sociality without saying anything weird. Sometimes I can talk to the Starbucks people without wanting to hide. But most of the time, I’m not too good at this aspect of life.
For instance. There are a lot of instances, but I’ll name just a couple of them. Once, I was walking the wrong way from school, (see other blog entries), and I came across a girl from Science class. She knew I hadn’t been to school in a while and– since it was obvious I was walking the wrong direction– I knew she would think this was just a little weird. (Note: This is the girl I weirded out in middle school by putting a clothes-hook up my sleeve and pretending it was my hand. I thought it was funny, but she just smiled and nodded nervously.) As we passed each other, I tried to say ‘Hello’ but instead of a nice clean Hel-lo it came out a croak, somewhere along the lines of ‘Haey.’ And she just stared at me. That was a good job securing my sanity right there.
Another time, I went to Starbucks, and I wanted to order a green tea lemonade. I walked up to the cash and the lady said, with a smile, ‘Hi.’ And I can’t even remember what I said to that– if anything. I might’ve just stared– or, more likely, smiled in a twisted nervous way or tried to offer some kind of croak meant to be ‘Hi.’ Anyway, she said, ‘What would you like?’ and I said, ‘Um, I’d like the lemonade tea thing.’ ‘Which one? Passion fruit?’ ‘Oh– no– the green lemonade one.’ ‘The green tea lemonade?’ ‘Yes, that, please.’ ‘What size?’ ‘Medium. No, I mean– grande.’ And then I dropped all my coins.
Okay, I’m not always that bad. With my friends I’m usually good, and if I know the person I’m talking to it’s easier. I also find talking to people as shy/more shy than me is easy, too. But once you put me up against a stranger who isn’t as hopelessly shy and awkward as I am it becomes like a gladiator pit fight and I’m some poor slave from the country with a toothpick against a very big, muscled gladiator who has killed like, thirty lions in one month and is swinging a really big sword through the air that will not only crush my toothpick, but me, too. I’m just not good with socializing, or talking when I have to. Also I have this suspicion that I stare at people. It’s not that deer-in-the-headlights kind of staring that some people might give you, or even the haughty eyeing of the popular kids. It’s like a ‘I am thinking deeply about you’ kind of stare, and I think on more than one occasion I’ve embarrassed some poor kid. Usually they don’t notice. Thankfully. Because it’s really weird. I only kind of noticed I did that a few months ago, after staring deeply at the poor bass-saxophonist in music class. He started turning redder and redder and I only looked away after I remembered I had a book to read in my bag, so I could enjoy myself that way and not listen to our Nazi drill sergeant music teacher.
The staring at people thing is probably another bad social skills type thing; I don’t think it’s normal, or if it is actually a natural inclination to do that, then nobody else does it. I’ve stared at my share of people over the years; developed back stories about kids sitting in class around me; and stared so deeply at my friends at times that it’s hard to believe they really haven’t noticed. Or maybe they’re just really, really polite, or oblivious. It’s not a bad sort of staring; and I stare less at people the more I know them, and the longer I’ve been around them (a heads-up for my friends reading this, I don’t stare at you guys that much anymore! That’s good, right?) But anyway. I’m surprised that the bass-saxophonist didn’t explode, because during music class I used to stare at him a lot. And why? He wasn’t even good-looking or anything. But he must’ve known I was looking at him. And how do you explain that to someone if they ask you why you’ve been staring at them for months? If my answer was ‘Sorry, I do that to everyone’ I wonder if he’d believe it.
Anyway. The ironic thing is that all these social flaws don’t really matter, since I haven’t lived much in the outside world for a while now. I’m wondering– kind of fearing– if my return to the World of the Outsideness will be bad, like, REALLY very bad, because I’ve been out of the social loop for so long. Normally I’m passably sociable to survive school and the world with reasonable ease, even if sometimes I’m horrible, but I have this bad little feeling returning to the world will be a nightmare. It might even make the news. ‘Girl returns to Outside World, elephants rampage city streets, downtown fires destroy dozens of buildings; government in crisis; army called in, plea to other countries “What the heck are we supposed to do with this?”‘.
Er… well… Dig yourself a Onceabasementdog-Returns-to-the-World-Everyone-Might-Die shelter now!
(Very insincerely, Onceabasementdog.)

Why Do People Want to Tightrope Across the Falls?

Thursday, February 16th, 2012

Hello to all crashed computers, never-purchased banjos, lint-people, cat-dog hybrids, and packets of vacuum-sealed Craisins.

Valentine’s Day flew by– in fact, it flew by so fast I thought it was still today– (well, excuse me for not knowing what day or month or year it is, being confined in my basement for so long. So long, jeezum… anybody want to give me a free one-way ticket to some pretty place      like the meadows of England or the windmills of the Netherlands?) But anyway, it went by already, and I had no admirers or valentines showing up at my door. Well, I just might have admirers if I ever left the house, and if I threw around my address in public places. ‘SHOW UP AND BRING BOX OF CANDY FOR… CHARITY? YES, FOR CHARITY.’  But anyway. I should get to the main topic of this blog entry, which is Niagara Falls and the Wallendela guy or whatever his kind of funny name is.

I heard on the news that this guy from the outside world is going to walk across Niagara Falls on a tightrope– it’s located in the outside world, also– and I thought it was interesting. I have vague recollections of a grainy black and white video of some guy in tights crossing the falls, and of course all those ‘I’m going to fly down in a barrel and die’ stunts, too.

It’s fine that he’s going to give it a shot– but the thing is it’s already been done. Why doesn’t he try to cross the Grand Canyon on a tightrope? Or has that been done too? Or what about the Atlantic ocean? He could hang himself by his ankle when he wants to rest, or something, and have boats throw up little packets of food as he goes. It just seems to me that the ‘Crossing the Falls on a Tightrope’ thing is kind of boring since it’s been done already. I would suggest he go across on a flaming tightrope, or have people fling knives at him.

But anyway, that’s just me. I find it interesting that I mentioned Niagara Falls for some reason in the other post and now it was all over the news. Maybe he reads my blog and had the idea? Who knows? Well, Wallendeladoo, if you’re crossing the falls and you’re reading this, I wish you much good fortune!

So that’s it for now. Stay tuned. Don’t turn off your computer. In fact, stare at the screen and refresh it every few minutes until you see a new blog entry.

Yours forever untruly, OnceaBasementDog.