Posts Tagged ‘Spider’

Here’s the backstory: currently on Facebook, it is all the rage to use your Notes application (read: blog) to write up 25 random facts about yourself, then “tag” 25 other people to make them have to do the same thing. Personally, I think that this was started by the Facebook people themselves as a way to introduce people / drive traffic to the Facebook blog functionality, and since my WP imports via RSS to FB, I figure I’d do it here so that people can get their fix and stop tagging me.

Original rules (as in, I didn’t write this schlock):

“Once you’ve been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you. If I tagged you, it’s because I want to know more about you.

(To do this, go to “notes” under tabs on your profile page, paste these instructions in the body of the note, type your 25 random things, tag 25 people (in the right hand corner of the app) then click publish.)”

25 Random Things:

  1. I am a better human beat box than Justin Timberlake
  2. If you ask me what one word describes me best, I will always reply with “lucky”
  3. I still suffer from ADHD just like I did when I was a child, but I am better at masking it; I do wish, however, that my metabolism had kept up with the rest of the handicap
  4. I have always been in love with being in love, with music, with friendship, with my family, and with you
  5. I have been known to embellish a story or two, but usually it is due to my tendency to describe my friends and acquaintances as movie-worthy comic book heroes, which is born from a deep respect for their individuality
  6. I often wonder what would have happened if Monster Zero had accepted the gig to open up for No Doubt on their first West Coast Tour in the summer / fall of 1990
  7. I would be happy if I could just listen to music, select cool tracks, and play them at loud volume to interesting people all of the time
  8. For some reason, in some election I was not made aware of, I am the de facto communications hub for a bazillion people; you look up Murdoch if you want to randomly communicate with someone who you lost track of years ago, and somehow I have some sort of last known contact info
  9. Possibly the greatest thing I have ever done is the eulogy I gave Chris Feher after he died doing what he loved: rock climbing Half Dome in Yosemite by himself
  10. I hate children, especially babies, but apparently, they love Unkle Mike, and this fact never fails to humble me
  11. Speaking of luck, I was lucky enough to be adopted at birth by the best parents in the world — Diane and Gordon — and what I can piece together about my biological parents is pretty crazy: Mom was from Massachusetts, married, and had three other children, aged 8, 9. and 11 when I was born; her husband was NOT my father; she was short, Swedish, and had blond curly hair; my dad was an Italian steelworker, son of an immigrant shoemaker who woke up one day to find a note from his wife that she was leaving him and half of the closet was gone; Mom’s husband had a nervous breakdown and was committed; this explains a lot of what is running around in my genetic pool — don’t blame the Murdochs
  12. I am the best party liaison this side of Van Wilder
  13. I have three home-produced album to my name under various alter-egos (see Pus & Zero Boy) and one professionally released 12″ single called “Everybody” that I did with Grant Goad and Andres Mijangos
  14. I am still very proud of all the work I did to become an Eagle Scout
  15. I wrote poetry every day for almost 15 years; most of it is available — tagged and searchable even — on my WordPress blog; my current favorites are “Cellardweller“, “I, Ape“, and, of course, “Froggacuda
  16. I often wish that everyone else could hear the soundtrack and audio effects track that accompanies my life
  17. I am a pack rat, especially for things that provoke nostalgia; for example, I still have many of my childhood toys — Legos, Transformers, Micronauts, etc. — and a box full of the stuff I had pinned / nailed to the walls of my room when I was in high school, such as Fishbone ticket stubs, a referral from Coach T (R.I.P.), and extra pictures of hot chicks I had crushes on from Yearbook class
  18. I have always owned a “strange” pet as well as my beloved cats ever since Linda Nickel bought me my first Emperor scorpion; currently I have Tuonetar Mac Mordenkainen, who is the third Mexican Red-Knee tarantula in a long line of wonderful arachnids I have loved
  19. I don’t code Web 2.0 anywhere near as well as I did Web 1.0
  20. I love jackets; first and foremost is my ska-patched black jacket, which used to be a bomber, but out of all the clothing you can wear, nothing beats the right jacket for the right occasion or situation
  21. I have been a true (4 elements, y’all!) fan of hip hop ever since seeing the Sugar Hill Gang perform “Rapper’s Delight” live on Solid Gold 1979; this seminal moment changed my life forever
  22. There is nothing better in life than having a good conversation filled with enthusiasm, a meeting of the minds, and laughter
  23. Being rejected in junior high school by the popular white folks as a glasses-wearing, uncool, too-smart nerd has served me well; I have good friends and strong cultural ties to non-white communities who have accepted me for who I am from then until the present day; this is one of my greatest sources of pride and what makes me wince when I have to choose “caucasian” on “optional” survey information
  24. I love language, especially since the world is made of it (see the collected works of Terence McKenna), and I have a fierce propensity towards sesquipedalianism just because long, multisyllabic words sound cool and are sometimes the key to doing what Salt & Pepa, Madonna, and Dr Dre during his NWA tenure said best: expressing one’s self
  25. There is nothing I value more in life than my friends; they are the Desiderata of my happiness, the real value in social networking, and many times, the only reason that I keep on keeping on, because I can’t do it all for myself

