There's a mistake that's really easy to make, and I'll tell you why before I tell you what it is.
Anne Rice's fans are weirdos. I mean this in the nicest possible way. They're distinctly not the norm, as far as socialization; not as bad as gamers, but I don't want to talk about them.
Or maybe I do. Gamers have a proclivity toward being antisocial, and unable to communicate needs or conserns without making them complaints and whining (I know. I do it myself, although I'm conscious of it so I try not to do it so often.)
And here's the thing: Anne Rice is pretty much the same kind of weirdo as her fans. It's a thing. I suppose she writes for herself, so her fans like what she writes too.
Game writers are cut from much the same cloth as their gamer counterparts. Again, just a thing.
So it's easy to judge a writer by that writer's fans. That doesn't mean the judgements are necessarily correct, but they do come easily.
So I was surprised when I actually read the work of Sark. The book is a good thing, filled with interesting and useful tidbits like "don't rush to relax," and "don't assume that other people are relaxed because they move slowly, and that you won't be able to relax just by using what works for other people." Huh. Stuff, right?
Her fans, though, the ones I've met, have so far been useless.
I'm just sayin' is all.

Actually, in the original version of that post, the one in my head, I used Stephen King as the second example, and that his fans seem, as he does, to be really normal people with a twisted bent.

It's here, it's got a goddam gig of memory, and it would scream if I let it. Odd.

There. Does that work? I didn't think so.

Oh yeah! What's it to ya?

When I was a kid of perhaps four, I saw an ad for Kraft Singles (Kraft is German for strong, or strength. For a German to be Kraftig is for that German to be Strong) (And to sell cigarettes to children) in which a kid was sitting on a porch in front of his happy home, eating a Kraft Single, which is a piece of cheese that comes wrapped in plastic and in a big squished-together lump, for those of you who don't know. I didn't know that at the time. I watched that kid pick up that pack of Kraft Singles, and look at it funny, and then a piece of cheese rose up from the pack. He took it and bit into it, looking as pleased with himself as anybody ever has any right to look. Then his dad came over to him and said something to the effect of "Hey, Sport! Can I have a piece of Kraft Singles Cheese, the Only Cheese Made with More Milk than All the Rest Put Together?"
The kid looks at him funny, and then holds up the pack, and a piece of cheese comes rising magically up out of the rest of the cheese. The man bites into the corner, and looks just as pleased with himself as anybody ever has any right to look. The two of them sat there on the porch, eating cheese.
I had no idea what the actuality of a Kraft Singles was, but I knew one thing, in the very fore-front of my mind: I needed it. I desperately needed a cheese that would magically levitate from the block, spreading joy and happiness. I think that in the commercial, it even made a "vooieet" noise as it rose. It was something I could not live without.
I bothered both my parents for days on end, needing that cheese. I offered to go grocery shopping every time Mom went. Eventually, I wore her down in that "OK, but you'll be disappointed and I'll have to deal with cheese you don't like" way. We bought the cheese and brought it home.
I ripped thumb-holes in four pieces before AngelBob and Dad could convince me that the cheese levitation trick didn't work. I got a good solid mouthful of inedible orange gunk before I could be convinced that the cheese was wrapped in plastic, a fact carelessly glossed over in the commercial.
And Mom was right. I didn't like the cheese.
I still don't. It tastes like the biter ashes of defeat and the must of lost childhood innocence to me.
I still believe I have lead a charmed life.

Goddam. Get over it.

He awoke with a start, to a sound he would later compare to an electric RC toy car motor being beaten to death by Darth Vader's breathing machine.
He stumbled across the house in the haze of twenty minutes sleep, the halls still dark, the corners still honed with that night-time sharpness they only get when the sun is down. He made his way to the back room, behind the kitchen. Really, it was just a closet, but it made the little house on the outside of town feel a whole lot bigger to call it a laundry room instead of the little space where the combo washer-drier just barely fit.
Just barely used to fit, he ammended, looking at the wreck of twisted metal that was left of the machine, where its motor had decided that after five years, enough was enough, and ripped a hole not through the side or bottom of the apparatus, not the easy way, but had instead jumped all the way though both machines, joining with the drier motor half-way up, and the two of them leaping like Thelma and Louise out through the top of the drier portion of the combo.
He had to hand it to them, it was a daring escape, the likes of which he had never seen, and which, many years later as he died in a car accident off the coast of Georgia, he realized he would never see again.
So this was it. He now had to ask himself the hard question: a new washer-drier combo, or a new laptop so he could continue to work at home; clean shirts so he could go to the office again, or a clean hard drive so he'd never have to; something to fill the void in his kitchen closet, or something to fill the void in his social life. He called Goodwill to come haul the thing away, talking the poor operator on the other end into believing it reparable and resalable.
Those poor people; on the other hand, now he wouldn't have to pay to dispose of the mostrosity of twisted metal and red and green and yellow wires that used to clean his most intimate of clothes, that used to remove the night before from his sheets, the woman before from his shirts and the bar before from his socks. He kept finding his memories tied to the oddest things, at the oddest moments. You don't miss your washer 'til your wealth runs dry.
And so back to the point. A new laptop, or a new washer-drier?

