Legend of Blood Ninja!

While he is already a hero amongst anyone addicted to online cyber sex, they're a few unlearned souls out there who don't know of his majesty, his prowess, his downright legend. I couldn't tell you when he first appeared online, for all I know he's been here all long, rising from time to time like Tim Curry in IT to feast on the souls of the unsuspecting, I don't know where he came from, only that he exists.

To transcribe all of his prose under one post would be a blasphemy, so, to pay homage to his work I'll endeavour to post a different transcript every other day. All of the subsequent dialogues were taken over several chat rooms. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you The Legend of Blood Ninja...

bloodninja: Baby, I been havin a tough night so treat me nice aight?
BritneySpears14: Aight.
bloodninja: Slip out of those pants baby, yeah.
BritneySpears14: I slip out of my pants, just for you, bloodninja.
bloodninja: Oh yeah, aight. Aight, I put on my robe and wizard hat.
BritneySpears14: Oh, I like to play dress up.
bloodninja: Me too baby.
BritneySpears14: I kiss you softly on your chest.
bloodninja: I cast Lvl. 3 Eroticism. You turn into a real beautiful woman.
BritneySpears14: Hey...
bloodninja: I meditate to regain my mana, before casting Lvl. 8 Cock of the Infinite.
BritneySpears14: Funny I still don't see it.
bloodninja: I spend my mana reserves to cast Mighty F*ck of the Beyondness.
BritneySpears14: You are the worst cyber partner ever. This is ridiculous.
bloodninja: Don't f*ck with me bitch, I'm the mightiest sorcerer of the lands.
bloodninja: I steal yo soul and cast Lightning Lvl. 1,000,000 Your body explodes into a fine bloody mist, because you are only a Lvl. 2 Druid.
BritneySpears14: Don't ever message me again you piece of ****.
bloodninja: Robots are trying to drill my brain but my lightning shield inflicts DOA attack, leaving the robots as flaming piles of metal.
bloodninja: King Arthur congratulates me for destroying Dr. Robotnik's evil army of Robot Socialist Republics. The cold war ends. Reagan steals my accomplishments and makes like it was cause of him.
bloodninja: You still there baby? I think it's getting hard now.
bloodninja: Baby?

ometime later...(note the savvy name change:)

BritneySpears14: Ok, are you ready?
eminemBNJA: Aight, yeah I'm ready.
BritneySpears14: I like your music Em... Tee hee.
eminemBNJA: huh huh, yeah, I make it for the ladies.
BritneySpears14: Mmm, we like it a lot. Let me show you.
BritneySpears14: I take off your pants, slowly, and massage your muscular physique.
eminemBNJA: Oh I like that Baby. I put on my robe and wizard hat.
BritneySpears14: What the f*ck, I told you not to message me again.
eminemBNJA: Oh ****
BritneySpears14: I swear if you do it one more time I'm gonna report your ISP and say you were sending me kiddie porn you f*ck up.
eminemBNJA: Oh ****
eminemBNJA: damn I gotta write down your names or something

Beware the Blood Ninja. He won't be stopped. He can't be stopped.

Pardon the delay

Potentional cover to my forecoming autobiography: Mark! Found wherever good books go to die.

Brian and Me

Phone rings.

"Hello. Hey, Brian, How the heck are you, you old sunofagun? Excellent, good to hear, buddy, loved Smile by the way. Sunday? Nothing really. Lunch? Sure, around 1.30, after your painting class. Yes, I'll bring some chicken. Yes, and I'll bring my camera."

Top guy that Brian Wilson, but when we get on the source together with a camera near by, things can get crazy.

.................

Well, the clock on the wall says it's time to go. Until next time, remember, you are all my sunshine; and if you think the sunny sun is too hot, just remember, at least you don't have to shovel it.

White Jacket Woman

A funny happened on the way to the opera...

Well, actually, that's not entirely true, we better replace "on the way to" with "on the way home from." That's better, now we have a funny thing happened on the way home from the opera. Still not entirely right, you see it wasn't so much the opera as it was the cinema: a funny thing happened on the way home from the cinema...better, but still riddled with untruth. To call Adam Sandler's latest movie, Click, cinema could get me beaten up in academic circles around the country, so lets go with: a funny thing happened on the way home for Click. Okay, now that the tag line is out of the way lets get on with the post.

a funny thing happened on the way home for Click...