There we are: 25 random things about me. Feedback — as always — is very welcome. Have at!

Side Trip of Hyperspace

Posted: January 7, 2002 in Poetry
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I am small again:
Smell of closets, scuttle of spider;
Withdrawing as the fat withers from my mind.
Rediscovering someone vaguely familiar
Only from the corners of my eyes
In old photographs
Or in passionately scribbled lines.

In this transition,
Is it supposed to endure
Or is it supposed to break?
Phoenix, do you hurt when you burn to ash
Or when you rise to the sun?
Questions that reflect
My bewildered state of mind
What side trip of hyperspace
Oh what fortunate dilemma of uncomfort.

Forced to remember, to recall
Those unanswered playthings
With the back mirror-pooled eyes
Of teddy bears and demanding kittens;
Of imagined characters that were once so real
That I was them,
And more than that, happy to be.

Episode I

(part 1) The Baron-Frogg-Prince of Mythril is doubting his sanity: he could be miles underground, he could be very lost, and he could have just witnessed the meeting of three Very Powerful Things that were concerned with ruining his Lady Alliah’s Land. He was hoping that the ultrasensitive high-tech microphone that was implanted in his tongue was still working and transmitting to his little Oriental buddy Abu Dabu Dabu Day…

“Webbed feet don’t fail me now!” thought the Baron as he hauled Frogg down the dusty corridor. Another shriek of rage came from the Temple he had just left behind, shaking dust and debris from the cobwebbed ceiling and obscuring his already limited vision. “I shouldn’t have winked at the Spider Queen,” the Frogg reprimanded himself, “She took it the wrong way.”

The Froggacuda skidded into a small room, coughing from the dust he was raising with his big feet. Several choices presented themselves: the iron rungs of a ladder were bolted to the east wall, passing through a hole in the ceiling, and two hallways continued east and north. “Oh, no contest!” thought the Frogg Prince, “I want out of here — I’m going up!” He mounted the ladder quickly and climbed through the roof.

The ladder kept going up, through a cramped tunnel-like passage liberally festooned with spiderwebs. These ones were sticky, and the Frogg paused to remove a particularly gauzy one from his left eye. Freezing, he heard a peculiar rattling noise from above him; purple drops of steaming venom dropped on his forearm. Without looking up, the Froggacuda let go of the ladder, dropping down the shaft as something started rushing down. He landed on his feet and kept on running as a humöngous black spider boiled out of the ceiling, baring massive fangs and continuing to make that irritating chittering.

This corridor was somewhat cleaner than the one he had used to escape the temple; instead of cobwebs, there were neat piles of bones, human and otherwise, that the Frogg Prince skedaddled over on his way through the catacombs. He didn’t dare look back — he didn’t have to; he could hear the Son of Shelob behind him and it sounded like he was gaining. It did have six more legs than him. There was torchlight up ahead, around a corner.