Lousy means full of lice.

Crappy means including a coupon for the expanded, complete, overall kewler edition DVD with the crappy normal edition DVD.
I'm just sayin' is all.

Yarr, what a difference a day does make, ye scurvy dog!

OK, not really, but you get the idea.

I wish I could post now and say "OK. All better." but I still have a thousand mind-numbingly crappy things trying to claw their way out from behind my eyeballs. Oh well.

Man, fuck. Didja ever just get the feeling like if you didn't SCREAM here in a minute you were gonna scream? Hmmpf.

Jahafabittatrubble?

Naahmokeh.

The scurvy dogs at the Alamo refuses te answer their phones! Well, I'll be havin none o that, me beauties! I'd sell me gran'mother afore I gave up on sellin' them booksta the alamo'ers!
AVAST! PREPARE TA BE MARKETED!

Avast, ye bilge-encrusted wharf rats! Thar be no such extension! Ye'll have te speak te the Voice Mail! Allow me te transfer ye!

(in my mind, I think almost everything a pirate says should have an exclamation point after it.)

Arrr! If'n ye be thinkin' Why be the Blog named Keret Vee Keret Vee Keret, Alls ye need know is that's how ye make teeth fer the robot, fer it's also got only foive, like me'self, yarrrr.
Yar, I don't know what I'm doin'.

When did you stop paying attention?

Oof. Simpsons quote off the starboard bow, kiptin.

It's almost time, me Hardies! Arrrr! Avast and all that crap!

OK, that was silly.

Yo, bitchez! I Be Reprezentin on da koprat ordaz!

Here's a poser for you:

In his characteristic brogue, he said

"Do I detect the dulcet tones of Cash?"


So, should the word there be "Cash" or "Money?"
Right? I mean, either works. Dulcet Tones of Money works. Dulcet Tones of Cash actually makes more sense, in a cash-is-ancient-coinage-from-China kind of way. So there you go.

Wow. Just through being lazy, I haven't got any buffer left. How absolutely like me.

Man, That Woman didn't even start writing her damn book until it was on the NYTbestseller list.

I thought something a minute ago, but I fogot it. Damn.

Does anybody else think its stupid that 12pm is much, much earlier than 11pm?

Nope. It's just me. It's always just me.

What was that little piece of plastic, and why was it stuck in my arm? No, I'm not shooting up, I just discovered a tiny piece of plastic embedded in my arm. How odd.

Today we ask for help in going to war. It's happening right this minute.
And this one, too.







It's always war.

Now serving number 6, and your ticket says 12. Is that good or bad?

Radio Edit.

If you wan't aware, success brings strings, the man who looks took the books and saw the unmentionable idiot just flappin' his jaw it's a nice thought all caught and fraught with sought after laughter, poured like water dipped in slaughter, jump jump jump, and it's over; slump slump slump, and and be clover.

Be clover.

Note to self: Don't be sad.

Hmm. Nothin' else to do today, think I'll go buy some Table Saws!

People who email you adverts are stupid because they say things like "Your Page Isn't Getting Noticed," and "Some Search Engines Don't Point To Your Page." This is stupid. if I wanted a page with strangers all over it, would it be made of robobelly? I think not. I hate unsolicited email adverts. They make me want to stop updating the robobelly and move to France where the internet is only allowed for the very lowest income bracket citizens. Those poor, poor French.

Is it clever, or do I just think that way?

Did you just see a huge, black thing fly across the room making chittering noises that almost sounded like human speech? Did it hit the wall with a splat and turn around and just... grin?

Yeah.

Um, me neither.

If this were a web page with ads on it, I would be making money by changing it several times a day. As it is, I'm just making myself happy. Imagine that.

My name is Ben and I live a TV life.
What is your name? What kind of life do you live?

To paraphrase myself: Life just keeps going, and every so often there's cake.

"Well of course I wasn't paying attention," said Bill.
He was staning on my foot, and looking around at the bad paintings around the room. According to the program, this was the single largest collection of the worst paintings available in America today. Of course they had to obligatory Pollock, just to appease the critics, but the rest of it was real proper garbage. The walls were crammed with paintings; my first impression was that a child could have done them, but upon closer inspection they were clearly the work of adults. Attempted symbolism was rampant and the sheer number of "baby-as-bowl of fruit" still lifes was agonizing. As I walked through, I could hear the everyman putting on airs, trying to be the artiste. And you've never seen so many bad paintings of the Madonna with Sean Penn. Somebody thought the Mother of God and Madonna Ciccone's first husband would be a funny pairing. Then everyone else thought it too. That was in the '80s. Today, it's just hack. I won't even go into the internet art. Yes, being able to self-publish is nice because it takes out the editor and allows the artist more free range, but there's a little thing called taste that goes right out the window with it. A thousand blinking lights told me there was more to go.
I didn't heed the sign that said "Bad Art Exhibition." I thought it was a joke. Learn from my mistake. Don't let it happen to you.