Still chuckling from watching professor of linguistics Christopher Walken bouncing up and down, placing full stops in mid sentence and punctuating words like only he can, Jess and myself we're making our way through the bustling streets of our fair Metropolis to the car parked on the other side of the city. Not a particularly interesting journey once you delete the all too frequent drunken cries of yobbos in the night, but as the World Cup is on at the moment this only adds to the ambience of a city overflowing with soccer fans who have no idea of the sport there cheering for, but are patriotic to bone and most likely wasted on cheap 'n' nasty beer (works for me).

Somewhere between seeing the seedy bouncer of a seedy night club usher a group of young girls into his den for free entry and the car, we pass a guitar wielding busker, a busker of better than average talents it should be noted, yet nonetheless a site we've all scene before. Walking by, the independent musician suddenly comes to the understanding that his endless days of strumming Pearl Jam covers in cold doorways have come to an abrupt end, and inspired by his new muse, the struggling bard proceeds to sing a song about Jessie and her white jacket, which she wore this night more for instillation for the cold than to inspire art. Smiling, we carried on our journey.

Around thirty or so paces from the busker we stop, his lyrics still echoing in the distance. "How much change do you have on you?" I ask Jess. We count our loose pennies and make our way back to the doorway.

The music stops.

"Look," I begin "we've got about $4.50 here. It's yours. It's yours if you can scat for while on my friend's jacket here." Not knowing the code of the street musician, I think for a moment that I may have offended this gentlemen of the verse by forcing his material. Yet still mesmerized by lady muse, the busker glanced only for a second at Jessie's coat and inspiration flooded over him like confines of the dam of rhyme had been opened. No description I could ever conjure could ever do justice the magic of what came next, you'll have to downloaded and listen for yourself:

http://rapidshare.de/files/24039312/White_Jacket_Woman.mp3.html

What's so funny about these events is that I think the guy was genuinely trying to make a move on Jess, as he never took his eyes off her and seemed to be boxing me out of the way like Charles Barkley with every cord he played. Between the magic of Chris Walken and the song, I think Jess had the best night out of her life. Heck, Lord knows I did...

The flu made me do it...

I've had the flu for almost four days now and I can't seem to shake it.

Tried cold and flu tablets...

Didn't work.

Tried honey and lemon... Didn't work.

Tried watching 13 straight episodes of Northern Exposure...

Didn't work (but well worth watching).

With all conventional medicine taken and all fabulous mid-ninties television logged what defense is there left to battle that furious flu....?

Try editing the poster for a Gene Wilder movie in Photoshop...


Feelin' fine.

Woody and me

I own a bass.

A bass guitar that for the last two years has given me identity as a man of music. An intrument that has allowed me to see the underbelly of a culture I might not normally be privy to. People, especially musicians themselves, treat you differently when they think you’re a kindred spirit; I don’t think this is a deliberate judgment on their behalf; it’s closer to a sense unity between canards than an act of discrimination to those that “can’t wail.”

Case in point: A popular Indy bar – Melbourne. Sitting at a bar after a rather lively show, the bass player of the band that has just finished its set sits on the wooden stool adjacent to me and orders a pint:

“Hey man, badass show tonight.” I compliment the longhair.
“Thanks,” replies the skeleton dressed in Iggy Pop memorabilia.
“No, man, I mean it. You guys played a mean set.”
“Yeah, well, what would you know about it, Narc?” He enquires in a rather agitated tone; presumably he believes I bought my ACDC shirt over Ebay. I did, but he doesn’t know that. In defense I quickly retort, “Hey, I’m just like you, man, I play bass too.”
A moment or two passes. The pale rocker looks me over, presumably grading my rock ‘n’ roll presence. I must score at least in the lower percentile of his criteria, because he says to me, “sorry, chief, I’m a little jumpy lots of posers out here gets under my skin, you know? Than again, it could be the speed kickin’ in, you never can tell.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” I reply and run for door as fast as my girlish legs will carry me, but not before raising my first in the air and yelling “rock ‘n’ roll.”

What the Skeletor look-alike doesn’t know is I can’t play a lick on the guitar. I do own a bass, this much is true, but outside of a few relatively simple Nirvana songs, I can’t play a thing. Well, that's not entirely true, I can play Summer Lovin' from Grease, but that’s got more to do wearing leather pants than it does rock ‘n’ roll.

Like all slackers of my generation, I started out with noble intentions: the desire to learn, evolve and eventually create my own art, but soon got distracted by the latest installment in the NBA Live series, and left the guitar in the corner to collect dust, where it’s done so since sometime in early 2004.