The Frogg was barrelling down the hallway, and he skidded as he went 90 degrees to his right. Bouncing off of the wall, he balked momentarily at what he saw. Two very surprised Drow warriors looked at the Frogg, then at each other, and reached for their weapons. Past the guards, a large room seemed to have been converted into a barracks of sorts: three rows of rude beds, about sixty in all, occupied the room, with medium-sized footlockers at their feet. Well-maintained torches graced the walls in iron sconces, and at the far end, a large table with matching benches was set up. It was much cheerier than the dusty hallways he had been sprinting through, and would have been a welcome place to rest, except for the Drow soldiers that stopped their menial labors and gawked in disbelief at the 350 pound amphibian cruising down the southern hallway right for them. Or maybe they were looking at what was right behind him. The Frogg was running so fast his eyes were watering, but he thought he felt the hairy limbs of the massive spider reaching for his back.

Episode II

(part 2)…The Froggacuda has a quick choice to make: Drow to the front; Super Big Spider to the rear…

Covered with streamers of spiderweb and howling like a demon, the Froggacuda burst into the barracks to the sound of swords being drawn and yells of surprise from the Drow. He didn’t look back — the chittering of the Widowmaker was nigh deafening — the Frogg just leaped with all of his might, clearing eight beds at once, feeling the snicker-snick of foot-long fangs in the space he had just recently occupied, and hearing two awful screams, probably from the unfortunate Drow whose turn it was on guard duty. “BANZAI!” he screamed as he hurtled towards a poor startled Dark Elf who wasn’t getting any traction on the floor to move out of the way. He was flattened as the Frogg tried to aim for a bed to bounce on. “NICE!” he yelled as he saw his trajectory was going to take him right on to the ninth bed in the row. Drow were running everywhere at once, and they seemed to be more concerned with the Great Spider than with him. A Dark Elf priestess was foaming at the mouth, she was screaming so loud in a vile Drowish language, gesturing with a spider medallion at the part of the room the Frogg came from.

The ninth bed splintered under the impact of the Almighty Amphibian, and the Froggacuda went sprawling. It was lucky that he did, for a pair of gleaming hand axes would have intercepted him if he had remained standing. They continued across the room to imbed themselves in the Priestess, who stopped foaming. A Drow rushed him with an upraised shortsword. The Frogg Prince grabbed him and kept him going on the same line of momentum, right over the broken bed and into the melee behind him. The Frogg struggled to his feet, shrugging the bedframe from his shoulders. Three Drow had seized short barbed spears, and were advancing on him. “Look!” he pointed over their shoulders, “It’s Lolth! What’s up, Spider Queen!” One Drow stopped and looked; the Frogg Prince grabbed his spear beyond the barbs and hauled him in, elbowing him in the face. He got his other hand on the spear and twisted it out of the Drow’s grasp, throwing the Dark Elf behind him by accident and hearing him roughly connect with someone — or something. The other two Drow weren’t amused by the Frogg’s taking their Deity’s name in vain; one stuck his spear into the Froggacuda’s shoulder, the other attempted to gut him but was foiled by a deft parry with the javelin the Frogg was holding. Roaring in pain, the Frogg spun sideways, dragging the first attacker with him on the end of the spear that was stuck in his shoulder. His tongue licked out and hit the second Drow warrior in the head. When he was retracted, the Frogg bit his head off and spat it to his left to roll around beneath a bed. The Dark Elf hanging on to the spear was snarling and twisting it into the Frogg’s shoulder as best as he could while being flailed around by the Baron’s movements. He left the spear stuck in Another throwing axe embedded itself into the Froggacuda’s back.