Didja ever just have one of those moments?

When you go to buy a computer, don't get it from Acme Brick Company. They don't have good monitors, and their ceramic processors are crap.

Man, coffee in the morning, and I feel OK all day! Espresso in the morning and I feel GREAT all day. Any form of caffein after about noon, and I can't sleep at night. It was time for a new addiction and COFFEE is IT!
I've felt Great all week. 'Can't say the same for Toshi, who has felt weak all grate.

You wouldn't know contempt if it walked up and bit you on the ass.

Was Fluffy as he appeared to be? I don't know.
I seemed to be holding a drink, but I couldn't make out what it was. When I took a sip, it tasted like cotton and old shoes.
Fluffy, now not fluffy at all but my second ex-girlfriend, said to me "I never liked you, but I still love you." I must have said something, because Fluffy/Ex looked hurt and turned away.
Apparently I said "You have to leave. The Soap is Coming for You."
I made a note in my notebook. I turned to the previous page and saw that my writing had turned to illegible squiggles and that some of them moved. I turned back a page. It said only "Pizza:6 Broncos:nothing."

Never read in your dreams. It messes everything up.

SPINK!

You.

Wrinkle,


Ifter?

Wait! Those aren't his legs, sticking out of the dirigib- derig- durredg- The Blimp! Those are two sticks of sulphur, waiting for a place to hide! They don't know from whence the color, but they smell, even from the ground! Please Nanna, are they going into the power lines, or will the puppy survive?


Find out next week!

How many days in a row can a belly hold a thought before regurgitating it fresh into the world? How many thoughts can a belly store? These answers and more, as I keep thinking, and keep allowing them a matter of hours to sit in the belly and digest. Is this one fresh, or three days old? The world may never know.

A slap in the fact to wake up and call you a bitch. Damn slaps.

There was something missing from my life before, and I know now it was a Robot belly with thoughts. I love to see them flash and pop in the belly, scalding the tiny reality and shaping it into thoughts of things unmentionable in polite company, thoughts that, while not dirty are certainly personal, but not in the "power over me" kind of way. Hoo.

When the horrible silence of death had dropped across the world, the ship came to a rest. The shoreline was deserted, the people long since dropped off to bed, then their hearts all stopped at once. The two men from the boat departed, and looked around the doomed utopia. A whole beach to themselves. They were looking forward to many beaches to themselves, many empty streets, lonely dinners and dark rooms.
Soylent Green was not made from people. It was made of cyanide.
They stood, trying to decide if yelling this proclamtion was worth the trouble. They decided, in the end, to leave it for some more melodramatic entity. This, of course, meant it never got done.

It's astounding. Time is fleeting.

Did you see that? said the Frenchman.

No. Said the German.

But it smelled of brine. Said the Scott.

Think fast. Everything disappears if you don't.

Where did all my Rage go?

There was a little duck. It said "I have not water in which to care," and it walked away. Stupid duck.
And it never left a tip, either. Not once. Just eat, eat, eat, leave, no tip.
But then, one day the waitress said "If you're going to be such a poop, you can't come in any more."
So the duck left, and still stiffed her, not only for the tip, but for $.16 of the bill, which was just plain annoying. Stupid duck.

Once there was something I had to do, but I forgot what it was, and that was sad, but only as sad as a puppy with no feet.

It's pointless, so don't even try to fool me. I know you don't want it anyway, so stop pretending, you Pratt.

Are you thinking plenty of fluids?

When did you stop paying attention?

Fruit is nicer when somebody else buys it. And when somebody else thinks it's nicer. Hell, everything's nicer when you have it and someone else does not, but wants it desperately.

Did somebody just call your name? Mine neither.

If any of it made any sense, it wouldn't matter.

There were two little Indians looking at me from under their Sherpas, and I said "That, friends is Silly." They didn't understand because they did not speak English, which is odd because they both studied it in School and got flawlessly perfect and unerringly high Marks. This, from me, no less.

If you stopped looking, I'd stop being here. My robot would disappear, and his belly would stop holding my thoughts like a leaky bucket in the desert. Funny, that.

If there wasn't any mistakes, there wouldn't be anybody to blame, and there'd be no new guys.
Hmm...

I'm having one of those days where I feel like Steven Tash in Ghostbusters.
I didn't know they were gonna be giving me electric shocks.

Spitting mad doesn't always mean at me, but it often feels like it.

Falling on my head
Falling on my head
Falling, falling, fishing trawling,
Jumping on one Foot!

If there were no people on Mars, then how could we get nougat?

That's what I thought!

So, this is a 'blog to keep the place of the domain I now have. Also, I like robots, and I though there should be one with my thoughts on his belly.