What can be learnt from this little espisode? That the identity of a musician is only a superficial thing? Maybe, but then again I was posing as a musician so does that make me even more superficial? Maybe so. I have thought about taking another crack at learning the bass, but that would take far too long and cost millions of lives in the process. No, I thought it better to take a page out the Bill and Ted's book of learning and instead of exhausting countless hours making my fingers bleed, I decided to travel through time and learn from some of the greats long past.

It's amazing, but in only a few months of jumping through the circuits of time (yes, just like Bill Espreston Esquire and Ted Theodore Logan) I found myself jamming with folk legend , Woody Guthrie. Don't believe me, here's the evidence...and for the seceret to time travel just originate Pi to its 1,000,000,000 place and divide by two - it's that simple, and fun to boot.

Excelsior!

Photoshop made easy

Recently I've become obsessed with Photoshop. Well, I say recently, but in reality I've been at this game a long time. The object of all my sadistic talents is, and has always been, my brother in arms, Mantastic (I'll use his most apt nickname just in case one of the millions of readers out there know your true identity); and I'll admit over the years I've hounded my friend tenaciously with countless movie poster parodies and speech bubble quips, and while I'd like to promise all of this will stop, we both know that's a promise I could never keep (and perhaps deep down you don't want me too?), but today I've turned the tables and worked over myself.

However, in creating this latest digital tomfoolery I hit the Photoshoppper's preverbal wall: the colour matching was all amiss, with no hope of rectifying the most obvious of cut 'n' paste jobs. After some great inner turmoil and debate, I humbled myself by calling in the aid of my greatest rival, and to be fair, the leader of the pack in Patrick Stewart related .gif animation, Millie, Photoshop queen of the South and lover of all things booze related. Swallowing my pride, I send the work I had done to the photo away, attached to a note simply querying:

"I can't seem to colour match the neckline, send help."

Many moons pass but eventually I receive a reply that simply reads:

"I fixed it...I fixed it good!!!"

Skeptical at first, I open the email wondering if she has indeed "fixed it good," yet before the file has even fully refreshed I know I've received a piece of Photoshop mastery and the bar has once again been lifted to an entirely new level. Here's the finished product.

Surely, this evens the score a little, Mantastic, surely...

Dramatization #001

The names and characters have been changed, but rest assured, dear reader, things like this happen all the time…

The glowing light of beauty draws near. “Oh, Holy Jesus, she’s coming. Quick, pretend like I’ve just said something profoundly funny.” The person I’m addressing, let’s call them David Caruso for arguments sake – that, and with David Caruso in your story the reader instinctively presumes there may be some sex on the way – turns in bemused interested to identify the audience of my little pantomime. “Are you crazy? Don’t look now, she’ll see you.” I quickly reprimand the leading man of Jade “– don’t look, just laugh.” With all the vim and vigor of a drunken Irishman on Saint Patrick’s Day, Caruso lets fly the most heartily of hearty laughs, the type of laugh that can only be transcribed in capital letters and explanation points. Dammit, I think to myself, too much ham and cheese Caruso, this time you’ve blown it, the loveliness can see right through you’re one dimensional acting, it’s over. Between the moment the beauty arrives and the first syllables of what is to be a perfect sentence leave her heavenly forged lips, a mere instant passes, but in the gah-gah-she-so-pretty mode I find myself in, the vision seems to stand there for eternity.

“What’s so funny?” She asks. The lyricism of her voice renders me speechless, while the blatant gawk of my eyes resembles that of an old man trapped in an elevator with an attractive catholic school girl inspecting her stockings for an elusive hole. Caruso, seeing my immobility, ascertains the role of life guard and comes to my rescue, “oh, nothing really.” Thanks Caruso you’re a real pal, and I take back the ham and cheese insult and praise his underappreciated work in Deep Cover and Kiss of Death. But my thanks are cut short as he continues, “nothing really, just perhaps the funniest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.” What! I squawk inside my mind. How dare you, Caruso, I'll see you dead for this. She’s mine, you hack, and you can’t have her.

“Common, guys, what’s so funny?” Time is running out. Grace Kelly wants an answer, she deserves an answer. She won’t judge you, just make something up. You’re funny, she’ll love you no matter what you say, baby. You can do it. Go for it.

No you can’t.

“Er…” I begin. The fear rapidly swells. Nothing’s coming. Think, dammit, think.

“Yeah, tell us, don’t hold out, tell us. You're a dead man, Caruso; Sipowicz can’t save you now. Am I sweating? Must say something before it’s too late. Be like Fonzie, be like Fonzie.