The Frogg Prince was getting upset; this was taking too long, plus he was starting to grow tired with all of this excitement. Snapping the spear in half, he left a foot and a half of the barbed end sticking out of his shoulder. The Drow was left holding two feet of haft with a dumb expression on his face, which the Frogg promptly wiped off with a well-placed handful of claw. The Dark Elf went down, holding his face and screaming. Glancing quickly over his shoulder, he saw that the Great Spider was doing almost as well as he was: ten or twelve Drow bodies were piled around it. But the Drow had stuck a bunch of spears in it, and a couple were pincushioning it with their crossbows. A quarrel thunked into the Frogg’s side, and he yelped. “I gotta get out of here!” he grimaced as he yanked the axe out of his hide and sank it into the chest of an incoming Dark Elf warrior. Picking him up by the haft of the axe, the Frogg headed for the far end of the room and what he hoped was the exit. He grinned at the expressions of pain that played across the face of the warrior as quarrels from his comrades started punching into him; the Frogg used him as a shield and then threw him aside. Bellowing loudly, he grabbed a bed and held it in front of him as a flurry of magical missiles flew from another Priestess. “Yog-Sothoth’s balls, you pests are persistant!” he grumbled and hurled the smoking wreck of the bed into the group of Drow that had gathered around her. Flexing his muscles, he sprang over their heads and trucked down the corridor, turning a corner and mustering his reserves of strength. Passing several doors, he saw a four-way intersection and put on the brakes. Standing at the crossroads, he caught his breath and winced at the pain of his wounds. The three choices he had in front of him all looked rather equal: roughly dressed stone, clean and lit by torches. Voices sounded from the left-hand one, as did the quick, sharp footfalls of several people. Looking back up the hallway that he had come down, he saw a door open and a group of Dark Elves in chainmail rush towards the barracks. “Right,” thought the Frogg, and that’s the way he went.

Episode III

(part 3)…Taking a right-hand turn, the Frogg Prince is fleeing a horde of nasty Dark Elves, bleeding and homesick for his Jacuzzi in his suite at the Manor…

The hallway twisted and turned through the earth, passing several empty rooms. One room looked like a guard room, but nobody occupied it. A leg of mutton rested on a wooden plate, half-eaten. The Baron confiscated it in the name of Mythril. Another room seemed to be outfitted as a stable, but it was devoid of mounts, containing only food bags, tackle, and a worn saddle. Munching on the leg bone, the Froggacuda quickly followed the corridor to where it ended at a huge oaken door, bound in strips of a silvery material that made the Frogg’s eyes bug out. He looked around and stooped to examine one of the thick bands of metal. “Holy Dwarf Dung!” he breathed in awe, “Mithril.” He peered through the keyhole and saw nothing. He listened at the door and heard nothing. Shrugging, he grasped the handle and pulled.

The door opened outwards, and the Frogg Prince peered around the six-inch thick door. A rush of fresh air filled his lungs, and he blinked his eyes in the hazy sunshine that filtered through the huge moss-laden trees that met his view. A grey ground mist still hugged the massive arching roots of the ancient trunks, softening their outlines and dampening the sounds of a healthy forest. The Froggacuda slipped outside, and the portal silently swung shut behind him, blending perfectly with the bark of the tree it was built into. Sighing with relief, he took the clean air deep into his lungs and trudged down the slight slope to the forest floor. Turning around, he studied the tree for a moment, trying to find any remarkable features, of which there were none, save a knot directly above where he imagined the door to be that was shaped like a crow. Then, feeling fatigue overcoming him, he flung the gnawed mutton-bone aside and looked for a tree to climb to get his bearings.

Part way up a massive oak, he paused. He heard the sound again: the snort of a horse, and he alighted in the fork of two mighty branches. Scanning the misty forest floor below, he saw a rider swathed in a dark cloak appear out of the fog, heading towards the Tree. The Frogg Prince squatted in the crotch of the tree and watched the figure dismount directly in front of where the door was and look around warily. Throwing back her hood, for it was a she, she spoke three common words aloud and the door opened. The Froggacuda gaped; this was no Dark Elf — this was a True Elf. “I thought they weren’t too fond of each other,” mused the Frogg to himself. The Elf lead her horse through the door. and it again slid silently shut.

The Baron of Mythril noted that he was high enough to view the position of the Suns, got his bearings, and slid down the trunk of the tree. He headed West — quickly!

