In another age men who shook the world for their own purposes were called conquerors. In our age, the men who shake the planet for their own power and greed are called corrupters. And of the world's corrupters Bill stands alone. For while he corrupts the world, inside himself he is pure.
- Quentin Tarantino, Kill Bill

"Bring It Home, Patsy Cline"
It's come a little later than usual, but I've finally fallen into that que sera sera mentality that washes over me every spring. It's a nice feeling to have 'round graduation time, and once again, it's manifested itself in the realization that you're all out of your goddamn minds.

Everyone I know is crazy. (Everyone with the sole exception of Adam Jacobs, who remains -- to my mind at least -- the calm, cool center of the FARC microverse.) And whenever I acknowledge this, or whenever someone's detailing the wacky antics of one of my many compatriots and I say "Yeah, (s)he's nut-busters, ain't (s)he?" the inevitable response is "Yes, but (s)he's our kind of crazy," or "a good crazy".

I'm not trying to pass any judgements -- because God knows I'm missing my fair share of marbles myself -- but crazy's crazy for petesake. Let's try not to forget that.

"In Your Face, Space Coyote"
Joss Whedon thinks that Superman should fall in love with the wrong woman just once, as if there'd be some great lesson in that...

Roger Ebert says that while what makes us men is that we can think logically, what makes us human is that we sometimes choose not to...

And I'm so cryptic I spell it with a "k"...

There's a definite dearly-departed-old-time-country-music-singers-whom-hipsters-claim-to-love vibe going on here, ain't there?

And she asked "Momma, why do snow flakes fall?" And I said "Crystal, because of you."

"Yuck It Up, Yahweh"
There's an old saw -- not obvious enough to be a riddle, not funny enough to be a joke -- that goes a little something like this:

How do you make God laugh?
Tell him your plans.

Over the years, I've had enough hopes and schemes go tits-up on me to know this truth all too well. One of the many things I love about Brent Jones, Part II is that whenever I say "I've got a plan," he always knows enough to say "Yikes."

I've got a plan. I'm quite sure that it's doomed to failure from any number of ex-factors, but it wouldn't be the first time something like this blew up in my face, and it won't be the last. I suppose I'll just wipe the soot off my face, turn to that rascally rabbit in the sky and say what any little black duck would say in that kind of situation:

You're despicable.



Que sera sera. Woof.