“I was just saying…”

Time freezes over and and in the same way a movie may have an ellipses of time to skip the details of a lengthy scene, the next few minutes contain several smiles and nods from the princess, and not to mention delicious, jealous ridden scowls from Caruso, while my dialogue flows effortlessly from my tongue into the enchanted heart of the lovely. It’s working. I throw a few well timed voices and staged hand gestures to thicken the tale for good measure.

I am the master storyteller.

I am Shakespeare.

I am Mozart.

Building to a crescendo the tale comes to a triumphant conclusion. All that is left is to take the beauty in my arms and discuss what the name of our first born shall be: I’ve always like Jeremy for a boy. Alanis for a girl.

Smiling, but seeming somewhat bemused, the lovely looks at me for further explanation.

Everything’s all right, I tell myself: you do have a slight accent on some words, perhaps she didn’t hear everything you said, especially during you’re hilarious Scottish overture.

“I don’t understand,” she says, removing the poisoned dagger from my heart.

“What part?” I enquire in waving hope.

“Well, all of it, really.”

Whilst I inaudibly curse myself for over indulging in a Shaun Connery impression that has always brought me nothing but pain and anguish, I see in my peripheral vision the perfect princess glance at her perfect silver watch which sits on her perfect wrist.

“Yeah…well, I’ve got to be leaving now, nice seeing you, though.” The unborn cries of Jeremy and Alanis curse my foolishness.

I’m so sorry, kids.

“Hey, I’m going too,” the interjection of the Judas, Caruso, “I can give you a lift if you like? I’ve got a great joke Jimmy Smits once told me” Not knowing the icy shards of rejection her assertion strikes down my spine the beauty replies, “sure.”

I am a terrible storyteller.

I am not Mozart.

I am Pauly Shore.

The moral of this story is simple: always have a remotely funny story on backup and if you know anyone like David Caruso kill them before they kill you.

Mark.

Together at last!

Wheel of Time: Book 13 - Path of Lost Souls

Like fantasy novels? Book your copy online now...


Mark.

People say I look like Han Solo

Well, here we are. Hooked-up and online. Connected, if you will, or, as my Grandfather would have it, on "the email," not that his thoughts have any validity anymore, at least not since he started wearing rubber pants and calling me Dad. I don't care how much he complains about the nurses stealing his money and touching him improperly, it's better than having him at home.

So, why a blog, I hear you asking. Well, what am I supposed to do: bought a modem, searched some porn, wrote some emails, searched some more porn, or, mo' porn, and what else is there left for me, huh? All the great loves already loved, all the great fights already fought, there's nothing left to do. But why don't you get out there into the world, do some good, fight some injustice, you say? Well, good point, well made, but, no, I'm lazy, have a bad back, and to tell you the truth, I do use "the email" to search for mo' porn from time to time and there's only so many hours in the day.

What can you expect from this blog? Well, In what I hope will be a ongoing series of my insight, worldly wisdom and thoughts, no less important than perhaps The Diary of Anne Frank or Napoleon’s War diaries, will no doubt be reduced to blabbering gibberish about the kids today, rubber pants and, if you're lucky, the odd dick-and-fart joke in less than a week; but nevertheless, welcome. I'll do my best to keep this thing as magnificent as is humanly possible, but more than likely you’ve gone already or are looking for vegetable related porn and ended up here. Not to worry, there’s something for everybody at the Mark’s VegetableGarden .

NOTE: There may not be anything for anyone at George's Vegetable Garden; the proprietors of blogger.com are investigating whether or not to allow this fool to take up precious online journal space, or to instead, publish the work of a wild monkey hitting keys at random - which would arguably produce the same standard of work.

Anyway, important factors to note:

1. Am slowly working my through Rolling Stones’ 100 Greatest Albums of all time and will update as I get deeper into the fold. So far, nothing has touched Brian Wilson and the lads' Pet Sounds, an album every bit as good as it's made out to be.

2. Quantum Leap is by far the greatest science fiction television ever to air and I’ll fight any nerd who dares say otherwise; pending, of course, they are extremely strong female Trekkies and/or Stargate fans – those fellers fight dirty.

3. If it came down it to it, I would choose Labyrinth over The Dark Crystal everytime.

4. Certain people would have you believe that I look nothing like Han Solo, but rather, something akin to this man:

I hate you Mitchell.

but more on this comparison later...

5. Zeppelin do indeed rule.

Anyway, I'm already bored...will post righteous thoughts on the Beach Boys' Ways of Righteousness (commonly known as Pet Sounds) soon. Until then, always remember:

"Leasing may be the fast track to an appearance of affluence, but equity will keep you warm at night."

Mark.