Evolution Drives the Bus

Posted: December 21, 1994 in Poetry
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rebirth is the sign
I have seen in neon karma,
judging by my scenery.
not some paranormal awakening,
nor a Zen-like inner peace:
I am far from stopping.
evolution drives the bus;
I’m afraid to lose
what I don’t already have.
potential energy = power,
a force to select the future
that the past dictates I want now.
molt like the mad spider
commit yourself to the House of Bedlam.
slough the skin
before it roughens into
the wrinkles you wear forever.
youthfulness is vitality,
the vitality to withstand
this death must be dyed
to match the colorful shirt
I wish to wear tomorrow to work.

a boy with a stick
thinks it’s a fishing pole
and can catch fish in a puddle.
this same boy
wields that stick
as a keen cutlass
fighting his monsters.

in childhood, a boy
finds a swing as a jet plane,
a few trees as a forest,
a soccer ball as a championship game,
a jungle gym as a spaceship,
a frog or a spider a best friend,
a good story as a previous lifetime.

my imagination
used to make what I had
into treasures,
and now my treasures are memories of my imagination,
and all I have.

Breathing Pains

Posted: October 26, 1992 in Poetry
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waiting for you to arrive,
I close my eyes for the birds that rise,
flowing over my skin,
baiting the thoughts that cruise like fish
I sink deeper into my steel water trough
to wonder when the night
will roll in.
the flowers I brought you have wilted
from the sweat on my brow,
but I am waiting, still alive,
waiting for you to arrive.

I count the turns of the fan and
stir the last of my ice
with my hand,
watching them dance.
I taste the water from the ends
of my fingers.
the salt and the cold comes
with chills of your eyes
if you tried to lie;
you’re coming here sometime.

I think of what I can’t see
past my reflection,
through the window’s glass;
where you said you were going,
where you might be instead.
these spinning spiders cobweb my head.

everything slow, slower, slowest;
these breathing pains.
a record skips on its label.
I’m watching these wilted flowers.
cut, they glower back at me,
I’m wondering when blood will
run out of my ears
with the weight of all these
anthological fears.

I pluck a melting cube from the water
and send it sliding along the table
as I lay, my head on the back of my arm.
a cold green fire simultaneously heats
my uncomfortable forehead and
roots at the pit of my stomach.
I will wait with my breathing;
you’re coming here sometime.
I will wait for you to arrive.

once upon a time I was a youth,
no corpse dream thing, tiny and small,
but I was as big as the world,
bright and unbuttoned like metal.
so anyways,
I bend and I breathe.
the sieve of my skin leaks the sand
of my cloud life;
strange clouds, odd clouds
for people far away on cliff tops
to comment on and guess shapes in,
to play drums into rhythms for.
clouds of youth dreams;
light pouring through in great angled falls
touches the ocean far below me.
in awe, I flood across the sky.
a spider slowly connects the dots of stars
to build constellations of ships
for wistful sailors of empty seas.

Frog Haven

Posted: April 20, 1992 in Poetry
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the splayed hands of the roots
stop searching when I walk past,
but if I listen I hear them quiver
with life blood, holding boulders
when I climb down. unwrapping
and fanning the wind into life
are trees with green springtime leaves.
they swept me along like sand in an undertow.
I scramble and slip down through the branches
and jumbled rocks of the stream bed,
listening to the pianos of the water falling
into each other, over moss sewn stone.

beside a sheet of embroidered water
is a cavern of dripping stone:
Frog Haven, hidden behind
a bead-curtain of hanging roots
dipped in the creek,
pouring and pooling away.

we are the spirits who define this place.
here, the fall of clear water
is the curve of a spine;
here, the thrust of smoothed stone
is the swell of our muscles.
speaking with the voices of the different cascades,
with tongues of roots and leaves;
breathing out sunlight and forest dust to see by.
here, a trough has worn in the rock,
running happy with songs of mountain stones;
here, several strands of spider-thread,
or elf-hair, to be plucked by the hand of the wind.

this is the box that the spider came in.

here is the molt
of the mad spider
who came in this box.

this is the rock
from the cage where I kept
the spider, who was mad
and wouldn’t bark
after he left the white box that he came in.

these are the pictures I took of the box
that the batty spider came in
before I found that it was not him
who barked.

I am the boy who also came in the box
with such a grizzly spider,
put was not put in a cage
with a grey rock and a clock.

this is what happens to the crickets
that my spider hunts around the rock
by the light of that ridiculous clock.

this is Ezra Pound; a sailor, a spider,
who winds the clock in the closet of crickets.

here is the ward
where the mad spider and I are,
full of wind and white sheets and flat paper hats
and a rock.

here is the boy that bought the box
and found the rock for Ezra Pound,
that mad grizzly spider who wore a paper hat,
who gave it to me for the molt
that lies in the House of Bedlam.

this is the box,
the House of Bedlam,
where the spider molted even though he
was supposed to be hunting by the light of the clock
that Ezra wound.

I am the clock that tells the time
that the closet crickets die in the white box
– the cage in the House of Bedlam.

these are the legs of the mad molted spider
who ran around the rock in the white windy ward
of the house of the box with a paper hat.

this is the picture of grizzly me,
the boy Ezra and that deadly spider
who still wouldn’t bark after returning
to the House of Bedlam.

here is the box that is all that is left
of the boy, the spider,
Ezra and me.

[based on a poem by Elizabeth Bishop]

Untitled Poem #-6

Posted: November 10, 1991 in Poetry
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I gave my green to an apple.
I gave my yellow to a spider.
I gave my blue to a firework.
I gave my red to a blanket.
I gave my purple to a crayon.
I gave my orange to a streetlight.
Then I gave them all to you.


Posted: May 15, 1991 in Poetry
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I leap from rock to rock
Back arched
Feet in blurred motion,
Minds of their own
Weight carrying me forward,
Mind calculating, correcting
Eyes searching
So fast it is blinding
I just do it and end up on high
On top of another rock
Looking back
Out of breath
Soaring on winged feet
Most like a wolf spider
Most beautiful.

One of Those Uncaptured Things

Posted: December 4, 1990 in Poetry
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Screaming along on my bike
Pell-mell with the Horde behind me,
Long hat flying in my moon-made shadow
And laughing in a voice unhinged.
Clinging spiderlike to a tree full of crows
Scant moments before in a deciduous web,
Now hurtling away with a mouthful of leaves
Fear just a cape snapping on my back,
Flushed and full of midnight excitement.

Untitled Poem #98

Posted: November 20, 1990 in Poetry
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the mind works
like the spider spins;
a gossamer hammock
for unwary prey.

No-one’s Watching

Posted: November 20, 1990 in Poetry
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the universe is more fragile than you think.
let your billiard ball physics take note of it.
Things just outside paper thin partitions;
madness overwhelms the left-side brain
when the Right is given free reign.
don’t try to explain away the phenomenon —
your senses will rarely betray you:
listen, smell, touch, believe.
patterns are infinite, on and on,
beyond those boundaries we teach;
deafness we teach blindness we
handicap those who are gifted.
beware that which is just sleeping
the sleep of the age-old which may
be mistaken for death, the calling
of nothing. even awake
we sleep, dormant and helpless.
in dreams we pass away for a time
to roam the realms of memory;
dark forests of fears and toadstools,
a thousand and one nights I have
lain awake counting spiders’ webs,
drinking water that glazes frozen pools.
the pulse that lies beneath
the rough-edged bark of a weathered tree
to the precarious balance of an acorn wreath.
never are you quite alone enough
to say that no-one’s watching.


Posted: September 18, 1990 in Poetry


spiders are everywhere
no matter where you look
a spider could be there
nothing is spider-free
spiders come from everything
people make more spiders
it makes my skin crawl
like dozens of little spiders.

Slam II

Posted: July 3, 1987 in Poetry
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Hello there
I’m back again
What’s going on
Inside my brain
There’s a pink bunny
Running in the snow
Dismantle! Transform!
Wheeze gasp blow
Millions of ants
Spiders, too
And of hippopotami
There are a few
This poem sucks
But it’s a trend
It’s not pureed
It’s Folgers blend
Hablas espanol?
Gordo, Senor?
Aaugh! Not Spanish!
I can’t take no more
Axe through my head
Sew it up quick
The contents of my mind
Even make me sick.